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domesticbucky · 3 years

Text

Summer rain in Brooklyn

Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader (Y/N)

Words: 3.6 k

Warnings! 18+ : Smut (soft smut, face sitting, praise kink, kinda sub!Bucky, handjobs, blowjobs), a hint of angst, 1940s Bucky in love 🤧

Summary: Bucky and Y/N get caught in the summer rain on their way home from work.

AU where Bucky survived the train, and went on to live in Brooklyn and work at the docks.

Notes: Hi! This is the first fic that I post online and it is entirely self-indulgent (and also my first smut!). English is not my first language, so please excuse any mistakes. Please give me back some form of feedback if you feel like it! Or don’t, I’ll be around anyways (hopefully). If you are not 18+, go away now!!! Go have a juicebox, idk.

Enjoy!🥰

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪☻

June 1946

The smell of rain makes Bucky pick up his pace as he walks through the familiar streets of Brooklyn. It had been an exhausting day at the docks, carrying crates and moving boxes until his shoulder ached and his soul longed to come home. Breathing out the last sea and motor-oil scented air, he turned to 7th Avenue and smiled to himself; a few more blocks and he’d finally get to see her.

Y/N had taken a part-time job at a bakery in South Slope for the summer. It had been almost a year since the war had ended but the owner’s son still hadn’t returned. Bucky admired her for her diligence and compassion, the way she never hesitated to help others, simply because she believed it was the right thing to do. Her salary was meager at best, but the old baker would always give her whatever loaves and pastries didn’t sell that day to take home with her, and she liked listening to his stories from when he first came to New York, so many decades ago. Bucky liked to think of him as a father-figure of sorts, a man that gave away his little pieces of wisdom, acquired over the years, the same way he gave away misshapen loafs of bread to soldiers too beaten up by the world to make their own.

A draft of cold air goes through his sleeve and reminds him of how beaten up he is. Carved on his left shoulder is the physical reminder of what would have surely been a deadly drop into an icy ravine in Italy, had Steve not managed to grab his arm and pull him back into the train. His left shoulder had become one with the wrecked metal casing of the train for a few moments, but he was grateful and almost happy that he had lived to tell the tale, even if it meant that he would carry those metal fragments in him forever. The slight ringing in his ears, the underlying feeling of his body feeling unusually stronger, and the nightmares were a different story, though. He would have gladly left those things back in that war-ridden continent, instead of bringing them to his home, with the rusty fire-escapes and familiar faces and the smell of freshly-baked bread…

He is just outside the low bakery door when he sees her grabbing her bag and giving the old baker a kiss on his wrinkly forehead. He briefly wonders if she will one day get to kiss him as an old man, if whatever experiments that Swiss bastard run on him will ever let him grow old and wrinkly, but his mind never finishes that thought because she is suddenly throwing herself in his arms.

”Hey Sarge, missed you”. Bucky shivers, not from the cold breeze that promises gentle summer rain, but from the feeling of her in his arms, after being apart for the day. Y/N’s hair smells of fresh bread and sugar, and for the few seconds their embrace lasts, Bucky feels like he’s home already. They pull apart to gaze into each other’s eyes lovingly. Home, he thinks again, before tugging her close again and whispering his affections into her ear. It’s Y/N’s time to shiver, and Bucky, delighted in her reaction, gives a smile and a wave to the old baker, and tugs Y/N towards the direction of their small apartment.

”C’mon Sweets, we gotta hurry or else we’ll be soaked faster than Stevie finds trouble”, he says decisively, the countless times he’s saved his little (now enormous) friend flashing through his mind as Y/N giggles. She intertwines their fingers as they walk, her palm soft in the way hands get after kneading dough and mixing sugar with spices all day, his hand ragged but invitingly warm. She lifts their intertwined hands to place a loving kiss on his worn knuckles, bruised from the day’s work, and a wave of emotions hit him in the chest. He is now even more eager to reach their little home, where the cheap curtains shield them from nosy old ladies, where the pillow cases have their initials embroidered on the side, where he can love her all he wants and the way he wants, without shame or pretended innocence. Because at this moment, he is hungry for more than fresh bread.

The first drop catches him off-guard, thoughts of how he will love her once their rickety old door closes making him tune out everything that isn’t Y/N. The second and third come in quick succession, and Y/N notices too, pausing from telling him about the little joys of her day to let her eyes follow the path of a droplet as it travels from his high cheek bone to his strong jaw, then dipping low to continue on his pretty neck, and finally disappear on the hem of his worn shirt. There’s hunger in her eyes, but it quickly turns into surprise, as the next few drops bring a myriad more, until the droplets of water running down both of them become one with their skin and clothes.

”Dammit, I thought we were gonna make it home before it started”, Bucky says in mild annoyance, as Y/N lets out a giggle.

”Laugh it up doll, but I think we are gonna be soaked before even making it past the next corner. And then you might catch a cold, and I hate seeing you sick”.

Y/N pulls them in a back alley, underneath what looks like a homemade roof extension to the balcony above them, and pulls Bucky for a hungry kiss.

”But you’ll take care of me, right baby? Give me those special kisses and love me ‘till I get better, right Barnes?”

Her voice is low and dangerous, but there’s vulnerability in it too, and Bucky can’t help biting his lip to stifle a groan.

”I’ll do anything for ya, dahlin’, feed you, bathe you, carry you and kiss you until you feel good as new, better than ever before, and then I’ll kiss ya some more ”.

It’s Bucky’s turn to lean in for a kiss, and he tastes soft summer rain and longing for more on her lips, so he gently licks along her plump flesh, silently asking for more. Y/N gladly accepts his warm tongue, gliding hers along his and softly sucking the wet muscle until Bucky lets out a sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and his hips move forward to find her figure.

He pulls away to stare into her eyes, pupils blown wide, and the rain doesn’t matter anymore.

”Honey, doll, sweetheart, let me take ya home”.

He is panting like crazy, his voice desperate as Y/N places her hand on his jaw, squeezing his chin and dropping her gaze to his lips every few seconds.

”You’re gonna be a good boy for me, kid?” she responds, her hand on his chin gripping him steadily, as her other hand moves upward to brush back a few strands of wet hair sticking to his forehead.

He manages to utter ”yes, my love” through parted, kissed-out lips, and she drops the hand previously clutching his chin to pet his sternum.

”Then take us home, Barnes”.

Bucky lifts her on previously weak knees and throws her over his right shoulder, a day’s worth of strain doing nothing to spoil the moment, as he takes off in the rain to their direction of their tiny home, with her laugh echoing off the brick buildings of Brooklyn.

----

By the time he reaches their building he is laughing too, caught up in the euphoria of sharing such a special moment with her, free of worries and anxieties, free to be playful in the gentle summer rain.

He drops her on her feet, his hand rummaging through his worn-out trousers, looking for the key. Y/N’s eyes gaze at him appreciatively, from his long legs to his broad back, his plush lips and the gentle turn of his nose, down again to his pretty neck, the curve of his waist, his thick thighs and, finally, the strain of his arousal against the fly of his work pants, the outline of it visible as Bucky searches deep in his pockets. His hand emerges with the rusty old key and he lifts his gaze from their frayed doormat to focus on the next task at hand, getting them inside as fast as possible.

Y/N pulls him from the collar of his shirt as soon as the door is locked, and drags him to their bed, repaired over the decades to provide comfort to the newest generation of Barnes’, dressed in sheets his ma’ gave him a few days after he returned from the war, embroidered by Y/N to ”make this place feel like home”.

The moment his back hits the familiar sheets, his day of labour comes crashing on him, Y/N’s warm and wet figure providing comfort and security but not quite healing his tired body. Running through the dear-old streets of Brooklyn with her in his arms had been fun, but he is afraid that standing up again is an impossibility with every press of Y/N’s lips on his collarbone.

Y/N notices his tired demeanor and the way he doesn’t respond as enthusiastically to her ministrations as she’s used to. A look to his face and the dark circles framing his still hungry eyes tells her exactly what Bucky needs tonight.

Bucky still makes an effort to sit up and meet her lips, but her hand is quick to press against his chest, his shirt wet, still, with gentle summer rain, and stops him.

”Sit back baby, let me take care of you”.

Bucky plops back down on the bed and the old thing moans with the added strain of his weight. There’s appreciation in his eyes, and they have gone glossy with all the love and adoration he feels for her. She smooths her fingers over his dark circles, before her fingers slowly card through his messy wet hair. He visibly sudders and closes his eyes, content to have her touch him, even if he craves so much more.

Slowly, Y/N sits back on his lap and starts undoing the buttons of her dress. Bucky runs his hands over the sides of her thighs, feeling the goosebumps that rise on the wake of his touch. The summer heat combined with the shortage of nylon due to the newly-over war had left even some of the most conservative ladies in the streets of Brooklyn no choice but to forego stockings, and Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate the feel of Y/N’s skin underneath his fingertips.

Y/N tugs her dress over her head, and Bucky wastes no time to move his hands higher and squeeze her hips, as he takes in her figure, glistening with the remnants of the rain that soaked through her clothes. Her undergarments are worn and plain, but Bucky thinks that she looks like a dream, the weight of her resting on his hips, her most private parts wrapped in silk.

Y/N shifts to hold on Bucky’s forearms as they explore her, while she gazes down at him from her spot on his lap. Soft wisps of light brown hair peek from the unbuttoned collar of his work shirt, and the droplets of water that hadn’t been lapped up by her mouth make his neck and collarbone glisten. She moves her gaze to his mouth, so full and plump and rosy, and as he squeezes her hips again and subtly grinds his hips up on hers, and she is overwhelmed with the need to touch him. She grabs his chin, resting her thumb on the valley between the soft muscles and rubs it between her fingertips.

”How tired are you, baby? Ok with you if I ride that pretty mouth of yours?”.

Bucky’s lips part a little more, as he lets out a responding gasp at her foul words, not quite used to the things she says in moments like this, but loving it all the same. If he was honest with himself, he loved her filthy words almost as much as he loved her praises.

”Please” he manages to blurt out desperately, the sight of his upper lip, curving as he utters his plea, making her throb in her undergarments.

Y/N shifts until her knees rest on either side of Bucky’s head, his cold, wet hair contrasted by the way his eyes stay obediently fixed on hers, and the feel of his warm breath as it hits her core with every heavy exhale.

She examines the way the late afternoon light coming from their small bedroom window catches on his glistening lips and pretty eyelashes, before she tangles her hand through his messy hair and gives him a nod of approval.

Bucky follows her silent request, and places soft kisses on her covered mound as she lowers herself on his chin. His tongue darts out to taste her through her silk underwear, and soon his kisses turn sloppy. His teeth snag on the garment, wet with rain and her arousal, and he keeps it in place as she lifts her hips upwards in order to remove it. Once she’s out of it, she takes it from Bucky’s mouth and gives him a loud and sloppy kiss on his lips, before she resumes her previous position.

”Such a good boy for me”. Her hands run through his jaw one more time before she lowers herself on his mouth again, and Bucky groans as his cock throbs in his trousers at the first real taste of her. He’s spent many times between her legs like this over the past few months that they’ve been together, but there’s always something so thrilling to him about the way she reacts to his ministrations. He loves to please her, and takes pleasure in seeing her feel good. He loves the way she tastes, the way she moves and the sounds she makes, and he loves being good for her.

Y/N tugs at his hair harder, as his mouth grows bolder. His open-mouth kisses against her core have turned into full on french kissing, and she is left breathless as she recalls all the times he has kissed her mouth that way. He proceeds to suck her clit every once in a while, but focuses his efforts into getting his tongue lower, where her taste is stronger and her moans come out lower. He is now painfully hard in his confines, and there’s an embarrassing amount of precome on his underwear.

His nose bumps against her clit with every movement of her hips. Her climax fast approaching, Y/N grinds on Bucky’s mouth harder than before, as he lays obediently on their embroidered pillows, groaning and moaning, and takes it. His enthusiastic actions have ceased, as he opts to keep his mouth and tongue in the best position for her to get herself off. With a final tug at his locks, Y/N grinds down hard on his mouth, and Bucky feels her gush her warm release on his tongue. He laps at her gently, as she comes down from her high, holding her steady as she pants above him.

He places a final kiss on her mound as she pulls herself off him, and plops down on the bed next to him, spent and satisfied. She takes another minute to catch her breath, turning her head to look at the way his chin glistens as he licks his lips.

Y/N glances at his crotch, the bulge there prominent as ever, and feels a new wave of arousal at her lower stomach at the sight. She turns to her side and straddles him once more.

Bucky lets out a grasp as she presses down on his hips again, his cock finally receiving some sort of friction after a long time, and his hands fly to her bare hips again. Y/N is busy unbuttoning his shirt, the clarity provided after receiving a release allowing her to work on the buttons much faster than he would. He shivers as the shirt is removed from his torso, the late afternoon breeze, cooled by the ongoing rain, caressing his flushed skin. Y/N’s hands are appreciatively gliding up and down his chest, making him release high-pitched whines when she passes over his nipples, hard from arousal and the cold air of the room.

”So pretty...” Y/N mumbles before she leans down to capture his right peak into her warm mouth. Bucky’s responding moans grow louder as she moves to suck and gently bite the other nipple. He whines when she lifts her face from his chest, and Y/N places a finger on his pouting lips.

”Hush, kid, let me do this for ya”, she says while gazing at his pleading eyes. Y/N knows that Bucky must have reached his limit by now, so she deftly unbuttons his pants and reaches her hand inside his boxers, finding him hot, heavy and slick.

Bucky groans loudly at the feel of her hand on him, and throws his head back as she lazily strokes him a few times.

”So hard for me” she says appreciatively, her grip a little firmer.

”It’s all for ya, dahlin’, baby-” he gasps back, the ending of the word baby choked off as she squeezes his base, and Bucky almost panics, as he feels his climax just around the corner already.

”Sweetheart, my honey, love of my life, dearest girl, please-”. Bucky is incoherent at best, but Y/N is swift to hush him once again. She takes him out of his boxers completely, and expertly twists her wrist as Bucky’s slurry words escape his parted lips, deep red and chewed raw.

”It’s ok, baby, you can let go”. She picks up her pace, her other hand leaving it’s place on his abdomen to cup his balls and tug them in time with her twists.

Bucky’s hands desperately clutch the sheets, his groans and the slick sounds of Y/N’s hands on him drowning out the sound of the rain against the half-open window. The way he’s twitching on her hand tells Y/N that he is close, so she lets the hand working on his cock move to clasp one of his hands as her mouth takes over, the hand on his balls squeezing encouragingly.

Bucky gasps as his hips move from the bed to buck in her mouth, one hand grasping the sheets and the other holding on Y/N’s for dear life. She feels his balls tighten and his cock throb violently before his release floods her mouth in spurts. She savours the taste of his release on her tongue, sucking him dry gently before moving her mouth to leave kisses all over his spent member. She gently laps at his balls and leaves a few kisses on his thighs before moving higher up, to press her lips against his left shoulder, lovingly, conveying all the sweet emotions she feels for him. She finally lifts her mouth from the scars littering his left arm to press one final soft kiss over his heart, feeling the muscle beating wildly inside his chest.

”You were so good for me, baby” she whispers in his left ear, and feels him shiver as she presses a soft kiss there as well. She leans back to look at him, finding his flushed face, his cheekbones glowing from sweat, and finally his eyes, glossed over from both the events that took place moments ago, and his love for her. Lips parted, still fighting to find his breathing, expression relaxed but unreadable.

”You okay, kid ?” she asks, concern joining on the affection evident on her own features at his lack of answer.

”You make me feel like the luckiest damn fool on this planet, sweetheart. I love you so much.” he manages, his eyes holding her gaze as she breathes out a chuckle of relief.

”Wait ‘till I make you my famous cornmeal pancakes, you can shower me with compliments then!” she says through giggles. They are both too giddy to stay serious for long, but Y/N gives Bucky a smooch on the lips before taking his chin on her hand.

”And I love you, James Barnes.” she says, kissing the tip of his nose as he smiles, and climbs out of their bed to find one of Bucky’s shirts.

----

There are syrupy giggles and the smell of pancakes in the air of their cramped apartment half an hour later. Bucky is wearing his most comfortable pair of pants, one suspender on his right shoulder while the other sits bare in the remnants of the early evening light filtering through the living area balcony door. Loose, striped socks on his feet and a smear of syrup on his chin the only other things on his body, and Y/N thinks it just might be one of his best looks. His hair had been washed and combed hastily while Y/N was making the pancakes, and finds her fingers itching to mess it up again.

Bucky catches her staring, and gives her a shy smile, her intense gaze framed by the glow of the oil lamp on their coffee table. He is sometimes self-conscious of his scarred shoulder, his changed body, himself, but Y/N keeps looking at him like he is the sun itself. He disagrees of course, but he wants to do everything in his power to make himself worthy of her love. He knows, more than anyone, that life and love are precious things that can be taken from you in the blink of an eye. He knows that he will always doubt himself, but he wants to live, and love, with you.

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I don't own any of the characters in this fic!

Let me know what you think and don't hesitate to message me!

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky smut #1940s!bucky #domesticbucky #bucky x reader smut #marvel #james bucky barnes #rain #summer #comfort fic #bucky x female reader #domesticbucky writes

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nazario-sayeed · 5 years

Text

Interruption (Ethan X F!MC)

Author's note: It's been forever since I've posted an Ethan fic so I was searching for prompts to help me out of my writer's block and came across the following prompt: "I was wondering how long you two were going to make out like that before you realize you weren’t alone" and this is the result. I miss Open Heart, y'all. English is not my first language. Also, I can't pick a decent title even if my life depends on it.

PS: This has been sitting on my drafts for weeks and after that blog post that made me lose my mind, it seemed like a good timing.

Warnings/rating: M (some implied sexual content, kissing, swearing; it's mostly a dumb pointless fic. Seriously, it's the dumbest thing I've ever written, that's the biggest warning, I don't even know why I am posting it)

Word count: around 1800

Masterlist

Tag list (general): @kayden-vescovi @lahelalove @donutsgirl36 @queenkaneko @msjpuddleduck @zadieschoi @brightpinkpeppercorn @jlpplays1 @desiree-0816 @embarrassingsmartphonegame @mfackenthal

Tag list (Ethan): @chasingrobbie @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @akacalliope @perriewinklenerdie @lastfirstcupcake @sparklinglilac @sofreakingdonewiththeworld @furiouscloddonutpeanut @paulfwesley @vankittenheart @heauxplesslydevoted @theroseduelist

let me know if you want to be added/removed from my tag list please

Ethan and Lexie tried to keep away from each other. They really did. For about two months, they actually managed to not run back to each other and both of them felt miserable because of it. If they weren't so committed to their jobs, it would have taken a week rather than a couple of months until they found their way into each other's arms again. They kept ending up intertwined in his office, a supply closet or even an on-call room and saying it'd be the last time. In one month, they had at least 5 encounters that were said to be "the last time". After a while they stopped lying to themselves and simply fully gave in to their feelings.

He was still her boss, though, so they had to be careful with their relationship. Keeping it a secret was not ideal and not what they wanted, because honestly neither of them were ashamed or thought they had something that had to be hidden, but their coworkers might not think the same- especially now that Ethan was working as her direct supervisor. Lexie's roommates kind of knew about them, but they pretended they didn't; they didn't really say anything after that awkward moment when they ran into Ethan sneaking out of their apartament the morning after the hearing and Lexie wouldn't be the one to bring it up. All of them- Ethan, Lexie, her roommates- pretended nothing had happened.

But then the two of them got together again and it felt painfully hard to pretend nothing was going on.

Ethan used to despise those doctors who couldn't keep their personal life away from work; even when he dated Harper, none of their coworkers knew because they acted like professionals within the hospital walls. Even the thought of hooking up inside the hospital used to make him almost physically sick- how could these doctors not show one bit of self control at work? But with Lexie, it was pathetically easy for him to forget what self control was. They spent so much time apart that when they finally did get together again, it was like something lit up inside of him: he couldn't get enough of her once all of those feelings that had been eating him alive- need, longing, passion- were finally released. And even the smallest thing was enough to light up the fire inside of him. One stole glance during rounds, or an "accidental" touch while they were working with the diagnosis team was enough to distract him for the rest of the day- and then he wasn't able to think about anything else at all until he could get her alone.

On the middle of a particular crazy shift, after he had spent all day thinking about the little glance she had given him during rounds followed by the smallest lip bite, he ran into her just outside an on-call room and he had no choice but to take her inside before she could say anything. He immediately locked the door and pushed her against it, kissing her in a way that made her knees weak.

"Dr. Ramsey, what was that for?" she asked him with a mischievous glint on her eyes, a little breathless with her arms still around his neck. He looked at her with so much intensity that she thought she would melt.

"I have been thinking about you all day, Lexie. I couldn't wait to get my hands on you" he said, leaning down to kiss her neck. She let out a soft gasp, tenderly threading her fingers through the soft hair on the back of his head.

"Well, this is way more fun than running labs, so please carry on" she pulled him to her lips again, moaning quietly into his mouth as his hands explored her back underneath her scrubs, his touch setting her skin on fire.

Their kisses grew more heated and passionate as they both stumbled across the room until the back of her knees hit one of the bunk beds and she fell down with a loud thud, pulling him on top of her. Their mouths didn’t part as Lexie pushed his white coat over his shoulders to the floor.

They kept kissing urgently on the small bed as their hands explore each other's bodies, but just as Ethan reached to pull her scrub top over her head, they were interrupted by the beep of a pager.

"Ughhh" she groaned as she reached to check her device "It's not mine"

He kissed her jaw and picked up his pager from where it was tossed on the floor, somewhere inside the pocket of his white coat.

"It's not mine either."

"What?"

"Uh, actually, it's mine" they heard a voice above them. Fuck.

Ethan and Lexie just looked at each other and froze, not sure about what to do- not sure if there was anything they could do at this point. Just then, they felt someone moving on the bed above them and watched, petrified, as Bryce climbed out of the bunk bed and looked at them with a smirk on his face.

"I was wondering how long you two were going to make out like that before you realize you weren’t alone" he said, picking up his stethoscope and hanging it around his neck.

Lexie was the first to break out of their shocked state- she gently created some distance between her and Ethan, pointlessly trying to regain some of her dignity. She could feel her face burning and couldn't bring herself to look at Bryce's face- he didn't even have to say anything to tease her, just one look would be enough to let her know he would never ever let her forget about this.

"Bryce, I'm so sorry, we obviously thought we were alone in here and we know on-call rooms are for sleeping and not for- well, you know- but..." Lexie finally met his eyes as she desperately tried to explain herself but the surgeon cut her off, holding his hands up in mocking defense.

"Hey, relax. I don't care about what you do in here. I mean, I've definitely thought about pushing a certain hot paramedic inside an on-call room more than once, so no judgment. Let me just grab my stuff and I'll be out of here in a second and you can get back at it" he said with a bright smile, trying to ease the tension. Ethan had not said a word this whole time- he looked like he wanted to bury himself in the floor or punch Bryce but wasn't sure about which one he should do first. Instead, he cleared his throat.

"Uh, Dr. Lahela isn't it?" Ethan asked, his voice not as firm as it usually was. Bryce noded, trying as hard as he could to keep a straight face. "I would appreciate if you didn't mention what you saw here to anyone. Given our situation, I'm sure you can understand a need for some, uh, discretion"

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. Next time, just make sure you're alone." he said and then smirked at the two flustered doctors, deciding to tease them just a bit more "Or, you know, you could ask me to join you, you two look hot together."

Ethan mouth hang open in shock as Bryce winked at them.

“Okay Bryce, time to leave. Don’t you have someone to cut open right now?” Lexie jumped off the bed and practically shoved a laughing Bryce out of the room, her face impossibly red.

Once he was out of the room, she shut and locked the door behind her with a heavy sigh. Ethan buried his face on his hands and groaned.

She opened her eyes and looked at Ethan- who seemed at least as flustered as she felt- and as their eyes met, they both burst out laughing. Out of breath, she closed the distance between them and sat by his side on the bed, still laughing. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer, smiling.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to look into Dr. Lahela's face again" Ethan said while he laid down and pulled her to lay with him, arms around each other. She turned on her stomach and rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him. As his blue eyes stared into hers, she decided to take a risk.

"Maybe we should tell people about us, Ethan. What happened today would be uncomfortable no matter what, but we were lucky it was only Bryce here. What if it had been someone else? Someone who might not had taken it as easily as he did? Maybe we should come clean before anyone uses it against us. If we really have nothing to hide, why are we keeping it a secret, you know?" Lexie tried to read his face but he was as stoic as ever. Her emotional side wanted to scream at the top of her lungs that she and Ethan were in a relationship, but her rational side knew it was better to keep it low for as long as they could. It was delusional to think that everyone would take it as smoothly as Bryce did- and being a female resident in a relationship with an attending, she knew they would come for her, not him. But as she looked deeply into his eyes, she realized she didn’t give a shit about what other people could say or think.

“You’re right. Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asked, gently pushing her dark bangs off her face. He knew it as well as she did that their relationship could negatively affect her career and reputation more than his, and he would never forgive himself if their relationship was the reason why she had a future and career anything less than extraordinary. She smiled and took his hand on hers, bringing it to her lips and kissing it with a soft glow on her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sure” I’m ready to tell the world you’re mine.

He gave her a rare, true smile- one of those that could light up even her darkest moments, that made her sure they could get through this as long as they had each other’s backs. She couldn’t help but smile with him as he pulled her face to his, kissing her deeply.

It didn’t take long until the kiss grew more heated, and soon enough her hands found their way to the buttons of his shirt.

“We can tell people later, don't you think?" she said, kissing his neck. He mumbled an agreement and pulled her to straddle his lap, running his hand through the side of her body. She smirked and unbuttoned his shirt slowly. "Now, where were we before we got interrupted?"

Just like that, Bryce’s interruption was quickly forgotten and they went back to do what they originally went to on-call room for.

#choices fanfiction #playchoices #open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #dr ethan ramsey #fanfic #fanfiction

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marypsue · 5 years

Text

house rule #3

So Darcy Lewis' new roommate might secretly be a supervillain. At least she always takes out the trash.

I timewarped in from 2012 to bring you this silly fic. Canon divergent(...ish? If anything contradicts canon pretend it's an AU) after Thor. I've never kept a timeline straight in my life and I don't intend to start now.

Happy New Year or whatever.

[on AO3]

...

Darcy goes back to school after New Mexico, and her roommate is gone.

Not, like, vanished by the government the way Darcy nearly was (thanks, Jane), probably, because apparently Melissa stopped and had a nice long chat with the landlady about why she was suddenly packing up and moving out mid-school-year. Oh, and took back the damage deposit that Darcy paid half of. Thanks, Melissa.

Darcy pays up for the damage deposit, goes back up to the apartment, puts on some angry music, and drafts an ad for a new roommate. She posts it online, then makes herself some noodles, eats them while watching Jenna Marbles videos on Youtube, and then goes to bed.

The next morning, there’s exactly one email response to her ad sitting in her inbox.

That’s how Darcy meets Lucy Walker.

Lucy’s an exchange student, over from England for a single semester. Her accent is as charmingly Mary Poppins-ish as her extremely convenient arrival. Darcy’s so relieved to have somebody to pick up the other half of the rent that she thinks she doesn’t even care if Lucy’s Single-White-Female-ing her right now. She says as much, and Lucy just gives her a good-naturedly baffled look before changing the subject to utilities.

Lucy’s good with Darcy’s 50/50 arrangement for utilities, isn’t horrified that Darcy doesn’t have cable and expects Lucy to pay for it if she absolutely can’t live without it (though she is horrified that Darcy doesn’t have an electric kettle, and by Darcy’s suggestion that she microwave the water for her tea), and seems satisfied with the smaller bedroom. She signs the lease before she leaves the viewing, and by the end of the week, she’s fully moved in.

The first night that Lucy stays at the apartment, Darcy orders in Thai and makes them both Long Island iced teas. It’s got tea in the name, she figures. The Brit will probably like it. Also maybe get drunk enough to let slip if she’s planning to wear Darcy’s skin like a suit.

But the alcohol barely seems to touch Lucy. If anything, she gets quieter, moodier. This was the opposite of what Darcy was going for, so she turns on some music to bring the mood back up.

“Oh, house rule number one,” she says, as she hits shuffle on her dance-pop playlist. “Stereo’s mine. I control the music. Unless you have, like, really good taste in music, and even then, ask first.”

Lucy smiles at her, slowly, over her novelty tiki mug of extremely powerful booze. “I find it better by far to beg forgiveness than ask permission. How will I know if I have, ‘like, really good taste in music’?”

“Oh, I’ll let you know,” Darcy says. “Here, gimme your iPod, let’s take a look.” She holds out a hand, wiggling her fingers. Lucy shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“I don’t…have one of those,” she says, warily, and Darcy draws her hand back.

“Yeah? No big. I almost didn’t either, after the government stole it.” She shakes her head. “What bands do you like?”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with many American bands,” Lucy says, and Darcy beams.

“Even better! You’re a blank slate.”

“Yes, I certainly am that,” Lucy says, into her tiki mug, her eyebrows rising.

“Okay, cryptic,” Darcy says, and skips to Party Rock Anthem. “Hey, do you need more booze?”

Lucy, it turns out, is in the States studying business, though if the way she talks about her one Shakespeare-focused lit class is anything to go by, her true love is drama. She’s here because her older brother did the exchange program and got so much out of it, though so far she seems pretty unimpressed with the States.

“Well, I mean,” Darcy says. “We are barbarians who microwave our tea.”

Lucy laughs so hard at that that Darcy suspects she’s not as unaffected by the Long Island iced teas as she’d like to pretend.

…

Darcy ends up using the electric kettle almost as much as Lucy does. She doesn’t convert from coffee, though. Starbucks still owns her ass. She should really invest in shares.

Lucy makes herself incredibly easy to get along with. Sure, she takes forever in the bathroom every morning – probably making her hair do that thing it does, Darcy’s got no idea how she keeps it in place, she’s starting to suspect witchcraft - but she wakes up at hours that Darcy’s only ever seen from the other side, so it’s not really an issue. Lucy pulls long (and slightly odd) hours in the library, doesn’t bitch about Darcy’s music, always washes her dishes and takes out the trash and replaces the toilet paper roll. She doesn’t throw wild parties or steal Darcy’s jackets or leave clumps of hair in the shower or perishable food out on the counter for hours or invite her boyfriend to basically move in rent-free like some roommates Darcy could name.

But she also…doesn’t seem to have any…friends.

Lucy never brings anybody to the apartment, which is a point in her favour as far as Darcy’s concerned. But she also never talks about meeting anybody at the library or for coffee. She doesn’t have people over, but she also doesn’t go out. She’s not bad-looking - pretty, even, in a pointy kind of way, with those dark Snow White curls and pale skin and big sad-puppy green eyes – but as far as Darcy can tell, there’s no boyfriend in the picture, not even a long-distance one.

And she doesn’t call her family.

At first, Darcy thought it was a time zone thing, but after some of the things Lucy’s said in passing about her dad – well, it sounds like things between her and her family are kind of…strained. Darcy isn’t sure, but she thinks Lucy might actually be adopted. Maybe. Lucy seems to live for cryptic answers to straightforward questions.

Ordinarily, Darcy would consider all of this not her problem. But ordinarily, Darcy would also not be coming home after classes on a Friday to find her practically-perfect-in-every-way new roommate curled up on the couch hugging Darcy’s pug pillow to her chest and staring blankly at the wall. Lucy’s not crying, but her cheeks are suspiciously shiny.

She doesn’t seem to notice Darcy’s come in until Darcy says her name twice, and then she jumps up with a guilty expression, like Darcy’d just walked in and caught her jerkin’ it. Wanking? She is British, after all.

“Don’t mind me,” Lucy says, scrubbing a hand under each of her eyes in turn, an extremely bright and extremely fake smile settling over her face. “I was just heading back to the library – how was your class?”

“Not interesting enough to distract me into changing the subject?” Darcy says. “And don’t try to tell me you’re fine, because you’re obviously not. What gives?”

Lucy’s smile takes a turn for the embarrassed. “I’d really prefer not to discuss it.”

Darcy shrugs, dropping her satchel on the coffee table. “Sure. But – house rule number two. I’m like Dolly Parton. Nobody cries alone in my presence.”

Lucy rubs the sleeve of her dark blazer across her cheek. “Well, no one’s crying here,” she says.

“Yeah,” Darcy says, rolling her eyes as she unwinds her scarf from around her neck. “Anymore.”

“Really,” Lucy says, but her fake smile looks a little less fake. “Please don’t concern yourself. It’s not anything – not anything you can help.”

“Okay,” Darcy says, tossing her scarf over the hook by the door, her hat on top of it. “Wanna eat our feelings and make fun of ANTM highlights?”

Lucy gives her a blink that Darcy’s starting to recognize as her ‘I-don’t-get-that-pop-culture-reference-but-I-don’t-want-to-look-like-I-don’t-get-that-pop-culture-reference’ look.

“America’s Next Top Model?” Darcy says. “Tyra Banks? We were all rooting for you?” Lucy still looks blank, so Darcy grabs her satchel and pulls out her laptop. “Oh, this is happening. Reality television is everything that’s wrong with society today, which is what I love about it.”

She plops down on the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table and her laptop on her knees. When she looks up, Lucy still hasn’t moved. Darcy pats the seat beside her. “C’mon, you’re not gonna be able to see anything from up there.”

Lucy does her best impression of a spooked horse ready to bolt, staring at the cushion next to Darcy like it’s a coiled viper.

“I should get to the library,” she says, half-heartedly. “Study…”

“No, what you should get is that pint of Cherry Garcia out of the fridge and bring it over here,” Darcy says. “Oh, and two spoons.”

…

Bad Reality TV Night quickly becomes an apartment tradition. If by ‘tradition’ you mean ‘whenever we feel like it’, which Darcy does.

They catch up on the highlights of the Bachelor, Jersey Shore, and Survivor, though Lucy also seems to like ANTM best. It’s a good excuse to spend time together that doesn’t involve chores or schoolwork. And Darcy’s never been one for standing on ceremony, but a good icebreaker is a good icebreaker.

Better than a taser, at least.

…

“What on earth is that smell?”

Darcy looks up from the choking clouds of smoke billowing out of the oven, waving an arm to try to waft it out of the way. Lucy’s standing in the doorway with her scarf pulled up over her mouth and nose and both of her eyebrows raised in a look that somehow manages to convey a whole range of emotions, from ‘disappointed and only a little surprised’ all the way to ‘looks into the camera like she’s on The Office’.

“Bread,” Darcy says, in the face of all the evidence. And then, with a last mournful glance into the depths of the oven, “Okay, the artist formerly known as bread. But, I put the fire out.”

“The oven was on fire?!” Lucy asks, her expression going straight to ‘alarmed’, and Darcy coughs into her hand.

“Key word was. Oh, and by the way, we need more baking soda.”

“Do I want to know?”

“You use it to smother oven fires? C’mon, even I knew that.”

Lucy pauses, her expression going carefully blank for a moment. “I don’t…bake at all. Never have.”

“What? Like you don’t even stress bake?”

Lucy’s expression stays blank. “It wasn’t something I was ever encouraged to learn.”

Darcy slams the oven door shut on the last few sad poofs of smoke, straightening up. Forget the aftermath of her bread. This is way more important. “You seriously don’t stress bake? What do you do when somebody makes you so mad you just wanna stab them?”

“Usually, I stab them,” Lucy says, in a voice so dry that Darcy honestly can’t tell if she’s joking.

“Okay,” Darcy says, with a shrug. “But you usually get way less arrested if you take it out on some dough instead.”

“Was that what you were trying to do here?” Lucy asks, waving a hand in front of her face like she can just shoo the smoke away. Funny, for a second it almost seems to be actually working, but then she snorks up a lungful and almost doubles over coughing.

“Oh yeah,” Darcy says. “Professor Doucheface was on his A game today, so I needed something to knead.”

Lucy looks slightly stunned, coming down from her coughing fit, but the ghost of a smile makes its way across her face. “I gather that ‘Professor Doucheface’ is not his given name.”

“Oh, it’s his given name all right. I gave it to him. At the beginning of the semester when he circlejerked about Machiavelli with these two fratbros in the front row for twenty minutes.” Darcy rolls her eyes. One of these days she’s going to figure out how to roll them right back so all you can see are the whites. It’s gonna look so badass. “It was all downhill from there.”

Lucy hums a little in the back of her throat. “Machiavelli made some interesting points.”

“Not you too.” Darcy tries to wave some of the smoke towards the open window. It very much does not work. “I keep forgetting you’re a business student. Is your whole degree just learning how to be an evil mastermind?”

Lucy taps a finger against her chin, thoughtfully. “…it rather is, now that I consider it. But I suppose there are worse things one could be.”

“No offense, but, like what.”

Lucy laughs at that, but it doesn’t escape Darcy’s notice that she doesn’t actually have an answer. Which is not actually surprising. Because seriously.

“All right,” Darcy says, peeking inside the oven and coughing when she gets a faceful of smoke. “I’m gonna clean this out, and then – we’re making chocolate chip cookies.”

…

Introducing Lucy to stress baking is probably the best idea Darcy’s ever had, ever. After the first couple of oven fires and garbage batches, there are always freshly-baked sweet treats around the apartment, and it constantly smells delicious. Darcy would worry about Lucy’s mental state if all that baking hadn’t led her to master the chocolate-chip-to-cookie ratio in all its ooey gooey goodness. She’s since moved on to cupcakes, and Darcy has high hopes for Lucy’s buttercream technique.

It’s a couple of weeks later that Darcy comes home and finds the kitchen full of racks upon racks of cookies and cupcakes both. She only pauses long enough to stuff a chocolate-chip cookie in her face before she asks, “Okay, is it your own Professor Doucheface, or something else?”

Lucy doesn’t answer right away, and doesn’t take her eyes off her dough.

After what feels like an entire ice age, she says, “I tried. To recreate a pastry that I remembered from home.” She shakes her head, a long, dark curl falling out of her messy braid. “And I couldn’t.”

Darcy chews on that for a moment as she chews on cookie. “You’re homesick?”

Lucy pauses, tucking the stray lock of hair behind one ear and smearing a white streak of flour along one Morticia Addams cheekbone. She flashes a rueful grin in Darcy’s direction, before going back to almost angrily kneading the ball of dough on the countertop in front of her. “You must think it’s silly. It was my choice to leave, after all, and yet here I am, wallowing.”

Darcy shrugs, leaning over to snag another cookie from the cooling rack. They’re still warm, the chocolate all melty and goopy inside. Heaven. “I dunno. Like, you’re halfway across the world all on your own.” She turns her full attention to separating a particularly sticky chocolate chip from her teeth before saying, “Mostly I’m just surprised because your home sounds like it sucks a fat one.”

Lucy gives a sharp, brittle laugh, and shoves the heels of both hands into the dough with surprising viciousness. She doesn’t talk for a long moment after that, just kneading and kneading and kneading until Darcy has to look away or risk getting hypnotized.

“I get it, though,” she says, ignoring the flat, disbelieving glance Lucy shoots in her direction. “I mean, the farthest I’ve ever been from home was New Mexico, and no offense to Jane or Puente Antigua, but that place sucked.” She demolishes the last bite of cookie, and licks the remnants of chocolate chip from her fingers. Hey, waste not, want not, right? “Although that was at least fifty percent the government’s fault. But! The other half was not having anybody to just hang out with. Jane’s great, don’t get me wrong, but can you say obsessive. Okay, and the internet connection made dialup look like the wave of the future, and you couldn’t get Starbucks without driving three hours, and -”

Lucy’s giving her a blank look. Darcy snags another cookie and waves it dismissively, barely managing to catch the top piece when it unexpectedly breaks in half in her hand. “Point is, we gotta get you out and meet some people. And I guess maybe some decent fish and chips.”

Lucy snorts dismissively at that, her hands rolling back into motion. That bread’s gonna be way overworked, but Darcy figures that’s one she’ll let Lucy figure out for herself.

“Also, it probably wouldn’t kill you to call your mom once in a while,” she says, chomping down on her cookie. How many is that now? Better question, does it matter. They’re best right out of the oven anyway. “I know shit’s weird with your dad and everything, but it sounds like your mom wouldn’t mind knowing you haven’t been eaten by a bald eagle or fallen off Mount Rushmore or whatever. And it sounds like your brother cares about you a lot. Even if he is a doofus.”

Lucy’s face cracks in a big, surprised, unamused grin, and she shakes her head, turning away with a soft huff of laughter.

“My brother cares about the person he wishes me to be,” she says at last, giving the dough another vicious shove.

“You don’t have to talk to him. Just let your mom know you’re not dead, she can pass it on.”

Lucy doesn’t look up from the dough. “I’m not certain it’s a good idea for me to try to contact my family.”

“Really? ‘cause I am,” Darcy says. “Are you worried about the long-distance charges? I know tuition’s higher for international students, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Lucy glares down the dough. “You have no idea what price I paid to be here.”

“I mean, I have some idea,” Darcy says. “You do give me your half of the rent every month.”

Lucy looks up, and then bursts out laughing.

“I like you, Darcy Lewis,” she says, once she’s got herself back under control. “Do you want to apply your flawlessly straightforward logic to every aspect of my life?”

Darcy shrugs. “Point me at the problem. I guarantee you that in twenty-four hours, either the problem’ll be gone, or you’ll have a way bigger, different problem to worry about instead.”

…

Lucy still demurs every time Darcy tries to invite her along any time she’s meeting friends, though. By the third or fourth time she makes up some bullshit excuse, Darcy’s starting to get fed up.

So she invites everybody over to the apartment instead.

Lucy comes back from the library somewhere between pizza and wine. She freezes in the doorway with one arm outstretched, overcoat and houndstooth scarf arrested halfway to the hook on the wall. A brief flicker of panic races across her face before she smooths her expression out, hanging up her coat and shaking out her hair.

“Darcy?” she calls, breaking into a broad smile when she catches Darcy’s eye. “Having a few friends over?”

“Yeah, come grab a glass of wine,” Darcy calls back from the living room. “We could use one more for Cards Against Humanity.”

“Cards against…” Lucy echoes, hovering in the entryway. Obviously she’s not going to take the initiative, so Darcy gets up and makes for the kitchen.

“Do they not have Cards Against Humanity in the UK?” Jared asks from the floor beside the coffee table, as Darcy pours out the dregs of a bottle of red into one of the only clean glasses. After a moment’s thought, she tops it off with white. Hey, that’s all rosé is, right?

“Yeah, and actually, what is the difference between the UK, England, and Britain?” Ayesha asks. “I’ve never been able to get it right.”

“Rude,” Darcy says, making her way back into the living room. Lucy’s still standing in the entryway, but her posture doesn’t look quite so stiff anymore, and her shoulders are creeping down from around her ears. Still, she looks awfully relieved when Darcy hands her the novelty plastic cactus-shaped cup of wine. “Nosy here is Ayesha, that’s Jared, strong and silent in the recliner is Vince, and half-passed-out-on-the-couch-already is Rachel. Guys, say hi to Lucy.”

“The practically perfect in every way?” Rachel asks, lifting her head from the hilarious pillow with a picture of a pug in a bedazzled tiara. Lucy’s cheekbones and the tips of her ears go brightly pink, but her grin is wicked.

“Ooh, Darcy. What have you been saying about me.” She takes a sip of her wine, makes a face at it, and then settles herself down on one of the cushions Darcy’s tossed around the coffee table, carefully arranging her pencil skirt. “How do you play this game, then?”

…

They add ‘Cards Against Humanity night’ to the roster of apartment traditions. Nobody really seems to mind that Lucy wins almost every time. Beating her is an interesting challenge. Like Rachel says, she makes them get creative.

…

They’re catching up on Big Brother highlights when Lucy asks Darcy, “Would you ever audition for one of these shows?”

Darcy snorts. “Thanks, but no thanks. You?”

Lucy narrows her eyes, smiling thoughtfully at the screen. “I think I could win one. The only thing would be convincing the producers I’d be interesting enough to watch.” She turns that grin on Darcy. “You have an advantage there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Darcy asks, crossing her arms with a good-natured glare.

Lucy flicks her eyes ceilingward with an expression of affected innocence. “Only that these shows seem to reward distinctive and outsized personalities.”

Darcy mentally translates that into English, then shrugs. “Hey, I’ve been accused of worse. I think.”

Lucy smiles, and says nothing.

“You’d need a gimmick,” Darcy says, watching one of the Big Brother girls hitting another with an inflatable palm tree. “Like…always referring to yourself in the third person, or insisting people call you ‘princess’, or something.”

Lucy’s smile goes a little tight around the edges, but she doesn’t comment.

“No. I don’t think I could stoop to that for any length of time,” she says, at last. “I suppose that’s another plan to cross off the list for once I complete my degree.”

“Do you know what you’re gonna do once you get outta here?” Darcy asks, with a glance over at Lucy. The inflatable palm tree fight got old fast.

Lucy doesn’t take her eyes from the laptop screen. “I thought I did.”

She really knows how to torpedo a mood, Darcy decides.

“Maybe I should audition for a reality show,” she says. “At least you know stuff about running a business. Probably. I mean, I don’t know, you could be failing out.”

Lucy huffs something that’s halfway to a laugh. “I assure you, I’m not failing out.”

“That’s what they all say,” Darcy says, reaching for a handful of popcorn.

Lucy glances in her direction, waiting until Darcy’s got her handful of popcorn before stealing the bowl and settling it into her lap. “What about that – Jane you worked for? Would she hire you back?”

Darcy snorts. Again. “Yeah, sure. If she couldn’t get anybody else.”

Lucy hums in the back of her throat. “Oh, never underestimate the power of being the only option. What were you doing for her, anyway?”

Darcy grimaces. “Making coffee, mostly. She’s an astrophysicist and I…am not.”

“Astrophysics?” Lucy asks, raising an eyebrow, a handful of popcorn apparently forgotten halfway to her mouth. “Now that sounds interesting.”

“Most of it went over my head,” Darcy says. “The wormhole stuff was pretty cool, though.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything, but her face is like a big flashing neon sign saying ‘tell me more’. Darcy’s not sure how much she’s actually allowed to say without a bunch of S.H.I.E.L.D. guys rolling up, smashing through all her windows, and whisking her off to some top-secret torture pit, though, so she just says, “Let’s just say science fiction didn’t get it totally wrong, for once.” She takes a sip of her coffee, staring Lucy down. “So what were you planning to do before whatever, and why aren’t you anymore?”

Lucy shakes her head. “Oh, no. Not if you get to leave me on that kind of a cliffhanger.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Okay. Guess we’re just gonna watch Big Brother, then.”

They watch Big Brother.

It’s about seven and a half minutes before Lucy says, slowly, “There is a…family business. My brother is the eldest, we always knew he would inherit, but -” She shakes her head again, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear. “He’s never had much of a head for business. I had assumed I’d be – taken on in a managerial capacity, but with the state of things between me and my family now…”

“See, I’ve never got that,” Darcy says. “Why not just let the person who’s actually good at the thing do the thing?”

“Our father is, unfortunately, something of a traditionalist,” Lucy says.

Darcy rolls her eyes.

“But perhaps it’s all for the best,” Lucy continues, darting a smile in Darcy’s direction. “I’m finding that this really is the land of opportunity. Even if you occasionally have to make your own.”

It’d be a little unfair to leave her hanging after that – even that much of a confession is a lot, coming from tight-lipped Lucy – so Darcy does end up telling her a little about New Mexico. Leaving out the bits about the Men in Black and the buff space aliens, of course.

Lucy’s a good listener – she makes all the right faces at all the right times, and asks relevant questions without interrupting. Darcy actually ends up telling her a little more than she strictly meant to. Although, to be fair to Lucy, Darcy usually ends up telling everybody a little more about everything than she strictly means to. One of these days, she’s gotta get herself a brain-to-mouth filter.

“It sounds as though you enjoyed yourself,” Lucy says, when Darcy finally runs herself out.

“I guess,” Darcy says. “I mean, it kinda stank at the time – literally, it’s hot in New Mexico and Jane’s trailer had the shittiest shower hookup. But it was also kinda an adventure.” She shrugs. “Except the parts where we all nearly died. Jane really needs to learn not to hijack vans to drive directly at tornados.”

Lucy leans forward, setting the popcorn bowl back on the coffee table. “Is Jane still researching these Einstein-Rosen bridges?”

“Think so. She wants to make her own, eventually, but it didn’t sound like that was gonna happen anytime soon. Sounded like she’d need her own nuclear reactor to get enough oomph behind it.”

Lucy nods consideringly. “Well, if she’s still working in that area, you might reach out and see if she needs an assistant.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure. She’s got a couple articles published now. And funding. If she needs an assistant, she’s gonna pick somebody who knows the difference between a quark and a quasar.”

Lucy pouts dramatically at her. “Now, that doesn’t sound like the Darcy I know. Where’s that boundless confidence?”

“Taking a backseat to realism for five minutes? Like I said, I was the only applicant last time.”

“You only need an edge,” Lucy says, like it’s so super easy. “Make yourself stand out from the competition, demonstrate how you are the best candidate. You already have Jane’s confidence, that’s half the battle.” She winks at Darcy before adding, “Of course, you could always simply eliminate the other candidates, but I know your feelings on poison.”

“I’m never totally sure you’re joking when you talk about murder,” Darcy says.

“Because I’m not,” Lucy says, perfectly deadpan. “I am entirely sincere at all times.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna blame the accent.”

“What did you do when you applied the first time?” Lucy asks, going for another handful of popcorn and neatly sidestepping the conversation about her honestly worrying tendency to default to ‘when in doubt, stab them’. No wonder she likes Shakespeare.

“I just emailed Jane with the names and numbers of a bunch of my references,” Darcy says, going for her coffee again. “Like I said. Only applicant.”

The look Lucy gives her is probably the same look she gives to, like, baby animals that trip on their own tails. Like Darcy’s adorable, but only because she’s so pathetic.

“If there’s one thing you learn in business school,” she says, “it’s how to ace a job interview.”

“Excuse you,” Darcy says. “I interview great.”

Lucy says nothing, just looks Darcy up and down and then looks to her left with her eyebrows raised, like there’s a whole lot she could say but she’s politely restraining herself.

“Oh, what,” Darcy says, wiggling back further into the couch and re-crossing her arms. “Don’t give me that discreetly, Britishly rude shit. Spit it.”

A grin slowly sneaks its way across Lucy’s face, and she shakes her head with a laugh. “So forthright. And yet, so perceptive.”

“Well, you were broadcasting…pretty loud and clear,” Darcy points out.

“You’d be amazed what some people fail to pick up on,” Lucy says, half to herself.

“Whatever,” Darcy says. “Lay your wisdom on me, o business major. What’m I doing so obviously wrong?”

Lucy gives her a smile that only turns pitying a little at the end.

“Well, no one could doubt your confidence,” she says. “My only question is how you choose to channel it. I’m sure it’s admirable not to care about the impression one leaves upon others, but when one attempts to take on a new role, that impression is everything.”

Darcy waits, and when no more follows, shrugs.

“You don’t – ah – dress for success,” Lucy says, settling back on the couch with her back against the armrest, so she can look Darcy full in the face as she counts points off on her fingers. “You tend to treat punctuality as though it’s optional. Your forthrightness, while refreshing, could be seen to evidence a lack of tact or forethought – a tendency to charge in without thinking. Which, while a quality many seem to value in their leaders, is not in fact a strategy that frequently yields great success.”

“Unless you’re super buff and hot,” Darcy points out, thinking of Thor.

Lucy rolls her eyes, with a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. As your reality television proves quite handily, a great many rules have their exceptions if you are, as you say, ‘super buff and hot’.”

“Well, I’m already hot,” Darcy says. “So all I gotta do is hit the gym.”

Lucy gives her a flat, disbelieving look. Darcy makes direct eye contact, and flexes one arm, duckfacing before she leans over to kiss her nonexistent bicep.

She’s not sure which of them cracks up first, but she hopes it’s Lucy.

“Is that why you always dress like you’re just stopping in to the office to finish up the Johnson contract?” Darcy asks, when she gets her breath back. “Like, I know suits are required wearing for the business school, but you are allowed to wear, like, jeans or leggings or stuff on Saturdays.”

“I think it’s wise, to require a certain degree of presentation,” Lucy says, primly. “In many cases, the trappings of authority wield as much power as the authority itself. Others’ perception of you, of your legitimacy, is critical to exercising that authority.” She grins, wickedly. “Just ask Macbeth. Or any of the fools demanding your president’s birth video.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Please. Don’t remind me.” She very quickly seizes on the flaw in that logic, though. “But you’re not royalty - no, I know you’re not related to Queen Liz, don’t try that one on me again,” she adds, firmly, and Lucy rolls her eyes ceilingward with an innocent expression. “Or a president, or any other kind of leader of a country. You can get away with wearing jeans every once in a while, it’s not like nobody will ever take you seriously again.”

“So says the woman who wears nothing but jeans,” Lucy says, and then, her eyes crinkling up in a smile, “And has never once in her life been taken seriously.”

Darcy throws the pug pillow at her.

Lucy catches it with the ease of long practice, settling it behind her and making a big show of getting comfortable.

“Only a tiny fraction of a job interview – or, really, of any interaction - is its content. Like it or not, others draw conclusions from how you present yourself,” she says. “You want to present yourself in such a way that they draw the conclusions you wish them to draw.”

She looks at Darcy’s face, and sighs. “You need to learn to smize. But with your clothing, your body language, your choice of words. Smile without your mouth, speak without your words.”

Darcy blinks at her.

“Actually,” she says, “when you put it like that…that makes way more sense than just ‘you’re wearing that?’.”

Lucy gives her a broad, triumphant grin.

“Well,” she says. “If all it takes is a translation into Tyra Banks, there may be hope for you yet.”

Darcy looks around for something else to throw, but there’s nothing close to hand. Instead, she bobs her head in Lucy’s direction with a sarcastic glare. Lucy smiles back angelically.

“Don’t you ever get, like, tired of it, though?” Darcy asks, and Lucy’s smile suddenly goes blank behind the eyes. “I mean, always being on your best behaviour. Always overthinking what other people think of you -”

The smile drops off Lucy’s face so fast Darcy thinks it breaks the sound barrier. She could swear the temperature in the room drops ten degrees in ten seconds.

Lucy glares at the laptop for a long, chilly moment before she turns a haughty, challenging look on Darcy. “I do not have the luxury of airing my dirty laundry for the world to see.”

“So you’re just gonna fake it, forever?” Darcy asks, feeling a little sideswiped. This conversation has taken a turn, and she’s not totally sure she likes the direction it’s going now. “That’s stupid.”

“You may try that flawless line of reasoning on my father,” Lucy says coldly.

Darcy shrugs. “I mean, if you’ll pay for my plane ticket. Or, like, call him, ever.”

“You have no idea what it’s been like, the kind of pressure -” Lucy starts, her voice low, her stare intense under lowered brows, but Darcy cuts her off.

“What, you think just because I don’t care what other people think about me, that I don’t notice it? Yeah, I know most people don’t absolutely love it when you just say whatever and never shut up. Total shocker.”

“All the more reason to have a care what face you present to the world.”

Suddenly, Darcy’s irritated, with Lucy, with Lucy’s whole Hamlet act, with the whole stupid world. “Oh, get over yourself. Like I’ve never tried. Do you really think I wouldn’t love to just always know what I’m doing wrong before I do it and be able to turn it off?”

Lucy’s expression softens, subtly, at that. “Believe me when I say I do understand. You’re far from the only one who’s unacceptable to the world the way they are.”

“Who gets to decide what’s ‘acceptable’, anyway? Because I feel like we should find them and like, gag them and toss them in a basement somewhere.” Darcy shakes her head. “I don’t want to pretend I’m something I’m not just to impress some randos. Sooner or later, they always find out I’m, well, me, and then I’ve wasted a bunch of time I could’ve spent watching cat videos. With people who actually like me.”

Darcy’s aware that Lucy’s watching her, very intently, and shrugs again, suddenly embarrassed by how much personal garbage she’s just spewed at a near-stranger. Darcy Lewis’ Lack of Filter strikes again.

“So like…yeah,” she concludes, lamely.

The smile Lucy gives her is a weak imitation of her usual confidence.

“An admirable philosophy, Polonius,” she says, sounding just a little too wistful for the sarcasm to really bite.

“Oh, fuck you,” Darcy sighs, flopping back against the arm of the couch with her arms akimbo, huffing a stray curl out of her face. “Sorry we can’t all be practically perfect in every way.”

There’s a moment of unbelievably glassy silence.

“I’m far from perfect,” Lucy says, quietly, at last.

“Sure,” Darcy says. “I just don’t know it, because I’ve never seen the ‘real’ you. Because you won’t chill out around anybody. And then you’ll get mad and resentful that I don’t get the ‘real’ you and it’ll all end in tears.” She bobs her head back up so she can look Lucy in the face. “Or, you could stop treating your life like it’s a job interview, follow my lead, and dump all your messy, complicated feelings on somebody you’ve known for like a month with no warning.”

Lucy’s face doesn’t change, and Darcy, unable to stop her face from saying words even under the best of circumstances, adds, “Y’know. Like we’re friends.”

The look Lucy gives her is entirely unreadable. Darcy gives it her best effort for maybe ten seconds anyway, then gives up trying.

“Just a suggestion,” she says, as Lucy rises from the couch.

“It’s been a long day,” Lucy says, avoiding eye contact. “And tomorrow will be as well. I’d best turn in.”

“Coward,” Darcy calls after her, as she starts down the hall. “Don’t be afraid of the overshare!”

She considers getting up and grabbing the pug pillow to throw at Lucy again, but decides it seems like too much effort.

…

The next morning, Darcy catches Lucy in the kitchen before she leaves for class, which is unusual. Still, Darcy Lewis has never been one to look the proverbial gift horse in its proverbial gift mouth.

“Hey, I’m sorry about last night,” she says, as she pours coffee into her cocoa puffs. “If I was outta line, or stepped over some boundaries…you know.”

Lucy blinks at the bowl of bobbing pale-brown cereal in dark-brown coffee, but says nothing, just passes Darcy the milk so she can add it to her creation.

“I apologise, as well,” she says, at last, with a brief, bright, not-entirely-convincing smile. “Some measure of what you said…touched a nerve.”

“I figured,” Darcy says. “It’s what I do best. Touch nerves, get jobs I’m not qualified for, make killer playlists.”

She meets Lucy’s eyes, and they share a smile.

“I’m not… I don’t share myself the way you do,” Lucy says, at last, turning to the cupboards for a spoon to stir her coffee. “I don’t believe I could, or that I’d wish to. But…”

She pauses to take a long sip of her coffee, the spoon still in it. “This past year, I’ve learned a few things about myself that I…am having difficulty coming to terms with. Things I’m afraid have not provoked a positive response from those I’ve chosen or been obliged to share with. I – it helps, to present myself carefully, to know I have some choice in how others perceive me. To have some measure of control.” Lucy gives the coffee another stir, staring into its spiral. “To be certain they aren’t seeing – certain aspects of myself that I’d prefer not to exist.”

“Wait,” Darcy says, trying to shuffle all of those pieces into order in her mind. “You’re insecure about your appearance?”

Over the top of her coffee mug, Lucy skewers her with a glare.

“Yeah, okay, fair. I guess it was a shitty thing to say anyway.”

Lucy turns her stare down into her coffee. “Perhaps this does make me a coward.”

“What? No way,” Darcy says. “It’s smart. Just, like, as a sometimes thing. Did you miss the part where I said if I could pretend to be a normal person, I would?”

“You shouldn’t,” Lucy says. “If you could, you wouldn’t be Darcy.”

Darcy bites her bottom lip.

“Thanks,” she says. “I think.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lucy says, smoothly, a mischievous smile starting to play around her lips. “Take it as a compliment.”

Darcy aims a kick in her direction, which misses by a mile, then settles down to eat her cereal experiment.

“Well, this is terrible,” she says, a few bites in.

“I honestly don’t know what you expected,” Lucy says.

…

Professor Doucheface isn’t at the front of the class one afternoon not long after that. The smiling woman who’s taken his place explains that he’s taken a leave of absence and will be back when he’s back, which might not be before the end of the semester.

Darcy cracks a bottle of wine as soon as she gets home and hauls Lucy out of her room to do a toast with her. And then do karaoke with her. She’s pretty sure Lucy’s big, smug grin is just her being happy for Darcy, but still. It’s nice to see her smile.

She sucks at karaoke, though. Doesn’t know any of the words.

…

When Jane turns up at the apartment, it’s Lucy who answers the door. Darcy’s in her room working very hard, thank you, on a presentation about the Euro crisis using ‘Call Me Maybe’ as a learning aid. So she can’t really be blamed if she doesn’t hear the first time Lucy knocks on her door. Or the second. Or the third.

When Darcy finally ventures forth on a quest for snackage, Jane and Lucy are both sitting in the living room, Jane holding forth about some science-y thing, complete with hand gestures, while Lucy looks fascinated and occasionally nods encouragingly. She’s either the best polite listener in the history of polite listeners, or she’s actually interested in this wormhole stuff.

“Hey, I didn’t know you were into astrophysics,” Darcy says, when Jane pauses for breath, and both Jane and Lucy turn to look at her with identical guilty expressions. Darcy can’t help but laugh. “Oh my god, you guys should see yourselves. You look like my mom’s dog when she shredded the cat’s catnip mouse. The cat loved it, though. She was trippin’ for hours.”

Now they’re both kind of looking blank. Jane shakes it off first. “I do actually need to talk to you, Darcy.”

“Hit me,” Darcy says, collapsing onto the couch beside her.

Jane doesn’t move, but her eyes dart in Lucy’s direction. “Do you want to go grab a coffee or something?”

“Ah,” Lucy says, looking from Jane to Darcy and back again. “I have plenty of studying to do. I’ll be in my room.” She pushes herself up from the armchair, smoothing down her skirt – a super cute A-line that Darcy would never wear but that totally works on somebody as tall and bony as Lucy. “Thank you, Dr. Foster, I found our conversation most…enlightening.”

“Oh, please, call me Jane,” Jane says, standing up herself and sticking out her right hand. Lucy blinks at it for half a second before taking it and giving it a very professional shake, with a brilliant smile. Darcy can’t help but notice that the height difference between them is hilarious. She always forgets how tiny Jane is. “Always a pleasure to meet young people with an actual interest in my field.” The look Jane gives Darcy is a little too fond to be a glare.

“Hey, I have an actual interest in your field,” Darcy argues. “I’m very interested in the easy science credits it bagged me.”

“ ‘Easy’ science credits?” Jane says, in mock disbelief, as Lucy heads down the hallway. “I seem to recall somebody saying she refused to die for six college credits…”

Lucy’s bedroom door shuts with a solid thunk, and Jane waits a couple of minutes before turning back to Darcy. Minutes? Probably seconds. Minutes are always longer than Darcy thinks. Or shorter, depending on the day and whether people are talking. “I know I only met her once, but I thought your roommate was…shorter. And less British.”

“Oh yeah. Melissa. She totally flaked on me while you and I were out playing X-Files in the desert,” Darcy says. “Lucy’s doing an exchange…thing. So what’s up?”

“Do you have something lined up for after graduation?” Jane asks.

“Depends. Do you still want to pay me in college credits?”

Jane rolls her eyes. “No. I actually have a budget now, thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D., but it’s been hell on wheels trying to get somebody cleared to come work for me. They want it to be all ‘need-to-know’. But they need to know!”

“What about Selvig?” Darcy asks. Her stomach chooses this unfortunate moment to remind her why she came out of her room in the first place, and she furiously thinks at it to be cool. She might have an actual job lined up if she plays her cards right, here. One where she can goof off for money and gorgeous men literally rain from the sky. No way she’s letting a little Oreo craving get between her and that.

Jane shakes her head. “There’s some mystery project the director’s apparently been courting him for. Even if he’d want to, he doesn’t have time to run around after me chasing storms.”

“Ooh, mystery project,” Darcy says. “That sounds prestigious. And expensive. D’you think he’s hiring?”

Jane gives her a flat look. “They won’t even tell me what it is. No way they’re letting you within a hundred feet of it.”

Darcy shrugs. “Hey, it was worth a shot. Just wanna know what my options are, in case I decide to play hardball.” She considers it a moment. Not so long ago, Darcy would’ve jumped – well, okay, not jumped, casually agreed to, nobody who’s built like Darcy does much jumping – at the opportunity. But not so long ago, Darcy had not had a business major for a roommate. Lucy’s taught her a thing or two about negotiating and knowing her worth. Pretty much all of which she’s throwing out the window right now, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. “How much can you pay me, anyway?”

Jane names a figure. Darcy chokes on her own spit.

“Do you need me to drop out and start now?” she asks, when she can breathe like a normal person again. “ ‘cause I can drop out and start now.”

Jane huffs a soft laugh. “Finish your degree. I’m sure I’ll burn through the last few S.H.I.E.L.D. lab techs who’re willing to put up with me, and the spot’ll be open for you to step into before you even take off the cap and gown.”

“How sure?” Darcy asks, because, well, she doesn’t want Lucy to have had to break her best job interview tips down into pieces of Tyra’s advice for nothing. “Do I get, like, something to sign? Anything in writing?”

Jane actually laughs this time. “Yes. That’s why I didn’t just call. Well, that and the possibility of wiretaps.” She reaches down by her feet for the brown canvas messenger bag Darcy hadn’t really paid much attention to. “There’s, uh, a formal offer…”

Her smile turns apologetic, and Darcy just has time to feel a wave of the ominouses build over her before Jane pulls out a stack of printer paper an inch and a half thick. “And, uh, a couple of non-disclosure agreements. Oh, and a background check. And another background check, except this one’s off the record, because it’s being done technically illegally by a defected Soviet spy.”

“You’re joking, right,” Darcy says.

Jane gives her a smile that’s half a wince, and a pen.

…

By the time Lucy pops back out of her room in search of dinner, Darcy’s wrist aches something fierce, to match the throb behind her eyes from all the tiny, tiny, extremely important print, and she’s pretty sure the index finger on her right hand is never going to be the same again. But none of that matters, because Darcy Lewis Has A Job.

“Right out of school!” she crows, shaking out her hand. “How about that, Mom? Oh, and, there’s science in poli-sci, so, like, it’s even using my major. Using half my major. Does that count?”

Lucy looks at her over the mug of tea she’s just poured herself. “For purposes of proving your parent wrong? Oh, absolutely.”

“What?” Darcy says, and then remembers Lucy’s life across the pond is a soap opera. “Oh, no, my mom just – she was worried. Poli-sci was my…third? Third major in two years. She really wanted me to make my mind up, or at least pick something that would guarantee I wouldn’t be moving back in with her after graduation. She’ll be so super proud.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything, just blows softly across the surface of her tea and kind of stares into the middle distance.

“You know what this calls for?” Darcy says, before the buzz can get any more killed. “Champagne. Lots of champagne.”

Lucy focuses back on her, quirking an eyebrow up with a hint of a smirk. “Job offer or not, you still can’t afford champagne.”

“Nope,” Darcy says, popping the ‘p’. “But I can afford fizzy wine, and I can’t tell the difference.”

…

“Gotta ask,” Darcy says, as they stand in the walk-in cooler, staring at the bottles of prosecco, “does your family really suck that much? Because I’m gonna feel like a real asshole for trying to make you phone your mom.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just studying the glass bottles on the shelf in front of her. Maybe it’s the coat (it’s a nice coat, really thick and heavy, as Darcy learned when she had to pick it up every time it fell off the hooks by the door), or the scarf, or maybe Lucy’s just naturally cold-blooded, but she hasn’t shivered yet. Darcy, on the other hand, wore a spring jacket and is regretting it.

“I wouldn’t say, ‘suck’,” Lucy says, at last, slowly.

“No, you’d say, like, ‘bollocks’ or something,” Darcy says, stuffing her hands in her pockets. Lucy’s face unfreezes, and she darts a bright grin in Darcy’s direction, though there’s still something sad around her eyes.

“I like you, Darcy,” she says. “But unfortunately, not everything is so simple as you like to think.”

Darcy shrugs, without taking her hands out of her pockets. “I dunno. Sometimes people just make things complicated for themselves.”

They spend another quiet moment studying the fizzy wine, before Darcy shakes out her hands with a puff of breath. “Okay, do you actually have an opinion on what we drink, or are you just trying to avoid talking to me? Because if it’s the second one, I’m picking the cheapest bottle and getting out of here. I’m freezing.”

“Oh,” Lucy says, like she forgot they were standing in a refrigerator, and then reaches up and grabs a bottle of prosecco that is pretty clearly not the cheapest bottle on the shelf. “Here. I’ll treat.”

Darcy watches her suspiciously. “I thought you were broke.”

“Not so broke that I’ll drink that barely-alcoholic swill you call fizzy wine, thank you,” Lucy says primly, and Darcy can’t help but laugh.

“Thanks,” she says, once they’re through the checkout and back out on the sidewalk, Lucy pressing the bag holding their prosecco into her hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Lucy gives her a smile that’s just a little unsettling. “I should be thanking you, Darcy. You’ve done more for me than you know.”

Darcy squirms internally under the attention. “We’re roommates. We do roommate stuff. Nothing special.”

Lucy bobs her head back and forth, like she doesn’t agree but she won’t come right out and object. “You opened your home to me. You’ve shown me hospitality above and beyond what was required of you. I won’t forget it.”

Darcy shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, don’t mention it. But if I’m ever in London and need a place to crash -”

Lucy’s smile is brilliant. “Oh, I expect that if you’re ever in London, you’ll look me up. I’ll take you out for fish and chips and we can tour the Tower.”

“Haunted murder prison. Sounds like a blast,” Darcy says. “You better take me on that giant Ferris wheel, too. I promise not to barf on anybody this time.”

Lucy blinks at her. “ ‘This time’?”

…

Exam season hits them both hard. Darcy spends a lot of time in the coffee shop, loading up on espressos in a desperate bid to keep herself awake after the string of all-nighters she’s pulled. Lucy practically moves into the library. Darcy doesn’t see her except in the apartment doorway, once, when she’s grabbing some books for class, and even then it’s only for long enough to say ‘hi’ and then ‘bye’ again.

Jane calls about a week and a half, maybe two weeks after Darcy signs the unbearable stack of documents. For one horrifying second, Darcy thinks the ex-Soviet spy turned up some dreadful, sordid thing in her family history and she’s not getting the job after all. But Jane doesn’t even mention the job. She barely even says hello. “Have you heard from Erik? I’ve been trying to get in touch, but he’s not answering his phone. Or his emails.”

“You did say he’s working on some top-secret classified mystery thing,” Darcy points out. “If I had to sign that many NDAs, I bet they’re taking no chances on him blabbing.”

“I know, it’s just – it’s not like him,” Jane says, and her worry’s a little bit contagious, even through the phone. “Wouldn’t he have warned somebody if he was going to have to go dark? Warned me?”

“Jane. C’mon,” Darcy says. “He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

“Darcy,” Jane says, shortly. “You were there when he told us about his friend.”

“Yeah, but S.H.I.E.L.D. did that,” Darcy counters. “The people who hired him. Who vanishes their own employees?”

“People like S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Jane says grimly. “Let me know if you hear from him, all right?”

“Well, if he’s not talking to you, the chances of him friending me on Facebook or whatever are pretty low.”

“Darcy,” Jane sighs, “just say, ‘Yes, Jane’.”

“Yes, Jane,” Darcy parrots into the phone.

…

It’s been almost another week, almost a week since the last time she saw Lucy. Darcy’s holed up in her favourite campus coffeeshop, nursing her fourth – fifth? – latte of the afternoon, when the TV silently playing old episodes of Friends cuts to a news break.

It’s a short clip, repeating over and over. Some dude who looks more like an extremely glam pop star in a ridiculous costume than anything, and at first, with the sound off, that’s what Darcy thinks it is. Some dude trying to get in on the Gaga-Katy Perry weird costume trend. Looks like he might be singing to a big crowd in an outdoor arena. He’s really givin’ it, if the face he’s making is anything to go by. Probably a high E or something. The blue spotlight they’ve got on him is not flattering.

It’s about time the weird costume trend took off for dudes, if you ask Darcy. If she has to see another candy-shaped bra, she’s gonna throw up in her mouth.

She’s turning back to her textbooks when something makes her look back up. Some nagging feeling in the back of her head, like there’s something she should be remembering. She’s seen a tacky horned helmet like that before. Somewhere.

The dude in the costume doesn’t really look like he’s singing anymore, either. The camera zooms shakily towards his face, and Darcy’s forced to admit that most pop stars don’t glower at their audiences quite so much. It’s a crappy, glitchy feed, and the moment the guy makes eye contact with the camera, it washes out in a haze of electric blue. But it’s still long enough for Darcy to get an eyeful of pale, pretty, and pointy.

She’s seen a face like that somewhere, too. Recently.

“Oh,” Darcy mutters into her latte, and finally settles on, “shit.”

…

“Hi, this is Dr. Jane Foster -”

“Jane?” Darcy tries not to yell into the phone. “Listen, I need to know how far you are into getting this bridge thing working -”

“I’m unable to come to the phone right now,” Jane’s voice continues, blithely, “but leave your name and number at the tone and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”

“Dammit, Jane, are you screening your calls? That’s a new level of paranoia, even for you,” Darcy says, over the beep. “Come on! It’s me! It’s Darcy! Pick up!”

Jane does not pick up. All Darcy gets is a dirty look from everyone within earshot. Including the librarian.

“Is there something I can help you find?” she asks, pointedly. Obviously she’s just trying to embarrass Darcy into shutting up and going away, because she looks a little startled when Darcy hangs up her phone and pockets it, stomping up to the desk like a woman on a mission. Which she is.

“Yeah, actually, there is,” Darcy says, leaning heavily against the counter and making aggressive eye contact with the librarian. “I need everything you’ve got on Norse mythology.”

The librarian looks startled for a moment, before her expression turns professional again. She turns to her computer, taps a few keys on her keyboard, glancing briefly up at Darcy. “Okay, so all our translations of the Eddas are checked out right now, but there are a few interpretive texts available, and some articles -”

“Don’t you have, like, a ‘Norse Mythology for Dummies’?” Darcy asks, and the librarian gives her a look that clearly says she, the librarian, knows Darcy is going to fail whatever class this is for.

“Try the education library,” she says.

…

The education library is full of children’s books. Darcy would be insulted, except that she finds the exact book Selvig had brought back to show her and Jane, wedged on a shelf between a fat picture book on Greek mythology and the gold spine of Egyptology. Darcy pauses a moment to let a flood of fond memories pass over her – hey, any book that was shiny gold and had a big plastic gem stuck in the front cover was the coolest ever when you were, like, twelve – before pulling out the book on Norse mythology and finding herself a table. Thankfully, the furniture is all scaled for adult-sized people.

Darcy slams the book open, flipping past the sections on Yggdrasil and the nine realms, pausing briefly on the pages about Thor, before she finally finds what she was looking for. The illustration’s…weasellier-looking than she remembers, the face way pointier, but that is definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the helmet she’d just seen on TV.

Darcy shakes her head, turning her attention to the text that goes with the image. The book’s laid out more like an encyclopedia than a storybook, which is good, because right now Darcy just needs as much information as possible in as little time as possible.

She’s just about finished reading the section when her phone rings. It’s Jane, sounding almost frantic. “Darcy! What’s going on, are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” Darcy says, and Jane lets out a sigh that’s one part relief, two parts frustration.

“Then what was the panicky phone message about?”

“Panicky? On what planet?”

“Darcy, you were already talking when the recording started, and you just kept yelling at me to pick up. I thought you were being abducted.”

Darcy thinks back to the phone call, and is forced to admit Jane has a point. “I’m okay,” she says. “Aside from the part where I might be sharing an apartment with a homicidal Norse god.”

Jane’s end of the line goes dead silent.

“Jane?” Darcy asks.

“No,” Jane says, and then, like she’s warming up, “No, the bridge still isn’t working, they couldn’t -”

“Jane,” Darcy repeats, interrupting before Jane can really get going. “Checked the news lately?”

She can almost hear Jane deflate through the phone.

“Why wouldn’t he have contacted me?” she says, in this terrible small voice that Darcy feels a wash of secondhand embarrassment just listening to. “If he could get through, why not -”

“Jane,” Darcy says, a third time. “Focus.”

Jane seems to remember she has an audience. She clears her throat, dropping the pitch of her voice. Darcy can picture her, easily, shutting her eyes and shaking her head as she pulls herself together. “What do you mean, sharing an apartment?”

“I mean, how much did you tell Lucy about generating Einstein-Rosen bridges?” Darcy says. “Also, how loud were we talking about Selvig’s big break?”

“Not – I mostly kept to the theory, you know I signed a few non-disclosures of my own – Darcy, what -”

“I’m just asking,” Darcy says, drumming her fingers against the little weaselly illustration. “Because from what I’ve been reading, people tend to just, like, tell Loki stuff if he asks while he’s shapeshifted into a woman.”

There’s another, longer pause.

“No,” Jane says, again.

Darcy nods, before remembering Jane can’t see her. “Kinda think so. I know I should’ve been worried when she turned up so conveniently after Melissa flaked, but I just thought she was gonna skin me and wear my face over her face or something like that.”

Jane pauses again before she speaks, but it doesn’t somehow sound so heavy. “Did I know how graphic your imagination was when I first hired you?”

“Only applicant, remember?” Darcy says. “Look, it all lines up. The family drama, the my brother spent some time here and he believes it did him a world of good, the accent, the way she keeps just disappearing at really weird times for hours or days at a time – I don’t know if I’ve ever actually seen her in a classroom or with a textbook – and she doesn’t know anything about music. Or get cold like a normal person, and there’s something here about…frost giants? Also, one of his nicknames is ‘Sky-Walker’, and apparently, in like Norwegian, that ‘oh’ in his name should be an ‘oo’ -”

“Darcy,” Jane says, firmly. “Breathe.”

“I am totally breathing,” Darcy protests. “Look, after you offered me the job, she bought us a bottle of sparkling wine and thanked me really cryptically and I basically haven’t seen her since. And in that time, Selvig’s dropped off the map, and a supervillain calling himself Loki who could be her fraternal twin pops up and starts chewing German scenery in a helmet that looks exactly like the one in this book.” Darcy sits back in her chair, bouncing off the back. “Also, I told her about this professor who was a total pain in my ass, and like two weeks later he was on leave for ‘undisclosed reasons’ and he still hasn’t come back.”

“This…could all be a coincidence,” Jane says, lamely.

“Oh yeah. Same way that weird homeless guy you kept hitting with your car showing up inside that storm was all a coincidence,” Darcy says. “Oh, my god. I’ve been watching ANTM highlights with a supervillain.”

“Okay, stay calm,” Jane says, in a voice that does absolutely nothing to make Darcy feel any more calm. “Does she know you know?”

“Are you kidding? I didn’t even put it together until, like, twenty minutes ago. God! I ate her chocolate-chip cookies!”

“Is she with you? Do you think you’re in any immediate danger?” Jane asks, being infuriatingly reasonable for somebody who was helpless with heartbreak not five minutes ago.

“No,” Darcy admits. “I don’t think so. Oh, shit!”

“What?” Jane gasps.

Darcy groans. “Left my taser at the apartment.”

…

Darcy stays late at the coffee shop, reluctant to go back to the apartment. Sure, she hasn’t seen Lucy in weeks and has no reason to think that’s going to suddenly change. And sure, nothing she’s read makes it sound like the god who might be her roommate can read minds. There’s no way, even if she did run into Lucy, that Lucy would be able to tell that Darcy knows.

Except for the part where she’s the literal god (goddess?) of lies and Darcy’s a mediocre actress at best. Yep. No way she’s gonna notice anything’s different. Or anything.

Fuck. Darcy is so, so screwed.

When the coffee shop closes and kicks her out, Darcy migrates to the library. When the library closes and kicks her out, Darcy complains very loudly that they aren’t staying open 24/7 for exam season. Her one-woman protest has absolutely no effect whatsoever.

Darcy stands on the sidewalk outside the library doors, shivering in the chilly night air, and wonders if one of her friends would let her crash at their place overnight. She considers it for a minute before realizing that just figuring out how to ask would probably end up making things even more complicated than they already are.

Finally, Darcy decides she’s cold enough, tired enough, and grumpy enough to take her chances heading back to the apartment. So what if Lucy’s there? So is her taser.

“Tased a Norse god once,” Darcy mutters, under her breath, as she slouches determinedly towards the bus depot, hoping they haven’t stopped running for the night as well. “Can do it again.”

By the time she gets back to the apartment, Darcy’s so wound up that she jumps involuntarily when she opens the door. But there’s nothing to freak out about. Lucy’s coat isn’t hanging on the hooks by the door, which is a sure sign that she’s still out. Darcy wonders, for half a second, where she is if the library’s closed, and then feels incredibly stupid.

“Supervillainy. Right,” she says, into the empty apartment, tossing her coat in the general direction of the hooks. She double-checks the lock on the apartment door, brushes her teeth and washes her face, and then very carefully locks herself in her bedroom. After a moment’s consideration, she wedges her deskchair under the handle, too.

It takes Darcy a very long time to fall asleep.

…

She’s woken at some ungodly hour by a crash that has her leaping up out of bed, half-convinced somebody’s trying to break down her door. It takes Darcy a moment to boot her brain up out of sleep mode and realise it was just the chair falling over.

…

It takes another panicked phone call from Jane before Darcy remembers she was supposed to check in when she got home last night. She only just manages to talk Jane down from calling in S.H.I.E.L.D., which might seem a little crazy at first blush, but makes a lot of sense if you think about it. Yeah, okay, so maybe Darcy’s been living with the Big Bad of the week, but she doesn’t actually know that for sure, and it’s not like she has any useful information about any nefarious plans, and said Big Bad hasn’t even been around lately, and – look, it just doesn’t seem like a good idea. Darcy’s keeping an eye on the news, and it looks like they’ve got it under control. They don’t need Jane and Darcy butting in. They’re handling it.

Plus, she really, really doesn’t want her iPod confiscated again.

Darcy’s been walking on eggshells all day, jumping at every little noise, before she finally decides she’s done. She’s over it. Either her roommate is a homicidal extraterrestrial, or she isn’t. Either she’s going to totally murder Darcy and wear her skin like a – okay, she’s overusing that one. Either she’s going to totally murder Darcy and use her skull as a drinking horn or whatever, or she isn’t. And either way, there’s not a whole lot Darcy can do about it. So worrying about it like this is pointless.

What would be less pointless would be finding out 1) whether Lucy really is secretly an evil alien god, and 2) if she is, what to do about it.

…

To: lucy

From: darcy

house rule #3: if ur a supervillian u have 2 tell me.

Read at 5:47 PM

…

It isn’t even a full day later that the Chitauri attack New York.

…

Darcy gets home from the library late, on purpose, though she doesn’t really expect to find Lucy there after the day’s top news stories. The apartment’s dark when she swings the door open, and gets darker when she slams the door behind her, blocking out the light from the hall.

Darcy slouches into the kitchen without turning on a light, throwing open the fridge instead. After staring blankly into its cold white glow for what feels like half an hour but is most likely less than five minutes, and still not having the secrets of the universe or of what she wants to eat revealed unto her, she shuts the door again and turns toward the hall and her bedroom.

“Darcy.”

Darcy is not too ashamed to admit that she screams like a little girl. She jumps backwards, fumbling for her taser, at the sound of a voice from the pitch-dark mouth of the hall.

The hall light blooms to life, revealing Lucy standing by the lightswitch. Under the circumstances, this is not actually a reassuring sight.

“Holy shit, you scared the pee out of me,” Darcy gasps, and Lucy’s eyes crinkle up at the corners in an apologetic smile. “Don’t lurk dramatically in the shadows like that, you’re gonna give somebody a heart attack.”

“I was waiting for you,” Lucy says, which is also not very reassuring, under the circumstances. Darcy’s questing fingers find her taser tucked into the pocket of her jacket, and close over it. “I wanted to talk.”

“You could’ve just texted me back,” Darcy points out.

“In person,” Lucy says.

“Great,” Darcy’s traitor mouth says. “Great, nothing about that sounds unnecessarily ominous, or anything.”

Lucy huffs a soft laugh, turning her face away from Darcy for a moment. Darcy can’t read her expression through the shadows the hall light casts over her eyes and the curtain of dark hair that falls in front of her face.

“I have the feeling,” she says, her eyes flicking in Darcy’s direction, bright even in shadow, “that you suspect I’m keeping something from you.”

“What?” Darcy laughs, nervously. “Why would you think that?”

“Possibly the fact that you’re right.” Lucy’s voice is wry, her mouth twisted in a smile, but all Darcy can see in her eyes is fear. “Darcy…I’ve lied to you.”

So this is happening. Darcy makes herself breathe at a normal human person rate. All things considered, she feels like she’s doing pretty good keeping her cool here. Like, sure, okay, she was totally chill around Thor, but she also never really got the vibe that he might stab her if she looked at him funny. And, as far as Darcy knows, he never actually has stabbed anybody for looking at him funny. So there’s that.

Lucy takes a deep breath, meeting Darcy’s eyes with an expression half steely resolve, half unspoken regret. “I’m not really a business student.”

“Yeah,” Darcy says, her heart hammering in her throat, fingers curling tighter around the reassuring shape of the taser in her pocket. “I know.”

Lucy’s head snaps up, eyes going wide. “You know? But – I was so careful -”

Darcy makes a face. “Were you, though?”

Lucy – Loki? - looks away again, with a soft huff that’s almost a laugh. “No. I suppose I wasn’t.” There’s that strange wistfulness in her voice again as she says, “I did everything – everything – to try to impress my father, became everything he wanted, and it was never enough. I suppose…deep down, I wanted someone to see through the lie. To know. And not to care. Who – and what – I truly am.”

She turns back to Darcy, her smile wide and white and, for once, purely and genuinely happy.

“I’m a thespian,” she says.

Darcy blinks at her.

“Sorry, run that one by me again,” she says, sticking her pinkie into her ear and giving it a good wiggle.

Lucy’s still grinning ear to ear. “I’ve changed my major. You were right, Darcy. ‘To thine own self be true’. I’ve spent my life living for other people, but I have to live with the choices I make. It’s time I did something for myself.”

“So you’re…going into theatre,” Darcy says, slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Have gone into theatre,” Lucy says. “I changed my major after that night, when we talked. I’m in theatre arts now. I’m going to be an actress.”

“I,” Darcy says, and realizes that, for the first time in a very long time, she, Darcy Lewis, is at a loss for words. “Uh.”

Lucy’s expression doesn’t really change, but her jaw sets in trembling defiance. “You think I’m foolish.”

“What? No, I was just expecting something a little more mythological.”

Lucy frowns at her, Darcy’s perceived rejection apparently forgotten in confusion. “Sorry?”

“Nothing. Forget I said that.” Darcy blinks a few more times, and then manages, “Congratulations, though. You’re the most dramatic person I know, it’s a perfect fit.”

“Well, that’s still a more positive response than my father had when he learned of my intentions to drop business school,” Lucy says, her eyes shining, but some genuine humour in the quirk of her mouth. “Thank you. I don’t know if I’d’ve found the courage without you. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Wow,” Darcy says, suddenly feeling extremely guilty about suspecting her of being an alien supervillain. “Uh, thanks.”

Lucy’s smile falters, and she looks down at her feet. “Now, though, I suppose I shall have to break the news to my family. With the semester over, at least they can’t threaten to cut me off again.”

“Well,” Darcy manages, mentally shoving her thoughts off the rail they’d been on and onto a parallel set of tracks. “You already seem happier. If your family really cares about you, they’ll see that and be happy for you too.”

“My theatre final is a one-act stageplay,” Lucy says. “It’s tomorrow night at the campus theatre. I’d like for you to come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Darcy says.

…

The play is…all right. As plays go. It’s all about adults having Serious Conversations, which is so not Darcy’s scene. Give her elaborate costumes and musical numbers any day.

Lucy’s good, though. Especially compared to some of the other actors on the stage. She has a real talent, able to go from weepy to icy on a dime.

Darcy tells her as much after the curtain closes, when she brings a bundle of grocery-store chrysanthemums up to the stage in congratulations. Lucy’s smile practically glows. She’s totally in her element, and Darcy kind of feels like anybody’d be stupid to try to keep her away from the stage.

She goes with Lucy to the airport, when Lucy leaves a few days later. It’s kind of bittersweet, and Darcy can’t totally deny getting a little misty as they swap contact details outside of the lineup for international security.

“You better mail me a London Bridge keychain,” Darcy says, and Lucy laughs.

“Done.” She looks over towards the line winding slowly through the security checkpoint, then glances at the time on her phone, before turning back to Darcy. “Darcy, I need to thank you again.” She musters up a watery smile. “I know I was something of a handful. But you took me as I came, tried to make me feel welcome in an unfamiliar place, drew me out of myself, treated me as a friend… I won’t forget that. I won’t forget you.”

“Hey, I’m not going to forget you either,” Darcy says, with 100% unpasteurized honesty. “You definitely made my last semester interesting.” She pauses to give it 0.2 seconds of thought, and then decides, yeah. “It was fun.”

Lucy’s smile grows wider, more confident. “ ‘Interesting’ is certainly the word. But…yes. It was fun.”

She casts one more glance over at the security lineup, before she says, “You know, you’ll probably laugh. But for a short while there, I was afraid that you might be involved in the attack on New York.”

Darcy manages not to choke on her own spit, but it’s a near miss. “Say what?”

Lucy shrugs. “You’d always make these cryptic comments about aliens and how terribly the government treated you and whatnot, and then hastily change the subject if I pressed you. And you and your Dr. Foster were both so secretive about her work, but I knew it was in regards to wormholes to other galaxies – and that your Dr. Foster apparently regularly broke the law and had little to no regard for human life, if the stories about the van were anything to go by. What was I meant to think when I didn’t see you for a week and then the news was suddenly full of reports of a wormhole opened in New York to let an alien invasion force through?”

Darcy considers this for a moment.

“Also,” Lucy adds, “you put coffee in your cocoa puffs, which is not the act of a sane and rational human being.”

“Okay, that was one time,” Darcy says.

Lucy does that extremely irritating eyebrow thing that means she doesn’t believe that for a minute.

Darcy decides to let it slide. “You actually thought I helped organize an alien invasion? I can’t even organize my iTunes library.”

Lucy shrugs. “Every good mad scientist needs an Igor.”

Darcy shoves her, hard, in the arm, and Lucy bursts into laughter.

They push back and forth for a bit before Lucy looks at her phone again, and grimaces. “I’ve only got an hour. I should go.”

“Right,” Darcy says. “Well, if I’m ever in London…”

Lucy nods. “If you’re ever in London.”

Darcy’s not sure who starts it. All she knows is that all of a sudden she and Lucy are hugging, her face kind of awkwardly mashed against Lucy’s chest. Good grief, she’s tall.

The hug only lasts a second or two, and then Lucy is off, dragging her rolling carry-on behind her, glancing back only once to wave goodbye.

Darcy flashes her the peace sign, and watches her as she goes through a few turns of the slow-moving security line.

Then she feels like it’s getting kind of weird, and wanders off to find a Starbucks.

…

some time later

“Darcy, you don’t – I can’t afford for you to have your own intern! I can barely afford you!”

“It’s okay,” Darcy says, for like the fourteen millionth time. “Ian’s working for experience. Besides, he’s a friend. Friend of a friend.”

Jane sighs, shaking her head.

“So long as I don’t have to pay him,” she says. “And so long as he’s not – I don’t know, secretly a spy or a supervillain in disguise trying to steal or sabotage my research.”

Darcy snorts.

“Please,” she says. “If one of my friends was secretly a supervillain, I would definitely know.”

#i can't keep looking at this fic here take it #mcu thor #mcu #this is mary's fic tag

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slippinmickeys · 5 years

Text

Release Valve (6/10): The In-Between

She knew he was miserable. Depression seemed to radiate off of him in waves, like strong cologne. One breath of it and you started feeling it, too. They were forever getting doors slammed into their faces when it came to their work – evidence gone or stolen, the ship ascending into the clouds before anyone could take a picture, witnesses no longer willing to talk, memory wipes and bad intent. The werewolf turned back into the man. But young girls, missing girls who seemed to slip from his grasp were the Achilles heel of Mulder’s psyche. He stood in their office with the Vermilion Parish file in front of him, holding a picture of Marcie Vincent. Scully knew he saw Samantha when he looked at it. He considered it a minute and then pinned the picture to a bulletin board near his desk, then closed the file and deposited it in their shiny new file cabinets. The drawer seemed to shut with terminality. She heard the elevator doors before Stone came in. His face was grim, the rhathymia of his bearing from a week ago gone. Isaacs came in a few minutes later, her countenance a mirror of his. This is not how Scully would have chosen to end their first case. Stone did perk up a bit when he got to his desk to find the box with his new computer waiting for him, and the room was soon filled with the cheery crinkling of bubble wrap and packing tape, everyone’s quiet misery from moments before lightening with the happy affirmation of consumerism. “What’s with the Monster Machine?” Isaacs asked when he finally had it on his desk, the sound of her voice jarring the room a bit – none of the four adults in it had said a word all morning. “This,” said Stone, inching out from under the desk where he’d been sorting and plumbing the rhumba of computer cords, “is the cyber security hub of the X-Files. The tech department if you will, and I, your humble technician.” “Great,” said Isaacs, “maybe you can fix my printer when you’re done.” “You get Solitaire on that thing?” Asked Mulder. “Laugh it up,” said Stone, not seeming to be bothered by the ribbing. “Boys and their toys,” Scully said, shaking her head. She stood to go. “I’ve got to get to Quantico.” She realized when she was halfway to Mulder’s chair that she’d been about to caress his head in a show of sympathetic solidarity as she normally would in their office of two, and instead gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Dinner tonight?” She asked him, trying to cover for it. Mulder looked a little surprised, but pleased. “Yeah, that would be great,” he said. “I’ll call you,” she said, as she made her way out the door, throwing a little wave toward Stone and Isaacs who both returned the gesture. This was going to take some getting used to.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“How are your classes going?” Mulder asked her. It had been three weeks since they’d been back from Louisiana, and Scully had been overly careful with him. They’d had dinner a couple of times, as they were now, but that was it. She’d been at Quantico every day and when they had seen each other, she’d shown no inclination for affection, and he didn’t want to push her.

“Good,” she said, without elaborating. She pushed the spring vegetables around on her plate. “Let me know if you want me to come in and do a guest lecture,” he said, “I’m putting together a spiel about the Loveland Frogmen.” “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find enough chairs,” she said, joking without much enthusiasm. “Would you prefer one on the Shunka Warakin?” He asked. “Do I want to know?” “Large predatory wolf-hybrid in Montana.” “Now you’re talking.” “You’re right. Who wants to go to Ohio, anyway?” Mulder reached across the table and gave her hand a brief squeeze. That seemed to snap her out of her reverie. “Anything new from Vermilion Parish?” She asked him. “More of the same,” he answered. “The scorched ATV they recovered from the fire site matches the general description of the one missing from the Vincent residence, but the final report came back – no serial numbers to be found. All physical evidence remains inconclusive.” They’d chased leads with nothing panning out, and the latest ones had trickled in. The case was drying up. “We’ll find her, Mulder.” She said, trying to get a look at his eyes. He let her. “I hope so.” “Do you ever wonder what would have happened,” she said then, as if she’d been waiting to say it all night, “if I’d gone to Salt Lake City?” Whatever lighthearted mood he’d tried to retain earlier in the evening left him then. “I try not to,” he said. Scully considered him for a moment. “I wonder sometimes if you’d have found someone else,” she said, “if I would have.” Mulder felt his heart slow, like it was thinking of going dead. “But I think,” she went on, “that I would have sat around pining for you. Miserable and trying to pretend that I was okay.” And just like that, a lightness filled him. For as honest as a woman as Dana Scully was, she was not exactly forthright when it came to matters of the heart. “There is no one else for me, Scully,” he said, then. “Don’t you understand? There is no me without you.” XxXxXxXxX They walked down the sidewalk toward his apartment, holding hands. She hadn’t meant for it happen, but he’d given her a hand getting up from their table after dinner and just hadn’t let go. A car rumbled by, the bass rattling the car’s windows, dispersing a draft of sound, sending a low vibration though both of them. It was busy in Old Town, fall coming on and people were out, happy to escape the oppressive confines of their air-conditioned world. A group of co-eds were coming at them, taking up most of the sidewalk, their heads together like a coven. Scully felt a momentary self-consciousness in their presence, a throwback to her adolescent id, and as if sensing it, Mulder pulled her into an alleyway. “Shortcut,” he whispered into her ear, though there was no one there to hear. They entered his apartment building through the front, without discussion. Mulder would ask her to come up and she would say yes – they both knew it and so bypassed the moment. The elevator ride should have been awkward, but wasn’t. Mulder and Scully knew how to be quiet together – stakeout quiet, desktop sharing quiet, companionable silence that came from days and years together. They were through Mulder’s door before she knew it and suddenly she was pressed up against it, the peephole above her head, his lips on her neck, his hands in her hair. She felt lush, then. Concupiscent and feminine; as powerful as a goddess. She scraped her nails along his scalp and gave as good as she got. He pulled her along, not moving his lips from hers and she sensed a slight change in the pressure of the air around them. She leaned back, their lips smacking as they parted and she glanced around the room they’d just entered. “Mulder,” she said, surprised. “You have a bed?” XxXxXxXxX He’d cleaned out his bedroom special, just for her. The inevitability of their coupling like a Viking ship on the horizon, he’d taken about thirteen trips to the dump and had considered buying an SUV. The bed had fresh sheets and the room still smelled like Pledge. He would probably associate the artificial lemony scent with sex for the rest of his life. “Uh-huh,” he said, nipping at her lips. He wasn’t going to let her distract him.

He grabbed her by the hand and led her to the bed. There should have been that first-time maladroitness – bumping heads, not sure what to do with hands – but there wasn’t. Scully didn’t need to know what Mulder liked – he just liked her. There was a moment right before flashpoint, before he lost himself completely in the cradle of her hips, her breath soft and hot against his cheek, when he flashed on the fact that he wasn’t wearing a condom, and he thought ‘what if?’ But then the moment was gone, and so was he, and Scully pulled him down with her, both lost. Some things you don’t need to think about. Some things you just need to feel. XxXxXxXxX He lay back on his pillow, his breath slowing. Scully had pulled the sheet up over her chest and had her eyes closed, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. “I think I should let you call me Fox now,” he said, trying to gauge her mood. Scully could be repressed, could turn inward if he let her. He didn’t want to let her. She crinkled her nose at that. “Mulder,” she said, pulling out the ‘r’ at the end of his name, affectionately. He stopped worrying. “You don’t think it’s a little weird?” He said, rolling over on his side to look at her. “Me calling you Scully in the sack?” She chuffed out a laugh and opened her eyes, rolling toward him as well. “Call me Dana,” she said. “Right now.” “Dana.” “How did it feel?” “A little weird, actually.” “Then there you go,” she said, her voice turning quieter. He felt her leg move toward him on the bed, her toes coming to rest on his shin. She breathed out a contented sigh and then was asleep. Mulder didn’t sleep for a long time. The moon moved through the sky, scattering shadows panning around the room, and he lay there watching her, wondering at what love was. XxXxXxXxX

Monday roared in like a Nor’easter, the X-Files picking up two cases concurrently – a first. Skinner needed Scully to consult on a case in North Carolina and had long ago accepted that Mulder came along as a package deal. Mulder sent Isaacs and Stone to California to investigate what he thought might be a series of psychic killings. While in North Carolina, Mulder and Scully came to an agreement that they would remain professional while out in the field – keep separate hotel rooms and use them – but that anything in DC was up for grabs, so to speak. They agreed to be discreet, but not secretive. After all, as Mulder had pointed out, since Scully was technically stationed at Quantico, it wasn’t fraternization, and as Scully rather colorfully pointed out one night post-coital, everyone already assumed they were fucking. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. Isaacs and Stone seemed to fall into an easy partnership, investigating cases on their own and concurrently with Mulder and Scully. Mulder, for the first time in his life, felt content. It was hard not to wait for the other shoe to drop. The shoe came, in early June, in the form of a grainy photograph of a girl that bore a striking resemblance to Marcie Vincent, leaving a convenience store in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. With reports of a UFO sighting nearby the week before, the entire X-Files unit headed to the North Woods. They were on their second connection of the day, Detroit to Marquette, the plane a small one. Isaacs wasn’t totally convinced they wouldn’t land on a dirt airstrip instead of a tarmac. Talk about East Bumfuck, she thought. Stone reached across the aisle and handed her a printout of the picture from the convenience store camera. “I cleaned it up,” he said, “and ran it through the Bureau's face recognition software. The markers are a match. I think this might be her.” Isaacs handed the photo to Mulder and Scully sitting in the row behind them. “Who’s she with?” Isaacs asked. There was a hand holding the door open for the girl, their foot walking out as well, but the face remained hidden. “Can’t tell. This is all we got.” “Who sent it?” “Came in anonymously.” Isaacs made a face. “I don’t like that.” “Me neither,” said Stone. Their time with the X-Files had made them appropriately paranoid. “The kids are growing up,” said Mulder to Scully, faking a misty eye. When they deplaned, Mulder had Isaacs and Stone get a rental car, while he and Scully took another – those two cars representing half the fleet at the local rental company – and split up. Isaacs and Stone were to interview the UFO witness, Mulder and Scully headed to the convenience store. The convenience store was located off of US-41 south of Marquette, on a desolate stretch of road lined with only trees and the occasional moose crossing sign. There were no other businesses nearby. It had two old fashioned gas pumps, restrooms around the back, and not much else. The bell above the door rang when they entered. The clerk behind the counter, an older man in a faded flannel shirt and a Cabela’s hat, looked as if the bell had just woken him up. “You guys lost?” He said, taking in their business apparel. “I got a couple of maps.” Mulder flashed him his badge and the man’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “We wanted to ask you about a person that was picked up on your security camera a few days ago,” Mulder said, pocketing his badge. “I got a security camera?” The man asked, confused. “Don’t you?” Asked Scully. “Not as far as I know,” he said, “I been running this place for the last fifteen years. It’s not exactly a hotbed of crime, you know. Mostly I just sell gas and beer to hunters and fishermen. They’re in and out.” Mulder pulled the picture of Marcie Vincent out and slid it across the countertop. “Is this a picture of your store?” The man considered it. “Yeah, looks like mine.” All three of them went out the front and looked to where the camera should be. Sure enough, there was a small camera mounted on a utility pole. “Huh,” the clerk said, “the utility company was working out here last week. Must be theirs.” “Do you recognize the girl in the photo, sir?” Scully asked. The man considered the picture again. “Yeah, I do,” he said, “she in some kind of trouble?” “At this point we’re just trying to verify her identity,” Mulder said. “Don’t know her name,” he went on, “she was with a guy. She was quiet, didn’t say much. Kinda weird, actually.” “Weird how?” Mulder asked. “She never blinked,” the man said. “Damndest thing.”

Mulder and Scully exchanged a look. “And the man she was with?” Scully asked. “Older guy,” he said, “paid in cash.” “What did they buy?” “Gas,” he said. “Oh, and a pack of Morleys.”

#the x-files #fanfic #fanfiction #msr #Release Valve #Chapter Six #my fic

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angel-deux-writes · 5 years

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I’ve talked a lot about this long fic I’m working on this month, and I finally got started yesterday and have already churned out a pretty decent amount! I’m like 6 chapters deep, and I wanted to share the first one, both because I kind of like it and because I want to post something this weekend.

I have no idea what this is going to end up being called. Currently in my draft it’s The Return of the Wolf, but that’s going to change. It’ll be Jaime/Brienne, Robb/Dany, and Jon/Sansa when it’s done! With probably a bit of Arya/Gendry as well!

Hopefully putting it under the cut here...

Jaime I

She is still in here somewhere.

Jaime refuses to run, knowing that it would draw the more obsequious of his men to him like large metal moths, looking for a chance to win the favor of their one-handed commander. He keeps his expression level, and he walks as quickly as he dares past his men and through the underbelly of Riverrun. There are shouts from deeper in the tunnel, and he follows them. The clash of swords. His stomach tightens. So much for a peaceful surrender. He runs anyway.

She is still in here somewhere, and he must make sure that she gets safely away. She cannot linger here once the Lannister forces have taken the castle, and he knows that she will linger if Tully gives some fool, impassioned speech about honor and duty, because the stubborn woman is too honorable by half, and she will be moved by the old man’s courage, and she will be killed by the old man’s courage.

He cannot allow it.

He scarcely knows why. He warned her. He all but begged her, but of course she didn’t listen. She never has. Even when they grew something of a respect for each other, she was always so sure she knew better than him. Well, this is what happens. She gets herself caught in a siege she should be far away from, and here he is, trying to clean up the mess.

The mess. The Lannisters are the mess. The Lannisters and the Freys, stealing the ancestral home of the Tullys from Brynden Blackfish, who has long been a hero of Jaime’s. How did it come to this? How did he let it come to this? He thought he could be better, once. Why did he stop trying?

He increases his pace as he ducks his head past a wooden beam and finds himself in a rocky tunnel. There is a dead man at his feet. Lannister armor. Another up ahead. Jaime trips past them, his golden hand loud and cumbersome along the rock wall as he places it there for balance, stumbling as the shadows mess with his perception. Ah. Another dead man, just ahead. He wonders which of them killed him. Not that it matters. He’s seen Brienne take down three men before. She hardly broke a sweat.

He rounds a corner, and at last he sees her. She looks bigger than ever. Her frame takes up most of the tunnel the same way it took up most of his pavilion and left it feeling empty when she was gone. She’s speaking urgently to the Blackfish. Tugging on his arm. The fool woman is trying to get him to abandon the castle. Jaime sighs, and Brienne and the Blackfish both look in his direction. Mostly impassive, both of them, but he can see that one is surprised. Heartbroken to see his left hand near his sword.

He hadn’t actually intended to draw it, but Brienne steps before the Blackfish and pulls her own. Oathkeeper, he thinks. Yes, and she means to keep my oaths for me, if I’m too much a Lannister to keep them myself. Even if it means running a sword through my gut.

“What are you doing?” he asks her.

“Ser Jaime, please,” she says, and she sets her stance wider.

“I will not surrender,” the Blackfish says, behind her.

“I was speaking to the lady,” Jaime replies, trying for sarcastic, trying to pretend that the daggers the Blackfish glares in his direction aren’t piercing. There is sweat on his brow; it trickles down his temple. He dares not wipe it away. “Lady Brienne, I cannot allow you to take him.”

“And I cannot allow you to stop me,” Brienne replies. “I told you it might come to this.”

Jaime continues to move closer. He still doesn’t draw his sword. Could he draw against Brienne? He hardly knows. Perhaps, if it came to it. He’d like to at least die with sword in hand, if only to spare the poor girl the trauma of striking down an unarmed man she once may have thought of fondly, despite all his many faults.

“And I told you that I hoped it wouldn’t,” he says softly. Brienne’s sword does not waver, but her expression does. He meets her eyes.

“It doesn’t have to,” she says.

“My lady,” the Blackfish warns her gently, still close behind her. “We must go.”

“Uncle.”

Jaime’s eyes leave Brienne’s for long enough to see the figure that appears in the tunnel behind her. It’s impossible, yet Jaime would know the boy anywhere. He spent a year chained in his camp, visited periodically by the King in the North, with his great grey beast beside him. Jaime did his best to comfort Brienne when they received word on the road that the idiot boy had died with his mother and wife at that cursed wedding, but he hadn’t exactly mourned the loss himself. He heard tales from the Freys. Bragging, endless tales about cutting the boy’s head from his body and sewing his wolf’s on in its stead. Something that made Tywin laugh and made Cersei smile and made Tyrion wince and made Jaime try to think of nicer things so he didn’t have to imagine it.

“No,” he says, forgetting to be calm or wry or amused or whatever it was he was trying to go for here. “Brienne…”

He can hear the songs now. The Return of the Wolf. The Young Wolf Rises. Triumphant stories of the boy who never lost a battle but who lost the war for love, born again to take revenge. Sentiment has already turned against the Lannisters. Cersei may not want to hear it, but their son holds to his throne only through what remains of the realm’s fear of their father. When the smallfolk hear that Robb Stark has risen again…

“Get in the boat,” Brienne says over her shoulder. “I’ll keep him.”

“We cannot wait forever,” Robb warns her. Jaime can’t stop looking at him, hoping to see an illusion. A trick. This is some Tully cousin they hope to use as a decoy. Some trick to win favor in the war the Starks are fighting against the Boltons.

No. Stark turns his poisonous glare in Jaime’s direction, and it’s him. He is so much his mother and father at once. Jaime has felt the force of that glare many times in his life, but it is perhaps more potent now, with Brienne standing between them.

“It won’t take long,” Brienne says, and both men vanish into the darkness behind her. Jaime had begun to advance again, but he stops when she speaks the words. He wants to feel betrayed. He wants to say Brienne in a hurt, small voice, like a much younger man. A child asking for answers the Septon can’t give. Why?

“I must warn you I’ve been practicing,” he says instead. Brienne’s eyes close for an instant, but then they open again, made glimmering and orange by the torchlight. It used to strike him as funny that she could be so much a maiden in the body she had been given. A soft heart beneath muscles and a massive height. Some cruelty of the gods made her fall in love with poor, dead Renly, and they made her too much man for most but not man enough to secure the heart of the one she wanted. He doesn’t think it’s funny anymore.

“As have I,” she says. Her maiden’s heart is breaking. Jaime steps closer. His left hand still holds the sword, but he doesn’t draw it. She meets his eyes, and her chin raises as she looks at him.

“You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” he asks. He can hear the Blackfish barking orders at someone down at the water’s edge, and he suddenly wants her on it. Away from him. Away from his family. Take the bloody Stark boy and go, he wants to shout, but he doesn’t. His voice is very quiet. He doesn’t know he can shout, now. He is oddly breathless, oddly removed. “For the Starks, you would strike me down. Kill me as you killed Renly.”

“I didn’t kill Renly,” Brienne says. She tilts her head slightly. “Stannis did that. And I killed Stannis.”

A boast from anyone else. From her, it’s a warning. A reminder that he struggled to fight her even when he had two hands—the irons and the year of captivity were bad, but they weren’t a maimed sword hand. If he tried to fight her now, she’d cut through him like wet sand. The best he could hope for would be delaying the inevitable until his men could come to his aid, but then he would have to take her in, and Cersei would…

No. He shoves Widows Wail back into place, and he takes a demonstrative step back.

“You would have done it,” he says. Brienne slides Oathkeeper back into place with a look that’s warning. Almost afraid.

“Yes,” she says.

“Good,” he replies. “Now go. Before my men realize you’ve taken the most valuable political prisoner we had and one we didn’t even know existed.”

There is still a glimmer in Brienne’s eyes as she nods and turns to go, but he also catches the slight edge of a smile. The slight upturn of her lips. She thinks he has done a good and honorable thing, of course. She always thinks the best of him. He wishes she wouldn’t. It would be so much safer for her if she realized how wretched he has become.

He follows her at a distance. Brienne settles into the boat. Her squire is there, he sees. At least she listened to him about that. The Blackfish and Robb Stark are there too. If Cersei knew what Jaime let slip away…

He raises his golden hand when Brienne turns back to look, when they have already begun to melt away into the fog. Brienne hesitates, but then she raises her hand as well. He stands and watches until they’re gone.

Next time, he won’t be so lucky. Cersei is always calling him a fool, and perhaps she’s right. He was a fool to think he could simply meet Brienne of Tarth as friends. The honorable woman and her absurd fondness for the oathbreaker. As long as he continues to stand against the family she swore herself to, she will continue to stand against him.

It would have destroyed her to kill him. But she would have done it, and he would have deserved it. Perhaps she wouldn’t have felt honorable to do it, but she would have been. The Kingslayer slayed at last by a woman as virtuous as she is ugly. The songs would last for a thousand years, and the singers would never know how either of them truly felt for each other.

He returns to his men. He says nothing of Brienne, nor of the Blackfish. He accepts the news of Tully’s escape with an incline of his head and some wry comment about Tully being a sly old man.

In the morning, they will begin the return trip towards Kings Landing. Towards Cersei. And he will pretend that he is as eager to get back to her as he was only hours ago.

#my fics #let's call this #angel does nanowrimo #jaime x brienne

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mjihkaaaa · 4 years

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Transcript: “Randy Writes a Novel” by Randy Feltface

I have transcribed this hour-or-so-long comedy piece. if I put the transcript on tumblr, it might pop up in the search results of some poor sod wondering whether it’s a thing that exists. fAiR uSe DiScLaiMEr or something, I’m making no money off of this and am posting it out of the goodwill of my heart, and also I sat down for two hours to make the transcript so it’s probably work. /original date of transcription, not that it makes a difference: 2019-07-16 /link: you can find the actual piece yourself or buy the dvd like a good consumer

||[Beard guy] Hey Randy? Yeah mate? ||[Beard guy] Ready to do this? (exhale) Yup! ||[Announcer] Please, without further ado... Welcome to the stage... The purple one... Randy! (Applause) YEEES! HELLO! THANK YOU! LOOK AT YOU ALL, MMMH! This is so EXCITING! This is my favourite bit of the show, this bit; The expectation - You don't know what to expect, I don't know what to expect. I've got high hopes for you people. I think you're gonna be fantastic. Some of you may have never seen me before, there's probably a couple of you wondering what the fuck is going on right now - couple of people up the back probably regretting smoking that spliff before they came in... "... ... ... the fuck is that?" it's alright, just relax. Throughout the show I'm probably gonna walk from about here, over to here. Any further than that, it's gonna ruin the magic, alright? And, um, this is pretty much what it's gonna look like for the next fifty-fix-and-a-half minutes, so just adjust your eyeballs to this shit accordingly. Looks pretty good, we did my tech rehearsal today, and we set this lighting stand and was like that looks good, that's good, and Stu, my lighting guy back there, said "iS tHaT iT?" and I was like ehh... eh... no, Stu, we can turn on the lamp as well, like this ... (lamp turns on). Yes. So we did that just to justify Stu's certificate for... in fucking... theatre production. GIVE IT UP FOR STU! UP THE BACK! (Applause) Who's having an alcoholic beverage this evening? (wooing) Ah-WOOO! I don't drink anymore, I used to SLAM that SHIT into my FACE like a WEAPON but I quit ... and nothing really changed, you know, I didn't notice too many differences between being sober and being a drinker ... UNTIL ... the first time I got pulled over by a cop, and had to do a random breath test sober. Because my physcial and emi-seeonal reaction was exactly the same as it had always been when I was a drinker. Which was ... - "OOOOH fuck I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked" - "wind down your window please sir" - "IIIII'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked" - "one long breath into the bag sir" - "NAAAAAAAAAA I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm- (blow) I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked" - "... you're free to go mate" - !!! ... oh yeah, I am, and the sense euphoria I felt was the closest feeling I've had to being drunk since I quit drinking. To the point where I now drive around on friday and saturday nights, LOOKING for cops. And if I get pulled over, I pretend I'm drunk just to get an extra rush... AHHH! Seriously, if you ever get pulled over, and you're sober, pretend you're wasted. Oh, the BUZZ! It's like shelving nine pills at once, it's fucking sick. Seriously, the next time the cop's walking towards the car, just be like - - "ohh, shush everyone he's COMING! act normal he's comin- put it down! put it down, he's coming! shush he's comi-!! he's here!" - "... ... ... Wind down your window please, sir." - "yeah, I'ma do that, I'ma do that, I'M DOING IT! ... Ah, it's electric. The button's in the middle 'cuz it's electric." - "... ... ... Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?" - "NOOO ossifer [officer] not on a tuesday" - "It's a friday-" - "NO friday either mate!" - "One long breath into the bag please, sir." - "yes I will, you fucking champion ... y'know, people say youse are cunts but I don't reckon youse are, PBRRTT (blow) - WOOO! hahaaa..." (Cop checks bag, shocked.) - "Uh... You're free to go." - "FUCK YEAH! BRRRRRRRRR MEEPMEEP" (Applause) I took it so far once, I got down to the station for a blood test - ahhahaAA, gets addictive when you get to that stage... I've got track marks, it's out of control! and laDIES AND GENTLEMEN - you're very close, aren't you. Hello! (Shriek) Um... The reason we're here is because, didididii, didididi-didii, I wrote a book! Yes! Woo! Yeah, you can clap, but I'm concerned that it might be a bit shit. I don't know. It's weird - this is it here - I'm not sure if it's any good 'cuz I think I'm too close to it, y'know, I can't tell anymore. I'm concerned that it might be, like, an ugly baby that I'm looking at through the eyes of a loving mother? And it's not until I take it out for a walk in its little pram and people start screaming in horror and crossing the street to avoid me that I'll realize I've made a piece of shit baby? There's nothing worse than a piece of shit baby, is there... - "Ah, who's this little guy- WAUGH YOUR BABY'S A PIECE OF SHIT!" - "God... damn it..." But do I need to be told it's good to know that it's good? You know, that's how it goes with comedy; If I come up here and tell a shit joke, you tell me it's shit by not laughing, and I stop telling that joke. But with a BOOK I won't know it's shit until it's out there. Forever. Until I DON'T sell a million copies. Just wake up one morning, surrounded by towering boxes of unsold books, featuring on an episode of mentally deranged hoarders... We need to lay off hoarders, by the way. I think there's one too many television programmes "exposing the horrors" of people that like collecting shit. It's their house, let them do it! - "No we have to fix them!" No you don't, people are fucked up! If they wanna climb over a stack of cat shit stained national geographic magazines from the nineteen seventies to get to the kettle, fucking let 'em. THEY LIKE IT. - "Yeah but it's a mental illness-" Yeah, well, may be, but I would argue it's MORE insane to film them doing it, and then package it like a tacky microwave meal for one, so assholes can sit at home going "LOOK HOW SHIT THAT PERSON IS! They've got too many of the same thing..." ... Who's more insane in that sce-nario, I ponder... ANYWAY my book... My book is called "Walking to Skye", it's about a young man who walks from the southernmost borders of Scotland up to the Isle of Skye in the far north, retracing the footsteps of his great-great-grandfather and having a massive existential crisis along the way. It's a reeeeeeeeeeal HUMDINGER, and now that I've written it I'm terrified to let anybody read it, so what I've decided to dewwww, is; I'm gonna read bits of the book out, you're going to react, and then at the end we'll all collectively decide whether or not I should kill myself. Okay? Okay. Here we go. Hm-hm-hm. Ready? Everybody comfortable? No-one needs to go to the toilet, or get a drink, or anything? No? If you do, seriously, just go for it, because fucking... (waves hand in front of eyes). I'm not.. going.. to notice... Ahem, okay, ahem... Here we go. Alright. Here we go, here we go, okay. Khm. Blblbl. Okay. Phew. Alright. Here we go. Walking to Skye, chapter one. ... Phew. Okay. Khm. Blbl. Okay. Khm. Phew... (Sigh)... (Shivering) Read it... Just fucking read it... Come on man... Just... Son of a bitch... Pth... EHGgghhh... I'm too scared. (Audience goes "aww") No, fuck off. It's weird being scared for this, y'know, it's strange to be scared of something so intangible as JUDGEMENT. You know, I care what you people think, but taste is so subjective. Y'know, one man's "To Kill a Mockingbird" is another man's "Twilight" saga. Hello there, what's your name? (Matthew:) "Matthew." Matthew! N- where- right about there, mattie (adjusting line of sight)? Tell me, Matthew, what do you fear, what's your greatest fear, what are you scared of mate, we're all friends here, open up, unpack some shit, what are you-.. What's your biggest fear, Mattie? (Matthew:) "It must be rejection." Rejection? Same as me. <close> what do you know about my fear of rejection? </close> How old are you, man? (Matthew:) "Twenty-six" Twenty-six! The twenties are the time for rejection, my friend, it is the best time for rejection. Have you been rejected a few times? (Matthew:) "Quite a lot." Fucking rack it up, Mattie, rack it up mate, you just get- you wear those scars like a fucking warrior, mate! And then you get to thirty-six, my age, and you could not give a fuck, my friend. I'm telling you mate, rack up the rejection while you can, and then just.. fucking.. grab whatever's left. That's what you've got to look forward to. Let's hear it for Matthew! Yes! (Applause!) Rejection, eh? I think, actually, Mattie, Mattaroonie, Matterectomy, I think for me, Mattanoonles, I'm actually more scared of ... failure, in this case. I fear that I might've written a shit book, and as a result I'll fail, y'know. But I believe, Mattress, I believe it was Ernest Hemingway who put it best when he said "The first draft of everything is shit". And I often thought of that while I was writing my book, it's a great thing for young readers and young writers, sorry, to keep in mind, because it kind of lets you off the hook, y'know. And it makes you feel not so bad when you churn out something akin to Fifty Shades of Grey fanfiction. - "Every nerve ending in my body tingled as he boldly placed his swollen member directly onto my left shoulder ... and whispered into my ear ... 'tickets please' ... suffice to say, that won't be the last time I catch the bus to Broad Meadows." Khm. True story, true story. Okay, I'm gonna read the book - Broad Meadows, good suburb, Broad Meadows, good name! (Audience member goes WOOO!) Hahahaha, WEEEEEW! Has Broad Meadows ever had that reaction anywhere ever? How good is Broad Meadows- WOOOOOO! WOO! Wooing is one of few things you can do in a crowd. You can't woo when you're on your own, can you... You can't just be walking down the street like WOO! - "What's wrong with that person?" But if there's a group of you going "woo!" it's like, - "Naw, they're having a nice time, aren't they..." Wooing in- when you're in an audience is one of the few times you can get away with wooing. You can't, fucking- don't woo at the butcher's, y'know? - "I'll just have a ... 2 pounds of some sausages and uh, some pound of mince, and let me- six pound fifty WOOOOO!" - "I no longer wish for you to purchase my meat products." What was I talking about? Ah, Broadie? Yeah, Broad Meadows, it's a good name, Broad Meadow, like it makes sense, there was an expanse of just fucking... no stuff, there was some broad meadows, and they went "let's fucking build it here" and it was an honest name. All these new subdivisions now, they're all fucking, just... - "What are we gonna call this deserted swamp?" - "Um... Spring Valley Mountview Niceface." Fuck that! Name them honestly, y'know? - "Where are you living now?" - "Shitty water feature." - "Ah!" - "Where are you?" - "Stabbyville." - "Ah! ... How's that?" - "Yeah, it's good, it's close to schools, which is great, but um... We do get stabbed a lot though, it's a... You know, we knew the risks..." - "'Cuz it was in the name?" - "'Cuz it was in the name! yeEEeeAh." I like an honestly named place. I was Broken Hill recently, that's an honestly named place. - "We had a hill, we fucking broke it. Welcome to Broken Hill." Actually, Broken Hill have gone one further, they've named all the streets in the centre of town after elements. 'Cuz it's a mining town, they went thematic with that shit. So you're walking down Chloride, and you hit the corner of Bromide, or Oxide, I love that! That makes sense to me! I live in Collingwood - it'd be much easier to direct people to my house if I could send them to the corner of Soy Latte and Hipster Fuckwit. That'd take out all the guesswork ... When you're heading to Frankston, don't forget to check out the beautiful parklands on the corner of Bucket Bong and Pregnant Teenager. They are just enchanting. Alright. Gonna read the book. Blblblbl. You cool Matt? Sick. I'm gonna keep talking to you so you feel included. Therefore, not rejected. Khm, okay. Alrighty. Okay. Here we go. Alright. Shut up, I'm gonna read it. Okay. Phew. Walking to Skye, chapter one . . . Fascinating man, Ernest Hemingway. I didn't know a lot about him, but I kept thinking of that quote, "the first draft of everything is shit", while I was writing my book, and I started to think, "who are you to tell me my first draft is shit, Hemingway? What did you ever do that was sO fUckIng gOOd?" So I realized I didn't know anything about him, so I decided to do some research on him, and it proved to be an excellent means of putting off writing my book. And now I can tell you everything I know about him as an excellent means of putting off reading you my book, so... Swings and roundabouts, my friends, swoongs and rimbledibbledoodledoodoos, as they say in Scotland ... They don't say that. No-one has ever said that. Anyway, what I suggest we do, okay, is I'm just gonna tell you a little bit about Ernest Hemingway, bit about Hemmers, and then we'll just let the segway into reading the book develop organically. Like a runaway fungus at the bottom of a misplaced coffee cup. - "Aw, guys, how long has this been behind the couch? ... There's little people in it!" - "Save us! Save us from our porcelain prison!" - "wwWAAH!" (tosses cup) KSSSH - "We're free!" - (Running noise, tktktktktktk) - (Randy steps on the little people with an audible crunch) It's just for me, that bit, it's just for me!.. Okay. Okay, here we go, ladies and gentlemen, for the very first time I would wager in all of your living memories, I now am proud to present to you, the life and times of Ernest Miller Hemingway in approximately three and a half minutes. Go! (Background shifts) Born in Chicago in eighteen ninety-nine, son of a physician and a musician, reasonably uneventful childhood, decided to study journalism. Enlisted with the Red Cross during World War One, got blown up in Milan and spent six months in hospital with severe shrapnel wounds in both legs, fell in love with a nurse, they decided to get married. He came home to prepare, she stayed there and ditched him for an Italian soldier, which initiated a life-long pattern of him rejecting women before they had a chance to reject him. Take note, Mattie. Got a job as a foreign correspondent, fell in love with his roommate's sister, married her and moved to Paris. They hung out with Gertrude Stein, they kicked it with Pablo Picasso, he started writing in earnest, moved to Toronto, had a kid, moved back to Paris, published a couple of books, cheated on his wife, got divorced, married the other woman, converted to catholicism ... ... ... Cut his head open after pulling on a cord thinking he was flushing a toilet, and instead ripped a skylight from the roof and smashed it onto his face, moved to Kansas City, had another kid, his dad committed suicide, he shot a lot of bears for some reason, had a car accident, had another kid, went to Africa to kill some wild animals and got dysentery - Karma! -, published another book, moved to Cuba, shot himself in the leg whilst aiming at a shark! Cheated on his wife, got divorced, married the other woman, published "For Who the Bell Tolls", sold half a million copies in a couple of months and got nominated for a Pulitzer prize, cheated on his wife, got divorced, married the other woman, became the self-appointed leader of a band of village militia outside of Paris, and was subsequently brought up on charges for contravening the Geneva convention and got away with it like a FUCKING CHAMPION! Got pneumonia, moved back to Cuba, and spent most of his spare time on his boat, tracking nazi u-boats with a machine gun and a pile of hand grenades - I AM NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP! Had a few more car accidents, three more concussions, got clawed while playing with a lion! ... Got depressed, drank, got fat, published a couple of more books, went back to Africa to shoot some more wild animals and barely survived two separate plane crashed in the space of twenty-four hours, winding up with a fractured skull, internal bleeding, cracked spine, ruptured liver, first degree burns, and a paralyzed sphincter muscle - Karma! -, won a Nobel prize, had a file opened on him by J. Edgar Hoover, left a bunch of shit in a safe in Cuba and moved to Idaho paranoid that the feds were following him, which they were, because he spent most of the nineteen fourties working for the KGB! AGAIN, NOT-MAKING-THIS-SHIT-UP! Suffered from hepatitis, nephritis, hypertension, hemochromatosis, anemia, and impotence - Karma! -, got committed, received way too much electroconvulsive therapy and came out all fucked up, started hinting at suicide so immediately got re-committed, received another couple of months worth of electroconvulsive therapy, got released, put both barrels of his favourite twelve gauge shotgun into his mouth, and BLEW HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF. WHAT A GUY!!! (Applause) Ah... That is all true! What a fucking unit! Hemingway is the quintessential anti-hero, the talented, charismatic, belligerent, suicidal, alcoholic genius that can't keep his dick in his trousers. And he still found time to write about fifteen books! I've written one, and it took me ages, because I procrastinate like a motherfucker! I only got this written by doing most of the work in my local public library, because it's very difficult to masturbate in the reference section without getting caught. It's... It's almost impossible, in fact ... Almost. I don't even enjoy masturbating anymore, I just do it to avoid other tasks. And if it's something I really don't wanna do, I can seriously just go back-to-back wanks, just AARGH, just 'till it's painful, like NAAAAAAAAH, like hurty cum, like MWOOOAAARGH, WOOOMMMHHH MHHHH MMHHMHMMM RMMMMMHHHHOOkay fine I'll do the fucking dishes. And you know the weird thing about books is that you only really need to write one to be considered to be a great writer. Until last year, "To Kill a Mockingbird" was the only book that Harper Lee ever published. One book in eighty-nine years. To be fair that one book did win the Pulitzer prize and sold over fourty million copies, so she didn't really need to do another one, did she... - "Hey Harper, you gonna write another book?" - "Nope! Did you read the first one? FUCKING NAILED IT! FUCKING NAILED IT! I'm just doing the one. Just doing the one." Imagine if I did that. Came up here, told one joke, and then stared at you for fifty-eight minutes. - "You gonna tell another joke?" - "Nope! Did you hear the first one? FUCKING NAILED IT! I'm just doing the one." There's not many jobs where you can just do the one, is there... Just... Writers, and... Suicide bombers. Hard to do two of those... Or maybe UFC fighters that get punched in the head so hard in their first bout that cerebral fluid trickles out of their eye sockets. - "Ohhh, that's fucked Randy..." It happens. It's pretty much the perfect example of why we're sort of festering in this evolutionary cul-de-sac, isn't it? - "Welcome to planet earth, there's approximately seven billion of us, as you can see there's quite a few of us that don't have any clean drinking water, OH! Here's a large group of us that get paid millions of dollars to knee each other in the face! Obviously still... Ironing out a few of the kinks." Martial arts, mixed or otherwise, should not be the domain of fat-necked roughians trying to stomp on each other's ballsacks. Just as yoga should not be taught by twenty-two year old gym instructors that did a one week yoga retreat in Bali and now get around in low-slung fisherman pants with a bindy and a plat talking about mindfulness like they've ever had any fucking life experience at all. I'm sorry, you can tell me to relax and center myself when you spend maybe ten or fifteen years considering what that actually means. Until then, go back to taking photos of the froth on your coffee and shut the fuck up. And I'm torn! I'm torn because I do yoga! I buy oragnic vegetables. I blindly sign internet petitions without reading the fine print, give myself a good old pat on the back and go back to downloading hardcore pornography... I'm trying to be a good buddhist, I'm trying... But it's even difficult to identify as buddhist in the current climate without coming off as some sort of new-age pompous twat dipping his toe into the "What does it all mean?" kiddie pool while holding a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and staring lecherously across the back yard at your cousin's tits. - "Geez, Tamara's grown up since last Christmas, hasn't she..." And I mean, Buddha was just a dude who found enlightenment sometime around the fifth century, and he decided to stick around and talk about it, y'know. But he made it clear that everything's optional, I guess, y'know, "here's the thing I've discovered, I think it's pretty nifty, but you can find your own way through it". He was kind of like a benevolent woodwork teacher, just overseeing the workshop, but allowing his students to discover for themselves which machine is most likely to cut their fucking head off. - BRRRRRRRRRRR-WAUGH! - "It was that one, Gareth, well done. A plus, matey, A plus for you." And there's been loads of other buddhas since, right, but they haven't necessarily felt the calling to stick around and talk about it. I guess they just become enlightened and fuck off. I think that's fantastic. But ... Are you only enlightened if you're able to share it with people? Y'know? If I write a book and nobody reads it, is it still art? What is the collective noun for monkeys? ... ... ... Seriously, does anybody know what it is? I was trying to think of it all day. Anybody? (Inaudible audience response) What? (Audience member:) "Gang" Gang? Gang of monkeys? Coming through on my gang of monkeys, we're a little gang of monkeys, ooh-A-A-A! It's not gang! Anybody else? If you come up with something stupid, I'll sing a dumb song about it ..? What else? (Inaudible audience response) What is it? (Inaudible audience response) ... Oh you people are fucked. Does anybody know what it is? It's not barrel, by the way. It's troop. What, what did you say, uhh... Gang. Who-what, what's your name, who said gang? Where are you? (Victoria:) "Victoria." Victoria? How are you, Victoria? (Victoria:) "Great." Thanks for coming to my show. Hey, Victoria, riddle me this m'sister, have you read "Go Set a Watchman"? Harper Lee's new book? (Victoria:) "Naw." Naw. Has anybody read it? (Audience member:) "Half." Half. That is the best book review ever. - "I read half." Has anybody read "To Kill a Mockingbird"? (audience responds yes) yEES we reAD IT at scHOOL, fuck off. For those of you who haven't- for those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, "Go Set a Watchman" was the Harper Lee book that came out last year, right, and if you don't know the backstory, alright, I'll just fill you in. Victoria, listen up. Um... Basically, Harper Lee, right? So, Harper Lee, she had a stroke in two thousand and seven, and until she died earlier this year, she was in like, assisted care, she was in a wheelchair, she was deaf and she was blind, and her sister Alice had been taking care of all of her affairs, until Alice died in twenty fourteen at the age of one hundred and three, like a fucking boss... Anyway before Alice died she was pretty much the last line of defence between Harper and this 'lawyer' that had just sort of been loitering in the wings, right. And when Alice died, this 'lawyer' just happened to discover the manuscript for "Go Set a Watchman" in the locked safety deposit box in an obscure vault in a random bank, where it had been busy minding its own business for the last fifty-six and a half years, and according to the 'lawyer', Harper was delighted that the manuscript had been discovered, and suddenly reversed her life-long vow to never ever ever publish another book ever ever again, particularly not "Go Set a Watchman" which she actually wrote before "To Kill a Mockingbird" and didn't think was very good. Other people think that maybe the 'lawyer' was attempting to get filthy rich by brutally fist-fucking an eighty-nine year old stroke victim, but the question is; ... ... ... The question is, if "To Kill a Mockingbird" had've stayed in that vault, alongside this newly discovered manuscript, would it still technically be a work of literary genius? Or is it only when something's been evaluated by the world and possibly someone's made some cash off it that it's considered to be valid artistic expression? Is art only art once it's been witnessed? Acknowledged? If I don't take a bow at the end of this show, does it devalue the performance? Will you feel unsatisfied? Or rejected? ... I recently read that book "The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work" by Alaine de Button, and in it, he says; "we might consider art as anything which pushes our thoughts in important, yet neglected directions". Now, I'd like to consider what I do artistic expression, but that sort of poses the question - do people really need their thought pushed in the direction of old ladies being brutally fist-fucked? Is that my artistic legacy? Is that what I'm gonna leave behind? Y'know, "Randy... He was the old lady fisting guy, wasn't he? Eh. Very droll, very droll. Yeah." Because Ernest Hemingway is remembered more for his literary talents than for being an insufferable cunt with a penchant for killing shit and cheating on his multiple wives, does his artistic legacy outshine his tactless and unfortunate personal life? Is it better to be a mindful human that leaves no palpable remnants of artistry behind, or a violently unlikeable sexual deviant that shits handfuls of heart-breakingly beautiful sonnets and sonnatas out of his asshole before brunch? Because it's the image of the tortured, self-destructive artist that prevails nine times out of ten. Amy Winehouse was just a girl that wanted to sing some songs, do you know what I mean? So... Should I just keep my fucking mouth shut? And try to navigate towards enlightenment, leaving behind an intangible trail of good deeds? Or do I dive deeper and deeper into the inky, black ocean of self-destruction and self-indulgence until I nail my chosen art form, leaving an echo for the eternal wonderment of countless future generations that will just breeze over my asshole personality? ... it's what's keeping me up in the night times. Eh... (Pause) Y'know, from the moment we're born we become less than human? You know that? E-... E-hh... Eh... All the bacteria from our mother is passed onto us on the way out of the womb, and from then on, we just continue to collect shit, on the inside and the outside, until the day we expire. Occasionally, you get to choose what that shit is, but most of the time you have very little say in where it comes from or when. You just have to duck and weave your way through the shit for as long as you can, until the chunk of shit with your name on it finally-AAARGH! cleans you up. Look, I know this was billed as a comedy, but a-ha-ha-HAA! LET'S TALK ABOUT DEATH! Woo! There are some pretty fucking ridiculous ways to die, though- OH, like that guy, that scuba diver they found when they put out the bush fire! *oh my go-od have you heard this fucking sto-ory?* They put out, like, a bush fire, and they found a dude in full scuba gear, and they figured out that the water bomber plane or helicopter that scoops up the water to put out the fire accidentally picked up a diver and dumped him into the flames! What a fucked up way to go! It's pretty much the polar opposite of "He died peacefully in his sleep", isn't it? Just dumped out of a plane into a blazing inferno... with a highly flammable gas tank instead of a parachute strapped to your back? - "NOOoo!" (Explosion noice) "I just wanted to look at the fish..." What do you say to his family? - "Uhh... At least he died doing what he loved." Well, he was a firefighter that enjoyed skydiving and water sports, but I'm not sure he ever wanted to combine the three... That's better, isn't it? - "Tell more jokes you little purple fucker." I had a good joke the other day - How do you know if a hippie has been to your house? ... They're still there. Haa... How do you know if someone's vegan? ... They'll tell you, yes, ahaHAHAA! Hahahaha, I'm vegan. Um... I initially became vegan for environmental and ethical reasons, and now I just do it to give people the shits at dinner parties. Like, - "Get it away, I can't eat that, meat is murder, STOP HAVING FUN EVERYONE!" It's a funny conversation, the vegan one, you bring it up, people just go - "... shut up fuckhead" But it's funny, 'cuz you know you don't actually need to eat meat. You don't NEED it. Nobody actually needs it. Unless you're on hemodialasys and you have to inhale a rare porterhouse steak every three hours to stop your kidneys backing in, you don't actually need it. That makes it a choice, and it's your choice. As long as you understand that that choice is born from belief and that particular belief is called "carnism". It's an inherited belief system that sort of conditions us to eat meat, and the notion is so... pervasive, I guess, it's viewed as a given rather than a choice. But it's totally a choice. - "Where do you get your proteins from then you little poofter!?" PEAS! (Gasp) It's crazy. And I know it's easy to just lump veganism in with all the other food allergies and just go - "They're the annoying fuckheads that don't eat the good stuff" which I get, I totally get... We're having Christmas at my house this year, right? Three months out, my cousin calls me to discuss her son, my cousin's son, which makes him... Someone I couldn't give a fuck about, anyway; She calls me up, the first thing she says - she doesn't even say hello - the first thing she says is "Brayden can't have blue." - "What the fuck? - "BRAYDEN can't eat BLUE FOODS." Apparently this kid, if he eats anything with a blue food preservative in it, he just KLKH (imitates death) just taps out. That is bullshit! Firstly, don't call your kid Brayden. Secondly... secondly, blue is not even a natural colour for foodstuffs. It occurs very rarely in nature- name me one blue food. (Audience member:) "Blueberry." BLUEBERRIES ARE FUCKING PURPLE! I'm talking about mentos blue, like seven eleven slushie blue, what flavour is that? Fucking highlighter? - "Ah no Randy, blue means mint-" MINT IS GREEN- if you planted mint and it came up blue, you would SET that SHIT on FIRE. - "And that's cool! It's cool! it's like ice, it's like water!" Water is clear. The only time water is blue, is when there's billions of tonnes of it and it's all in the one spot. And then it's got all sorts of shit in it, like salt, and SHARKS ... BLUE MEANS SHARKS IN IT! don't eAt iT it'S gOT SHARKS IN IT! You know, when sharks eat people, it's fucked, but it shits me how they immmediately go out and kill the shark like - "awrH it's gONe roGUe. iT's gOnE rOgUE!" No it hasn't, it's just doing what millions of years of evolution have programmed it to do, fucking swim around eating shit. - "yeeeeeeeah but ... ... ... it came into our bit. thIs bit's oUR bit oF tHe ocEAn." No-see that bit there? That big fucking wet bit? That's its bit. This bit here, all of this dry bit here, that you're standing on with your legs, your legs that have evolved to stand on the dry bit, that's your bit. You go into its bit, you're going to get bit. That's the lesson. ... Paddle out next to a seal colony and wiggle your ass around like a slutty little ol' dove, complaining when you get munched. It's that weird disconnect, y'know, it's the same thing as carnism, it's like if I imagine a pig is just a pig, and all pigs are the same, then I can detach what is on my plate from how it got there. It's just how most of us are brought up, y'know. But if you saw someone slit the throat of a Labrador, and then string it upside down to die an excrutiating death just squirming and bleeding out at the end of a steel hook, you'd think it was a bit fucked. How is a pig any different? It's not. It's actually not ... I said that on stage in Rock Hampton, in Queensland about four months ago. I was like, "how is a pig any different?", and a man in the audience yelled out "BACON!". Touché, sir. You win this round. He actually came up to me after the show - I was standing at the merch desk not selling anything - and he-.. I saw him coming from the other side of the room, just this massive dude, like - (stomping noises) - "Ah, you're a large man" and he said - "I was the one that said bacon" - "fucking don't kill me" and he goes - "nah, you alright mate, you alright mate, you alr-" It's the most passive-aggressive Aussie male thing you can say to another- - "naah, you alright mate, you-" It basically means "I wanna punch your fucking head in, but I don't wanna upset me misses. You alright mate." Anyway, he goes to me, - "Mate, you're not gonna make any friends in rock hampton being vegan. Did you know that Rocky is actually the beef capital of Australia-" - "ah fuck I didn't know that" - "-with over two and a half million head of cattle within a two point five k radius of the town centre?" - "fuck I didn't know that either" - "And that is a fair wack of the thirteen million head of cattle in Queensland alone, seventy percent of which is bred purely for export. Few fun facts for ya matey, few fun facts." I said - "thank you sir I did not know any of that" Did you know that, globally, cows produce thirty-eight percent more greenhouse gas than every single car, truck, bus, boat, train, and plane combined each year? That breeding animals for food uses up one third of the planet's fresh water? Takes up fourty-five percent of the earth's surface, and is responsible for a whopping ninety-one percent of amazon destruction, making it the number one leading cause of species extionction, resource consumption, and environmental degradation destroying the planet on a daily basis? FEW FUN FACTS FOR YA MATEY, FEW FUN FACTS FOR YA! Now, I'm aware this is in danger of becoming a TED talk at this point... - "jesus, a lot of statistics, is there gonna be a test?" It's alright, it's fine, I'll read the book, alright? I'll read the book. Not forcing my opinions on you, I'm merely saying them with a microphone, and you're paying for it. LOCK THE DOORS-no, seriously, okay, here we go. Khm. I'm gonna read the book. Y'know we've got McDonald's home delivery now? Does anyone do that? (Audience responds) You... You do? You know you can already get it in your car? You can get it without getting out of your car, but what McDonald's have now done is they've removed the gruelling walk from the front door to the car, so you no longer have to do that humiliating - "BWAAAAAARGGGGGHHHHH- WUUUUUUUUUAHHHH! OOOOOOOAAAAARGGHHHH! Now I have to reverend carpool! Oh, God damn you, God damn you -click- MRRRRRRGHHHH! HMMMMMRGHH! MMMMOOUUHHH WHY CANNOT THEY JUST BRING IT TO MEIN HAUS?" Well now they can. I think it's a good thing. Keep the fatties off the streets, STOP 'EM HOGGING UP THE FOOT PATHS, if they wanna eat shit, let them do it in their own home- WHO'S WITH ME? (Audience starts applauding) Don't clap that, it's a horrible thing to say. yoU'RE moNSTerS! ... Okay. You all good Mattie? Sweet. Okay, here we go. Blblblblbl, okay, kh-hm, alright, here we go, buggedabuggedabuggeda, okay. Stop it! Okay ... Do you like my typewriter, by the way? Isn't it beautiful? It's basically here just as a prop, but occasionally I am always tempted to just go ... (humming). Eh? A few "Murder She Wrote" fans in the house? Heyo? Everyone else going - "What? What is that? Sounds like an old person's joke." ... it is! It is! It totally is! Alright. Here we go. Okay, fuck, here we go. Blblblblbl. Walking to Skye, chapter one ... I bought a bookshelf on Gumtree recently, um, it was an amazing experience, I'll quickly tell you about it and then I'll read the book, but- I found it strange, becasue it made me start to think about the way our, like, methods of communication have sort of changed over the years, y'know? In the old days, if you wanted a bookshelf, you'd just go see Gareth the Bookshelf Guy, 'cuz he was the dude in your tribe that made the bookshelves, he had a little bookshelf cave, he was REPUTABLE. Now any mad bastard can sell their shit on Gumtree, you know what I mean? As a species, we're sort of able to cope with knowing and gossiping around like a hundred, or a hundred and fifty people. That's like the limit of our tribe. Any more than that, it starts to get confusing, which is why we created abstract constructs like territories and deities to unite larger groups of people under an imaginary common factor. And it works the trick, because we only really gather en masse on special occasions, but I think like social media and mmmh... It's fucking all that up, y'know? I think we're able to deal with the thousands of people we're connected to on a daily basis, and as a result we neglect our immediate one fifty, y'know? That's why I never get invited to parties anymore. It's not 'cuz I ramble on about veganism and fisting old ladies, it's because I'm not on facebook and everybody just assumes you are. I am so behind on the births, deaths, and marriages of my friends that I feel like the time traveller's wife every time I go to a party, I'm like... - "This is Tim, he's our son, he's six now-" - "Fucking... Didn't even know you were pregnant." Anyway, you know smartphones, aren't they great? You know that, right, they're not, they're not that great, you don't need the internet in your pocket, you work at Cole's, okay? You're not working for the president, you don't need it, you don't need that much information. And also, what was the point of developing opposable thumbs for you to take a photo of your head, post it on the internet, and then just stand by for validation. No-one gives a fuck about your head! They'll only validate it in order to gain permission to post a photo of their own head on the internet and stand by for validation. The people who give a fuck about your head will at some point see it in real life. Fuck your head and the neck it rode in on. Your vanity is sucking up my bandwidth ... Anyway this is what's going through my head as I'm on Gumtree looking for a bookshelf, because- you know when you put something on the... on the... in like... in the search in booktree- in booktree? what the fuck- When you put something in the search on Gumtree - I'm having a stroke up here - When you put something in the search, right, and like, there's always a couple of things that come up in the list that are like the polar opposite of what you searched for, and like "get out of my head gumtree algorithms, CONSPIRACY!"? No but seriously, it's all you type, it's like "bookshelf", and it's all bookshelf, bookshelf, bookshelf, grammophone? Huh. Bookshelf, bookshelf, bookshelf, combine harvester? What the fuck? ... Huh, that's actually a pretty good price. Anyway, on this particular day, I found two bookshelves that worked for me, in terms of cost, and more importantly, geographical convenience, 'cuz I'd be fucked if I'm driving to Broad Meadows to pick up a bookshelf, right? So I type in bookshelf, and I see the two things, and I'm like okay, one seller is Cathy, the other is Morgan. I send them both the same text message, "Hello! I saw your bookshelf on gumtree, is it still available?". Cathy texts back straight away, saying - "sorRRY iT wENt thIS MorNING!" - "That's cool, Cathy, I'm sorry I gave you an annoying voice in the retelling of this story." Morgan's response came through a couple of minutes later, and simply read, - "It was my wife's bookshelf." ... HOW DO YOU RESPOND TO THAT? Aside from the fact that it doesn't answer my fucking question... His use of past tense in that sentence unnerved me slightly. I'm like, aahhh, I should probably just find another bookshelf... And then I noticed he lived in the suburb next to me, so I replied; - "Is it still available?" He responded with the letter Y. Just a Y. Is he asking me why I wanna know if it's still available? Or is it a Y for "yes", and he's so in the throws of grief that he can't manage the E and the S? I assume it's a Y for "yes" and respond, - "Cool! I'll take it. When's a good time to come and pick it up?" No reply for fifteen minutes, I'm like... ah he's forgotten about it, fuck it, I'll find another bookshelf, and then when his reply actually does come through I realize he spent those fifteen minutes crafting his response, because it's a FUCKING THESIS. He must've felt so bad about only using a single consonant in his previous text that he just massively overcompensated with this one. Also, for some reason, felt that the use of punctuation? Entirely unnecessary. So it's just one obscenely long sentence, which reads; - "You must come and pick up now I only have short time here at house and also it wide so bring van or trailer and there's stair but I can help you carry it down stair if you come park out front walk up path ring bell and I will help you carry it to trailer or van I only accept cash and if you do not come now I will sell it someone else" (Shriek) Again I'm thinking, ahhh, I should just find another bookshelf at this point, but now I am FASCINATED by Morgan, and I simply must meet the man. So I drive over to his house- before I left, I sent him a message saying - "Cool, I'll be there in ten minutes" and he replied "ok", but spelled it OK-A-Y which just fascinated me more, that he'll use four letters to spell a two letter word, but only one letter to spell a three letter word, MORGAN IS OFF THE FUCKING CHAIN! And as I'm driving over to his house, I'm trying to picture what he's gonna be like, y'know... His pidgin English might suggest ethnicity of some sort, but I don't wanna racially profile him; Maybe he's an old man who recently lost his wife and is not that very good at texting, or maybe, and I'm really hoping this is the case, Morgan is just batshit crazy. So I get to his house, and I go up to the- ehe, I park out front walk up path ring bell, and I... I brace myself for the door to be opened by like, an old man in a smoking jacket, wearing fishnet stockings and suspenders, just puffing on an opium pipe while a butler just creepily polishes a goldfish in the background, and then a tiny pugdog wearing a fez hat just trots up the hallway, sits on the mat, looks up at me and says "RELCOME TO OUR ROVERY ROME!"... And then the door opens, and I am thoroughly disappointed. Before me stands an average caucasian male in his mid-thirties, dressed casually, hipster sheek, stubble, glasses with designer frames, expensive watch - I immediately think "architect?" but the house is too cheesy for that - it's like a double story doll's house with bay windows - but definitely a designer of some kind? Maybe a graphic designer? He's too skinny for manual labour, but he's too hip for the public sector, BUT THIS CAN'T BE MORGAN. Because Morgan's text messages would suggest that he's not that technically savvy, and then the man standing in front of me says - "Hello my name is Morgan" AND THE PLOT THICKENS! He invites me in, shakes my hand, closes the door, and twenty minutes later, I will be witnessing Morgan perform some of the most aggressive acts of violence I've ever seen in my life, and I will be speeding away in my car bleeding from the face. Here's how this shit went down... I go into the house, and I notice two things immediately; One, this is a house in the throws of renovation. Nothing too extreme, but there's like drop sheets on all the furniture, there's freshly painted walls, there's a bathtub wrapped in plastic in the hallway, awaiting installation- someone's doing some work on this house. The second thing I notice, on the way up the stairs to the second floor, on the first floor landing, is a wedding photograph featuring a very cleanly shaven Morgan with a very beautiful bride. Very much in love! The photograph is very much on the floor, and the glass in the frame is very much smashed. She's not dead, she's left him, and THE PLOT THICKENS A BIT MORE FOR MORGAN! And as Morgan unceremoniously like, kicks the photo frame to one side on the way up the stairs, I really wanted to pry into Morgan's life and ask heaps of inappropriate questions... But he was clearly a broken man. He had this terrible air of sadness around him, so I didn't wanna intrude. Luckily for me, though, I didn't have to, because Morgan immediately began oversharing and told me the whole fucking story aaAAAH! Thank you Morgan! I shall hang off your every word and then retell your tale to two hundred strangers and record it for a fucking DVD! He IS a graphic designer -YES!- and he's really good at it. He does like massive rebranding campaigns for large corporations, he gets flown all over the world doing this shit, right? About four years ago, a woman hired Morgan to rebrand her florist business, and he did such a great job she married him. And he thought everything was just fine, until about three months ago. Morgan had to do a presentation in Sydney, right? But he was on his way home from overseas and got stuck in Dubai due to a flight cancellation, so rather than cancel the meeting, Morgan suggested to these businessmen in Sydney that they do a Skype chat, because he's so technologically savvy, despite his fucking baffling text message style. So Morgan checks into a hotel, cracks open his laptop, and starts skyping with this room full of businessmen in Sydney, who are all watching Morgan on a massive screen on their boardroom wall, right? And everything's going great, Morgan is totally nailing it, until about halfway through; He realizes that a file he wants to show these dudes is on the desktop of his home computer back in his home office in Melbourne. And he decides to live share the desktop of his home computer on the Skype chat. He knows how to do that, he can remote control his computer from anywhere in the world, it's not particularly new technology, but Morgan makes it sound so impressive. So this room full of businessmen are all watching keenly, like - "OOAHP! MARGARET, BRING IN SOME BISCUITS, THERE'S SOME NEW-FANGLED SHIT GOING ON IN HERE!!!" as Morgan clicks a few buttons and (click) brings up the desktop of his home computer on the Skype chat. Now, what Morgan doesn't realize is that his wife has been using the "Photobooth" app on that particular computer to take pictures of herself. To take naked pictures of herself. To take naked pictures of herself... doing some pretty fucked up shit. It's embarassing, to say the least, just as Margaret came back in with the biscuits- - "I've got you the b-WHUIEAAAAURRRHHH!!!" Now, those of you who are familiar with the Photobooth app will know that how it works, is it accesses the built-in camera in your computer and with the click of a button, (click) takes a photo of you when you're standing in front of your screen. And if you know that, you also know that if you leave that application open, the camera also stays open, witnessing whatever may be happening in front of the computer, in real time. Such as your wife, in your home office, fucking your best mate. OOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO MOOOOOOOORGANNNN... Nooooo... Morgan then goes on to tell me she's keeping the house, his former best mate is moving in, and while they're out for the day shopping for fittings, Morgan must suffer the indignity of moving his shit out, and selling the stuff they don't want on Gumtree to this guy. Ahhh... It's at this point of the story that Morgan starts crying, he breaks down, and I do not blame the man, it's fucking horrible and I just wanna give him a big hug and say "Everything's gonna be alright, Morgan", but I am holding the full weight of a BOOKSHELF halfway down a set of STAIRS and Morgan is the only thing stopping that bookshelf from caving my face in- I was like, MORGAN! MMMMORGAN! And Morgan managed to pull himself together ... for about eight seconds? And then just went BAHHH and let the bookshelf go. I fell backwards, it literally rolled over me, and took out the light hanging above the staircase, I'm now lying on my back getting showered in broken glass, as the bookshelf turned end over end and just went FONK right through a freshly painted wall at the bottom of the stairs. I'm like, AAH. aaAAAh. aaAAAAAAhhh. aaAAAAAHHH. I've got a tiny cut on my forehead which is just pissing blood, for some reason - apart from that, I'm fine. Morgan, however - he's not fine! Morgan is the opposite of fine. Something happened when the bookshelf lodged itself in the wall and his sadness just (click) went away in a second, and he started PISSING HIMSELF laughing. Hysterical. And he had the creepiest laugh I've ever heard in my life- I'm standing there like "this is weird" and he's like "mwhueHUEUEEUEUEUE! mhhwuEUEUEUE!" like some sort of demonically possessed baritone cookaburra, - "mwhueEUUEUEE, a-HOGUGUGUGAGAGAGA!" - "Um... Uh..." - "mwueEUEUUEUEUE" - "can I still have the bookshelf?" - "yuuEEEEAAH" We extract it from the wall - the bookshelf, incidentally, showing no sign of having just rolled down a staircase and smashed through a wall. We carry it out to my car- we had to stop about six times, 'cuz Morgan was like - "Hang on a minute, mwueHUEUEUEUEUEE" We got it to my car, put it on the trailer, and Morgan was in such a great mood he let me have the bookshelf for free. Ohh! Hahaha... Mm... And that's where the story SHOULD end. But there was something about the bookshelf going through the wall that flipped a fucking switch in Morgan's head, and he is now hungry for more destruction. So as I started tying the bookshelf down to my trailer, Morgan just strolls over to like an upright mailbox on the front lawn and just starts trying to wrench it out of the ground. Really putting his back into it. I'm like, "are you okay buddy" and he's like "YEAP" (struggling) HUAH! He pulls it out of the ground whereupon he wields it like a fucking battleaxe and just starts smashing up the front garden, just beheading the daisies, fucking up the lavender... I'm like, "uhh, hey Morgan, maybe you wanna stop and think about that" and he whirled around and looked at me like Jack Nicolson chasing Shelly Duvalle up the stairs in the shining and said - "WHY DON'T YOU MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS?" ... yep, yep, cool, man, yep, yep... Now, I like tying knots. I'm quite good at tying knots if I tie something down I take my time because I want it to stay there... But as Morgan nonchalantly strolled up the driveway, rolled up the garage door, and put the mailbox through the windscreen of an Audi!? I must admit, I kind of rushed my knot tying job. I got in my car, I'm about to drive off, I'm like, looking at the house going "ah, I'm sure he'll be fine" and then an armchair smashed out of an upstairs window and just went DOINK DOINK DOINK DOINK down the front lawn. I was like "... what's my duty of care in this situation?". I didn't want to call the cops on him, I didn't want him to trash the house, I'm like - "daw fuck I'm gonna have to talk to Morgan" So I got out, I walked up the driveway shitting myself- you know when someone does something really violent and you're just like "ah, fuck, we're not supposed to do shit like that!"? Yucky, just yucky feeling in my tum-tum- and I'm standing there, standing there in the garage and there's like an adjoining door in the garage that leads into the house. I can see in through the door into the house, up the staircase, it's like a wooden staircase, and I'm standing in the garage just going - "ah fuck..." (gulp) "morgaaaan. Morgaaaan!" Like I was calling a cat for its dinner? "Morgan! Moggie-moggie-moggie-moggie-moggie!" And then I notice a small trickle of water start to come from the top step. And then a little bit more water, and then QUITE A LOT OF WATER, just pissing down the stairs like shitty water feature, I'm like "aw that can't be right" and then Morgan appeared on the top step holding a hammer like this: - "BAAAH!" (jumps out) I was like - "WOAH!" and he's like - "mwhuEUEUEUE" Starts running at me wielding the hammer, like "UEUEUEUE", I'm like "aw no no I just wanted to buy a bookshelf..." he's like "UEUEUEUEUEUE-.. RRAH!" runs straight past me, I'm like - "Where are you going?" he's like - "UEEEH!" made a beeline for my car, I'm like - "NO, MAN! STOP!" he's like - "UEUEUEUEUUEUE" - "STOP IT! JUST STOP!" He spins around and goes - "I just checked my phone, she texted me fifteen minutes ago saying she'll be here in fifteen minutes, WE'RE GONNA GO!" and gets into my car! - "fucking... jesus... fuck me" I run down the lawn, get in the driver's seat, I'm like - "What was with the water?" he goes - "Ah, I put plugs in all of the sinks and turned all the taps on!" I'm like - "Oh that's fucked" He's like - "JUST DRIVE!" I was like - "AAH!" I took off so quick, rounded the corner of his street, and the bookshelf just went "mrrreeUUWh-BOOSH" and exploded against the guard rail, just exploded in a shower of badly tied knots and broken dreams... So me and Morgan just fucking left it there, like a little breadcrumb for his ex wife to find on the way home to her destroyed gingerbread house. I dropped Morgan at a train station. I have never seen him again. And that, my friends, is why I no longer shop on Gumtree. Thank you very much! Thank you very much. (Applause) Haha, ah, fuck... You know my favourite bit of that story? I just made it up. Yes, not true. There is no Morgan. MMMH! It's very unsatisfying, isn't it? - "But I saw him in my head. I saw Morgan in my head." ... ... ... Why is it we can feel so robbed when someone tells us a story we just heard isn't true, and yet so satisfied at the end of a fictional novel? Y'know? You know that? ... You know the other great thing about that story? First draft. FUCK YOU HEMINGWAY! ... (sigh) Can't end on that, can I? - "Those LIES? WE DID NOT COME HERE TO BE HOODWINKED, SIR!" The truth, eh? ... The truth is, I'm... I'm not an exceptional person, y'know? Nothing interesting really ever happens to me, I'm massively flawed, and I think I'm quite forgettable, if I'm being a hundred percent honest. And this isn't the shit bit at the end of the show where I get on the cross, I'm like "lOve mE on the wAY OUt thE doOr". It's not that, it's just that I don't think- on a scale from one to memorable, I'm not that memorable. Not on like the Morgan sort of scale, not on the Ernest Hemingway scale, certainly, y'know... But if I tell a great story, maybe people will remember that instead. Remember the card trick and just... pretend that they don't know how it's done, y'know? ... But must we leave a legacy? MUST we make an impact? Do we HAVE TO leave a footprint? Is it okay to just settle, seek safety, nest, y'know? Or must we constantly shake our lives up, or suffer the indiscriminate cruelty of having it shaken against our will? Must we try to carve a path through the tall grass, feeling as though no-one has ever felt how we feel? Terrified at what may be lurking low in the grass on either side of us, but just pressing ever on with that paleolithic instinct deep within our chromosomes that the only way is forward, that you HAVE TO keep going? That eventually you'll stumble upon the edge of the field, hitch a ride from a passing car, and meet up with the rest of the gang for tea and sandwiches at the old town hall? ... (deep breath) Do we feel like the path that we are carving through the grass is all our own? Only to finally float above the field with the sweet relief of expiration and realize that the field is insignificantly miniscule in size, and that there's only one path through the grass - the exact same one that every human has trod before us will ever after, just stumbling blindly along a tiny hyphen between the words "birth" and "death". And when reduced to that level of crisp simplicity, fear cannot exist ... So. (pausing, readying) Phew. Walking to Skye, chapter one: (Blackout) (Applause and credits)

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theherothechampiontheinquisitor · 5 years

Text

Unto the Breach

Pairing: Eventual Pepperony, past Tony/May

Rated G

Iron Dad galore

Summary: At the age of 16 Tony Stark became a father. He also gave up his claim as the Stark heir and cut off all ties to that life to raise his son on his own. 15 years later his past finally begins to catch up to him and he has to set aside his pride and open his life back up to his parents in order for his son to have the life he deserves.

A Gilmore Girls AU

Notes: I know someone recently did something similar but this has been languishing in my drafts and I really loved it and wanted to post it so here it is. Not everything will be accurate to the show and I kinda made May Peter’s mom because I was watching Only You when I wrote this and yeah, they made a cute couple. lol Don’t judge.

Read it on AO3

------------------- The front door of “Pepper’s” burst open, nearly taking the bell off as it rattled and jingled the arrival of the only customer who could make an entrance like that. A cool breeze blew in behind Tony Stark, signaling what would soon be the start of crisp fall mornings, as he stumbled like a zombie towards the front counter, desperately clutching a well worn travel mug in his hands.

“Pepper, light of my life. Pepper, please you have to help me. I need you.”

He could feel Pepper roll her eyes as she moved around behind the counter, sizing him up as he collapsed onto the first empty stool.

“How much have you had today, Tony?” She raised her eyebrow at him and dared him to lie to her.

“Erm, this will be my first of the day…” It was mostly true. Her stare pierced down to his very soul and he squirmed awkwardly, the squeaks of the stool echoing beneath him. “Okay, the first of a normal person’s morning.”

“And how many before that?”

“Three but who’s counting? You know yours is the best anyways.”

Pepper’s coffee couldn’t be beat. It made every other brew taste like dirty dish water in comparison to the rich, smooth blend that was sitting in a pot just barely out of his reach. It was tatamount to torture to be this close and his cup still so empty.

Pepper’s stern face came back to his vision as she leaned down towards him, hands gripping the counter. “You have a problem Tony.”

He smiled what he hoped was a charming smile. “My problem is this empty mug, Pep.”

She just shook her head in despair and sighed. “Say it with me Tony…”

“I am addicted to coffee,” they both spoke at the same time, Tony’s voice slightly manic over Pepper’s monotone. She did this to him on purpose, always on the days that he needed his fix the worst. Tantamount to torture, damn it.

“There! I've admitted it. My shame is out there for all to know.”

She gazed into his eyes for a long time, before cracking a real smile, finally satisfied that she had made him suffer enough. Pepper swiftly turned back around and grabbed the coffee pot returning to slowly fill up his cup.

“And I am sadly your enabler.”

Tony inhaled the steaming brew as his cup filled and immediately took a large gulp, not caring how hot it was. He had developed an immunity to hot coffee by now. The groan it elicited could have put Meg Ryan to shame.

“You’re a godsend Pep and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Pepper just shook her head and went back to what she was doing before he burst through the door. Over her shoulder she asked, “Where’s Pete?”

“Oh, you know,” he began, sneaking a blueberry muffin from the display in front of him. “He fell behind on my quest for coffee. Decisions had to be made, casualties were endured.”

It was that precise moment the door blew open again and the younger Stark entered looking frazzled. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, coming up to the counter and collapsing his books next to Tony. Tony jumped reflexively and nearly spilled the precious brown liquid all over his shirt.

“Man, for someone with short legs I’ll never get over how fast you can travel when properly motivated!” he exclaimed and Tony just shrugged, picking a couple of pieces from the muffin and sliding the rest down to Peter.

“Hey, we have the same genes so I would watch it if I were you.”

“Yeah, but I at least have the benefit of a few more years of growing to do.”

Tony frowned and nudged Peter’s shoulder. He took another sip of coffee as he evaluated the boy. “You’re being a terror this morning, let me help you out. Coffee?”

Peter nodded desperately. “Coffee.”

Tony waved Pepper over, taking Peter’s Spiderman mug, a gag gift from last christmas, and holding it out beggingly before him. He jutted his bottom lip out and giving the red head what he hoped was his most pitiful look.

“Please ma’am, may I have some more?”

“Don't go on tour anytime soon, your Oliver Twist is terrible,” she deadpanned.

“So, I’ve heard. Please, it’s for Pete. He’s a growing boy.”

"You know coffee actually stunts your growth right?"

"Lies and slander, probably made up by tea drinkers." Tony shuddered in his seat for dramatic effect.

Pepper eyed him up and down. "Sure about that one? You seem to be missing a few inches."

Tony scoffed. "C'mon Pep, stop browbeating me and do it for the boy."

Pepper looked between the pair and Peter had joined Tony in giving his best wounded puppy look. The pair made a striking picture, their features mirroring the other so perfectly, one would be hard pressed to deny their relation. Looking at Peter especially though, Pepper felt that same protective urge stir inside her that she had when he was still just a child, those big doe eyes pleading for another sweet. She relented, as she always did, filling his mug to the top.

Tony motioned to his now empty mug with a grin but she just gave him a pointed stare and put the pot back.

“Sorry, no refills to coffee moochers.”

“Aw, Pep don’t be like that. Just put it on my tab.”

“You don’t have a tab, Tony.”

“Well, I should.”

“Forget about it, you’re lucky you got what you did. I can’t enable you any further this morning.”

“This is oppression!”

Peter watched the exchange with a smile. It was old hat by now, the start of a thousand mornings for the Stark men.

“Thank you, Ms. Potts!” he called out to her and took a large drink from his own mug, Tony looking on enviously. Peter just ignored him and whipped out his cell phone, tapping a few buttons and bringing up a text thread.

“So, check it out, I was texting Ned this morning and he said that the acceptance packets for Midtown were supposed to be sent out this week. We could be getting them as soon as friday! And I was looking at the uniforms online again and they’re really not that bad. I mean I can deal with the coats and ties for a bit if it means getting to take robotics…”

He eagerly shoved the phone into Tony’s face, scrolling through the stock photos of the school uniforms that they had already perused through a million times at home. His excitement was contagious and Tony smiled along with him and listened as he described the different classes that he was hoping to take.

They had applied for the late fall term having completely missed the early fall registration deadline because Tony had stayed up all night on an inventing bender and passed out around six am, totally blowing through the morning alarm. Peter was a notorious heavy sleeper too, so neither stirred until well after the window for registration had closed. Tony felt awful but Peter had taken it all in stride.

The phone suddenly started buzzing in Peter’s hand, the Imperial March from Star Wars blaring across the small cafe making customers heads pop up and search out the cause of the disruption. Peter panicked and immediately declined the call from Ned, shooting him a quick text that he’d call him later, but it was too late and Pepper had already marched her way over to where he sat and eyed the phone he hastily tried to pocket.

“Peter, c’mon. Do you see the sign?” she asked turning around and pointing to the sign that boldly stated the cell phone free zone.

“Oh, I know, sorry Ms. Potts! I was showing him the uniforms for Midtown and then Ned called, but I told him I’d call him back after I leave,” he started rambling nervously but Pepper cut him off with a wave as Tony snickered in the background.

“Don’t worry about it, just remember for next time.”

“Oh, of course,” he smiled so earnestly it was hard to even feign annoyance.

“So, Midtown,” Pepper began, settling back between the pair, pretending to wipe down the already clean countertops. “Did you get in finally?”

“We don’t know yet. Should be finding out this week. If it’s a small envelope we’re doomed, but a big envelope and you’ll be looking at Midtown class of 2020.”

“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” she smiled and squeezed his hand affectionately. “You make it and I’ll make you that pie you always harass me to make out of season.”

Tony blanched. Pepper didn’t make concessions to anyone, even as doe eyed and innocent as Pete. “Um, okay, how come he gets the special treatment?”

“He’s more polite than you.”

“I resent that remark.”

“I can’t help the truth,” she shrugged and and headed to the other end of the bar to wait on a pair of blondes that walked in, looking very lost and out of place. Passerbys Tony, would wager.

“She’s in love with me,” he said with a matter of fact nod. Peter rolled his eyes so hard Tony worried they’d get stuck that way.

“I can tell by the way you both verbally assault each other every morning.”

“It’s just a matter of time, I’m telling you. She can’t resist the Stark charm forever.”

“Is that what that was?”

“Hey, don’t you have a bus to catch?”

“Nah, I have a few minutes. I like to watch Ms. Potts dance circles around you.”

“And just for that one you have lost coffee privileges,” he said and reached over to snatch up Peter’s mug before he could even protest. Tony threw it back in one drink as Peter unsuccessfully tried to get it back.

“You’re getting me more, that’s not right stealing a man’s coffee like that.” Peter folded his arms across his chest and glared.

“Please, you’re still a boy, and no refills remember?”

“That’s only for you.”

Tony slid the mug over to bump against Peter’s school books. “Then I guess you should start working Pepper now for that next fix.”

Peter groaned and playfully shoved Tony as he stood up and made his way to beg for more lifeblood.

Tony watched the boy go and felt the same immense pride and happiness swell in his chest that he always did when looking at Peter for too long. The kid was brilliant, maybe even more so than he was, only he was going to make something more of himself than a failed inventor moonlighting as an inn manager. He couldn’t dwell too hard on his own failings though. For the most part he was exactly where he wanted to be and it was sure as hell a much better enviornment for Peter to grow up in than that empty and foreboding Stark mansion.

Though the money of that life would definitely have been a huge help. By Tony’s estimation it would take around $75,000 altogether to put Peter through Midtown and he had no idea where he was going to come up with that kind of dough. They had enough money put back to be comfortable where they were but it wouldn’t take long for it to be bled dry. He wouldn’t let Peter worry about that though. Tony would stand out on a corner selling himself if it meant the kid got the education that he wanted. Okay, so maybe it wouldn’t come to that particular extreme, but there was nothing that he wouldn’t do to ensure Peter’s continued happiness.

A shrill laugh filled the air and brought Tony out of his daze. Peter still hadn’t returned and he looked around the small room searching for his curly bedhead. He spotted him at the end of the bar leaning back awkwardly, one of the leggy blondes from earlier practically sandwiching him against the counter. She had been the source of the laugh. Tony evaluated the scene and could tell that Peter was clearly uncomfortable as the woman looked at him like he was prey.

Pepper shot concerned glances every couple of seconds but she was busy helping another customer, unable to come to his rescue.

Tony hopped down from the stool and shoved his hands into his jean pockets as he approached.

“...cabin in the woods for the weekend. I’d really love it if you could join us too,” Tony caught the blonde saying in a suggestive tone as he approached.

Peter laughed nervously and rubbed his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding the newly refilled coffee.

“Is everything okay over here, Pete?”

Peter’s eyes shot to Tony’s in relief and he scooted towards him subconsciously. The blonde turned towards Tony too at first with a look of disgust and annoyance at having her conversation interrupted but then she raked her eyes across Tony’s form appreciatively and her grin from before grew more predatory if it were possible.

“Yeah, I was just getting coffee from Ms. Potts when I was…”

“Accosted?” Tony supplied helpfully.

The blonde tsked. “Hi, I’m Christine.”

“Tony,” he said with a nod.

“Tony. I was just discussing with your little brother here, that I was just passing through on my way to a weekend retreat with a friend. I think it’d be really nice if you guys could join us. We’ll go hiking, make a campfire, maybe some skinny dipping at the lake,” she raised her brow suggestively and Peter’s face turned an impressive shade of beet red.

Tony’s mind hadn’t even got to processing that part of the conversation yet.

“Brother?” he asked and looked over to Peter, holding the laughter at bay. The thought seemingly finally permeated his understanding as well because then Peter was laughing and Tony was right there with him.

Christine stared at the duo blankly as they tried to get the laughter under control.

“She thinks…” Tony began.

“That me and you…” Peter continued.

“This always happens.”

The laughter finally stopped and they both straightened up, Tony turning to Christine and schooling his features back to what Peter called his serious face.

“Peter is not my brother.”

“He’s not?” Christine asked in confusion. She looked the duo over once more noting the similarities in eyes and facial structure.

“Peter is my son.”

“Your son?” she gaped.

“According to the birth certificate,” Peter added, his confidence and joking manner returning at the shift in power of the situation.

Christine tried to recover from her error and squared her shoulders. “Well, the offer is still open. Father and son changes things a little but I do have a friend,” she motioned to a brunette that was sitting at a table glued to her cell phone an inch away from her face.

“Slow down, cougar town don’t let his height deceive you. Peter is 15 years old. You’ve been sexually harassing a minor for the last ten minutes.”

Christine’s eyes practically bulged from her skull and she backed away slowly, bumping into the table behind her. “I am so sorry, you look...and he looked…” she stuttered and snapped in front of her friends face a few times. “Jillian we need to leave.”

Tony had never seen such a hasty retreat in his thirty one years of life. He and Pete started laughing again and headed back to their original seats, Peter hastily grabbing his books from the counter and shoving them into his backpack.

“Well, that was fun,” he remarked and then threw an arm around Tony’s neck and giving him a quick squeeze. “Love ya, Dad. Star Wars marathon tonight?” Peter asked backing up towards the door with finger pointed at him. “You promised.”

“Original trilogy only,” Tony replied firmly.

“You’re such a snob.” Another eyeroll. Tony didn’t know how he didn’t get dizzy. “Take out from Joe’s and that new chinese restaurant?”

“Done.”

Peter smiled again and finally satisfied darted out the door and to the bus stop. Tony watched him run down the street until he couldn’t see him anymore, a grin still plastered to his face.The sound of coffee filling his empty mug caused Tony to whip around in wonder.

“I thought there were no refills?”

He folded his arms across his chest as Pepper just shrugged in response.

“Consider it a thank you.”

“For what?”

Pepper smiled sweetly and Tony got that fluttery feeling in his chest that always occurred when Pepper Potts smiled at him. He wanted to take a picture and frame it forever. She glanced to the table that Christine and her friend had vacated and then back to Tony and winked.

“For taking out the trash.”

He smiled back and took a long drink of the perfectly blended coffee. He didn’t care what jokes Peter made. That Stark charm was definitely wearing her down. Now if only they were close enough to ask her for a boatload of money to put his son through the school of his choice.

Tony did have other options.

He could call...them.

He would almost rather die though. Almost. They could definitely afford it and would almost certainly be thrilled to help their only grandson, but he didn't want to let them get their hooks in Peter and by extension himself. He spent so many years distancing himself from that life and proving that he didn't need them and their money. To come crawling back even for such a noble cause was painful. And who knows. Maybe Peter wouldn't even get in.

Shit. Who was he kidding? Peter was almost guaranteed to be admitted. He was his father's son after all.

Still. He could put off Howard and Maria a little longer.

Pulling out his phone he scrolled through his contacts. He had friends but none that he could impose upon like that.

There was one more person though. He scrolled down to the M's and his finger hovered over May's number. He and May had always retained a great friendship. They chatted often enough and she always made time to ask about and talk to Peter. If anyone would help him and not make him feel completely humiliated in the process it was May Parker. This was technically 50% of her responsibility after all.

She was Peter's mother.

#Mel's Fics #Pepperony #Iron Dad #Pepperony fanfiction #iron dad fanfiction #Gilmore Girls AU

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