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naturecpw · 4 years ago

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How to Build a Life There Are Two Kinds of Happy People

Some of us strive for a virtuous life. Others strive for a pleasant one. We could all use a better balance. Arthur C. Brooks January 28, 2021

One person touches the needles of a cactus while another smells the cactus flowers. JAN BUCHCZIK

“How to Build a Life” is a weekly column by Arthur Brooks, tackling questions of meaning and happiness.

These days, we are offered a dizzying variety of secrets to happiness. Some are ways of life: Give to others; practice gratitude. Others are minor hacks: Eat kale; play a board game. Some are simply an effort to make a buck.

I have found that most of the serious approaches to happiness can be mapped onto two ancient traditions, promoted by the Greek philosophers Epicurus and Epictetus. In a nutshell, they focus on enjoyment and virtue, respectively. Individuals typically gravitate toward one style or the other, and many major philosophies have followed one path or the other for about two millennia. Understanding where you sit between the two can tell you a lot about yourself—including your happiness weak points—and help you create strategies for a more balanced approach to life.

Epicurus (341–270 B.C.) led an eponymous school of thought—Epicureanism—that believed a happy life requires two things: ataraxia (freedom from mental disturbance) and aponia (the absence of physical pain). His philosophy might be characterized as “If it is scary or painful, work to avoid it.” Epicureans see discomfort as generally negative, and thus the elimination of threats and problems as the key to a happier life. Don’t get the impression that I am saying they are lazy or unmotivated—quite the contrary, in many cases. But they don’t see enduring fear and pain as inherently necessary or beneficial, and they focus instead on enjoying life.

Epictetus (c. 50–c. 135 A.D.) was one of the most prominent Stoic philosophers, who believed happiness comes from finding life’s purpose, accepting one’s fate, and behaving morally regardless of the personal cost. His philosophy could be summarized as, “Grow a spine and do your duty.” People who follow a Stoic style see happiness as something earned through a good deal of sacrifice. Not surprisingly, Stoics are generally hard workers who live for the future and are willing to incur substantial personal cost to meet their life’s purpose (as they see it) without much complaining. They see the key to happiness as working through pain and fear, not actively avoiding them.

Epicureans and Stoics can coexist, and even cohabitate (my wife and I have such a mixed marriage). But in my experience, Stoics and Epicureans tend to look down on one another, and appear to have been doing so for about as long as both philosophies have existed. The 3rd-century biographer Diogenes Laërtius wrote that “Epictetus calls [Epicurus a] preacher of effeminacy and showers abuse on him.” While there’s no historical record of it, I can easily imagine Epicurus responding to Epictetus, “You totally need to chill out.”

For roughly 2,000 years, philosophers have asked which approach leads to greater happiness and a better life. My purpose here is different. Both views have virtues and weaknesses. I want to know what each of us, given our natural tendency toward one of the approaches, can learn and adopt from the other.

For Epicurus, unhappiness came from negative thoughts, including needless guilt, fear of things we can’t control, and a focus on the inevitable unpleasant parts of life. The solution was to banish them from the mind. To this end, he proposed a “four-part cure”: Don’t fear God; don’t worry about death; what is good is easy to get (by lowering our expectations for what we need to be happy); what is terrible is easy to endure (by concentrating on pleasant things even in the midst of suffering). This is made all the easier when we surround ourselves with friendly people in a peaceful environment.

Epicurus promoted hedonia, from which we derive the word hedonism. However, he would not have recognized our current usage of the term. The secret to banishing negative thoughts, according to Epicurus, is not mindless debauchery—despite the baseless rumors that he led wild parties and orgies, he taught that thoughtlessly grabbing easy worldly pleasures is a mistake, because ultimately they don’t satisfy. Instead, reason was Epicurus’s best weapon against the blues. For example, here is the mantra he suggests we tell ourselves when the fear of death strikes: “Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist.”

In contrast to hedonia, the Stoic approach is known as eudaimonia, which might be defined as a life devoted to our greatest potential in service of our highest ideals. Stoicism is characterized by the principles of naturalism and moralism—changing the things we can to make life better while also accepting the things we can’t change. (The “Serenity Prayer” is very Stoic.) “Don’t demand that things happen as you wish,” Epictetus wrote in The Enchiridion, “but wish that they happen as they do happen, and you will go on well.”

Moralism is the principle that moral virtue is to be defined and followed for its own sake. “Tell yourself, first of all, what kind of man you want to be,” Epictetus wrote in his Discourses, “and then go ahead with what you are doing.” In other words, create a code of virtuous conduct for yourself and live by it, with no loopholes for convenience.

Epicureans and Stoics are encouraged to focus their attention on different aspects of life—and death. Epicurus’s philosophy suggested that we should think intently about happiness, while for Stoics, the paradox of happiness is that to attain it, we must forget about it; with luck, happiness will come as we pursue life’s purpose. Meanwhile, Epicurus encourages us to disregard death while we are alive, and Epictetus insists that we confront it and ponder it regularly, much like the maranasati meditation in Buddhism, in which monks contemplate their own deaths and stages of decay.

No research to date asks why some people are naturally more Epicurean and others more Stoic. No doubt there is a genetic component, given the large percentage of personality that sits encoded somewhere in our DNA. But nurture likely also plays a role: In one study, a scholar found that parents who modeled and endorsed eudaimonia had kids who engaged in eudaimonic pursuits. Meanwhile, parents who role-modeled hedonia had kids who grew up to derive pleasure primarily from this model. The implication is pretty clear: If you want children who principally pursue duty and honor, do so yourself. If instead you strive to achieve happiness by minimizing pain, your kids probably will too.

People have argued for centuries about which approach is better for happiness, but they largely talk past one another. In truth, each pursues different aspects of happiness: Epicurus’s style brings pleasure and enjoyment; Epictetus’s method delivers meaning and purpose. As happiness scholars note, a good blend of these things is likeliest to deliver a truly happy life. Too much of one—a life of trivial enjoyment or one of grim determination—will not produce a life well lived, as most of us see it.

The big question is, therefore, how people can manufacture a good blend in their lives between the two approaches. Here are three ideas.

1. Know thyself.

This expression is one of the Delphic maxims, carved into the pronaos of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi in ancient Greece. It acknowledges the fundamental truth that we can’t make forward progress in life if we don’t know where we are situated right now. Answering the question thus starts with an informal but honest answer to this question: When my mood is low, do I naturally look to increase my level of pleasure and enjoyment, or do I focus on meaning and purpose in my life? The former is a sign that you tend toward being an Epicurean, the latter that you are more of a Stoic.

More scientifically, several research-based tools to judge Epicurean or Stoic tendencies have been developed. For example, scholars fielded a survey in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences that helps uncover hedonistic tendencies. The “Meaning in Life Questionnaire” from the University of Pennsylvania’s Authentic Happiness Questionnaire Center arguably measures eudaimonic tendencies quite well. (On this test, I learned that I am near the top of the population in my efforts to search for meaning in life, but below average in having found it.)

2. Beef up the other side.

The key to blending enjoyment and meaning is not to suppress what you have, but to bolster what you lack. Once you have situated yourself on the spectrum, you can formulate a strategy to strengthen the discipline you are missing (assuming that you’re not in the middle already).

At the end of each day, you might examine the events you experienced, and ask yourself harmonizing questions. For example:

Did this event bring me enjoyment? Did it also bring me meaning? Did this make me feel afraid? Did I learn something from this fear that will lead to less fear in the future? Did this serve my interests? Did it serve the interest of others?

Make resolutions that attempt to achieve yes-yes combinations to these questions.

You can also engage in concrete exercises that remediate your weakness. Stoics, for example, might program regular weekends away with friends, leaving all work at home. Meanwhile, Epicureans might do something difficult and strenuous like training for a marathon. Stoics should read this column about happiness and discuss it during their weekends away. Epicureans should spend their running time pondering the reality and meaning of death. 3. Build a happiness portfolio that uses both approaches.

Finally, it is important to pursue life goals in which each happiness approach reinforces the other. That portfolio is simple, and I have written about it before: Make sure your life includes faith, family, friendship, and work in which you earn your success and serve others. Each of these elements flexes both the Stoic and the Epicurean muscles: All four require that we be fully present in an Epicurean sense and that we also work hard and adhere to strong commitments in a Stoic sense.

The deeper point in all this is an ancient one: A balanced approach to happiness in life is best. In his essay “The Natural History of Intellect,” Ralph Waldo Emerson put it concisely: “Characters and talents are complemental and suppletory. The world stands by balanced antagonisms.”

Read: The three equations for a happy life, even during a pandemic

That’s easier said than done, of course. Whether Epicurean or Stoic, we always want to double down on what comes naturally to us. But that is the road to excess, which ultimately leads us away from well-being. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” goes the old proverb. In 1825, the novelist Maria Edgeworth added a second line: “All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.” Just so.

So to all you Stoics: Take the night off. And to all you Epicureans: Time to get back to work.

https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2021/01/how-balance-hard-work-and-pleasure-happiness/617847/?utm_source=pocket-newtab

Read: Sit with your negative emotions, don’t push them away

Read: Fear can make you a better person

Read: Preparing your mind for uncertain times

Read: What good is thinking about death?

https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2021/01/how-balance-hard-work-and-pleasure-happiness/617847/?utm_source=pocket-newtab

#family #Happy People

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gumnut-logic · 5 years ago

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Suits

I woke up with this scene in my head this morning and this fic is the result. It appears to be little more than a mood piece and it rambles, not really going anywhere, but it is an answer to Scott’s FabFiveFeb challenge with the prompt “What do you mean?”

As with most of my fics at the moment - SPOILERS FOR 3.25 & 3.26.

Thank you to @scribbles97 for the cheering on and the readthrough. And apologies to @onereyofstarlight I kinda built on your turf :D Hope I got all my references right :D

Don’t expect too much and I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

Scott straightened his tie. The soft blue silk had a calm sheen to it. Virgil, ever the colour coordinator, had given it to him last birthday and basically demanded he wear it with this suit.

Who was Scott to disagree with a practising artist? A tie was a tie, but he had to admit the blue did something to highlight his eyes. He understood that much.

Shoulders straight, he found himself brushing non-existent lint off his lapels.

Pulling his hand away, he had to admit he was nervous and the soft grey fabric was little more than a shield between him and the world.

He was standing in his room in their house in Parnell, Auckland. Through the window of his bedroom the volcanic island of Rangitoto sat in a still and grey early morning sea.

A cruise ship was entering Waitemata Harbour, the floating hotel, a slow-moving behemoth.

It echoed how he felt stuck here.

But he was a Tracy and there were necessary things that had to be done. He turned toward the door and grabbed his wallet and keys. He had left Commander Tracy in the hands of Virgil for a couple of days. His younger brother’s thoughts on that were, as always, dutiful but reluctant. One of these days Virgil would realise just how good a commander he actually was and stop fretting every time Scott left the Island for a few days.

Gordon’s eyes had sparkled.

Scott snorted to himself. The aquanaut was as much Virgil’s second as Virgil was Scott’s. Gordon would have his brother’s back.

Even while hoisting Virgil’s underwear up the flagpole.

The smile that crept onto his face at the thought of his brothers did a lot to straighten out his thoughts.

Today was necessary, but there was always tomorrow to look forward to.

He sighed and strode into the corridor and down the stairs. “Dad, you ready?”

He found his father in the living room. The man’s back was ramrod straight, his dark grey suit sharp and professional.

The pink tie was an…interesting accent.

Grey eyes caught his staring at the silk wrapped around his collar. “Alan gave it to me.”

Scott frowned and took a step closer. “Are those…flamingos?”

“Yes, they were your mother’s favourite.” The tie was a solid candy pink, but embossed in stitches in the material were small flamingos. Elegant rather than gaudy.

His dad was still tense as bowstring, which was understandable considering what they were doing today. “You look great, Dad.”

The shift in his father’s stance was subtle, but the release of tension was enough. “Thank you.” His eyes appraised Scott. “You’ve made a good choice yourself.”

Scott shrugged. “Virgil knows how to bully.”

His dad snorted. “You, too, huh?”

“Yeah.” It was said with fondness. But onto business. “Ready?”

��Lead the way.”

The car was out the front waiting as the two men strode out the front door, Scott grabbing his briefcase as they left.

It was a short drive into the CBD and one of the reasons why they had purchased the house in Parnell many years ago. Some would say it was indulgent. Scott considered it necessary for appearances.

After all, if he was going to make the board travel all the way out here, he had to have the presence to make it happen.

A couple of years after his father’s disappearance Scott had moved Tracy Industries HQ to Auckland. His reasoning was clear. Aotearoa was International Rescue’s closest neighbour. The economic landscape worked to their business advantage and IR had an arrangement with the government that allowed fast deployment of the Thunderbirds if necessary.

And it was a simple power move. Making the rest of the world come to them spoke of confidence and strength.

His father had stared at him when he told him of the financial situation Tracy Industries was currently in. Those grey eyes had widened.

“We’re worth how much?”

Scott shifted where he stood. “It was a family effort, Dad.”

And it truly had been. While Scott acted as President, John had flexed his genius and played the stockmarket in his spare time. Both Brains and Virgil patented some core new technologies, Gordon expanded their ecological interests and Alan, still in high school, had helped to launch their high-tech simulator experiences.

Scott didn’t mention the merchandise. He avoided the merchandise.

But it all came together and where Tracy Industries was worth billions when his father disappeared, after an initial stumble and drop, it had recovered once the world realised that Scott Tracy was no pushover and was now greater than it had ever been. More diverse, more powerful, just more.

Scott had sat his father down and gone through the portfolio.

“We’re in aquaculture?”

“Gordon’s coup. He funded a small time ecologically safe project enough to get it off the ground. Now we are the major supplier of several marine crops for both food and medicinal purposes.”

His Dad frowned.

“It’s strength in diversity, Dad. The sum of all supports the all.”

Those eyes pinned him. “I taught you that line.”

Scott’s lips curled. “I know.”

And now the day had come where the current President had to re-introduce the former President to the board.

The buildings slipped by as the car darted through the city. The day was grey without being cold, but it was far from the tropics he was used to. People walked the streets, traffic lights passed them by. An ambulance tore through going in the opposite direction and Scott found himself stretching to peer out the back window to see where it was going, automatically running locations through his head, his hand halfway to his lapel to call Thunderbird Five before he stopped himself.

But nothing was said in the back of the car. His father was quiet and gazed out the opposite window. Scott knew this must be hard for him, but it had to be done.

“Are you sure, Dad?” They had discussed it late one evening out on the balcony.

“I’m sure, son. It is time.”

“You don’t have to do it now, you can wait longer if you need it.”

“Do you have reservations?” His voice was quiet.

“No! I’m just worried you’re hurrying it, that’s all.”

Still quiet. “No.” His father looked out towards the horizon. “It’s time.”

But still as the car pulled up in front of the tower of glass that served as their headquarters, Scott had to admit to himself, he had his reservations.

His father had had so many challenges to face on his return. His health was the worst. The long-term damage from years in space was unavoidable. The lack of a healthy diet was almost as bad. There were months of painful rehabilitation with sorely needed respite on Five. John had been his father’s constant companion. Gordon had stepped in as his coach.

The day Scott found Gordon in tears in his bedroom would always be engraved in his memory. His little brother had just simply overflowed. The skin and bone of their father, his pain, the scars, it had all managed to chip away even Gordon’s strength. Scott ended up holding the man as he cried on his shoulder.

Scott’s eyes were far from dry.

Virgil found them there sometime later and from that point on things had changed.

International Rescue took second place for a while after that.

They still went out, but sometimes they just had to defer. Dad needed them.

Of course, their father knew nothing of the sort. The brothers fed him the information they needed to. Scott didn’t keep him in the dark, but he didn’t need to know what he didn’t need to know. The brothers had been managing IR for a long time. They did what they had to do.

Scott kept Tracy Industries and IR moving, John stayed with their father while Eos acted in his place, Virgil, Gordon and Alan divided their time between Dad and International Rescue.

Grandma moved to Auckland to look after her son.

It was a challenging year.

But Dad was back on Earth and despite the pain, they still rejoiced.

The driver opened his door and Scott was forced by propriety to climb out of the car.

His father followed.

Scott watched him look up and up.

And up.

The building was truly an architectural triumph. The tallest structure in Auckland, it was an elegant sculpture spun from ribbons of glass and greenery. It said success and it shouted it to all who saw it. Iconic and a tourist attraction it was known the world over as Tracy Tower.

“Spared no expense.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Impressive.”

“That’s the idea.” But eyes were staring in their direction. His father’s presence today had been kept quiet, but with the media in everyone’s back pocket, it wouldn’t take long for the world to realise that Jeff Tracy was making his inaugural visit to Tracy Tower. “C’mon, Dad. They’ll be waiting for us.”

“For you.”

“Yeah, well, the moment they see you, I’ll just be part of the furniture.” He shot a small smile at his father.

The smile was reflected in those grey eyes. “Then lead on.”

The doors opened for them and they strode through into the grand foyer. Scott surreptitiously watched his father as he encountered the sheer opulence of the massive entrance. When Scott had first seen the plans for the building, his eyes had nearly fallen out of his head. It was over-the-top and just screamed ‘rich and we want to show it’ that he had stormed into the architects and given them a piece of his mind.

Fortunately, Virgil and Gordon had been with him at the time and reined him in because the lead architect had looked at him calmly before pulling up a hologram of the plans and going through each key point Scott had neglected to read.

The three rescues the day and night before might have had something to do with it.

The building was an ecological masterpiece. All the art served a purpose. It had no carbon footprint. Under the glass were solar cells that generated enough electricity to power the building itself, plus half the CBD beside it. Woven into the structure were gardens that served as havens for the workers in the building and for the wildlife around it. Aotearoa was the land of birds and the Tower supported as many as was practical.

Gordon had literally been bouncing at the time.

But the foyer was what Virgil had fallen in love with. At its centre stood a holographic sculpture generating image and music from the movement around it. Where people bustled past, the artwork collected the movement and interpreted it as light and sound.

A play of colours and piano notes danced around the room. Strategically placed glass reflected and bounced it further.

“Virgil?”

Scott snorted. “You could say that. Once he saw the designs, I couldn’t keep him away from them. They are considerably different from what was originally conceived.” He shrugged. “I like to think he improved it.” He couldn’t help but smile at the memory of his usually calm brother gesticulating enthusiastically while outlining concepts and possibilities.

Scott waved at the sculpture and, even a dozen or so metres away, it waved back and sung a soft chime.

“You boys have definitely made your mark.”

A slight frown and he turned to his father. “We only built on your work, Dad. None of this was possible without you.”

His father straightened. “It is quite an achievement.”

A shrug. “It’s useful. It does what it needs to do.” He turned to reception and showed his ID. The young man smiled and ducked his head slightly. “Welcome, Mr Tracy.” Scott grinned at the security officer.

His father held out his ID, newly minted and shiny.

Scott hid a smile as the young security guard’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. “Mister Tracy?!” There weren’t enough capital letters in the English language to appropriately punctuate those two words.

“Yes, son, that’s my name. And yours is?”

“Uh, Cameron, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Cameron. Have you worked here long?

“Uh, just over eighteen months, sir.”

“Are you enjoying the work?”

“Yes, sir. Scott, er, Mr Tracy has been very kind.”

Scott couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah, well, you’ve done an excellent job, Cameron.”

“Thank you, sir. The board are waiting in the Observatory.”

“FAB.”

Cameron’s grin was worth the small breach in protocol.

His father raised an eyebrow at Scott as they walked towards the elevator. “There’s a story there, isn’t there?”

“Yep. Had to pull Cameron out of Shackleton Nuclear Facility.”

His father stopped him in his tracks. “You went in there? That place is quarantined.”

Scott shrugged. “We do what we have to do. Cameron survived because of us. It is a success story, Dad.”

Those eyes held his a moment longer. “I’d be interested in seeing the reports.”

“They are available whenever you want to see them, Dad. I’ve told you that.” In fact, it had worried Scott that his father hadn’t jumped into the mission reports almost immediately. It as if he was reluctant to look into what he had missed.

It was understandable, but it was a concern nonetheless.

The elevator arrived as they approached and another security guard waved them in.

It didn’t take very long to get to the top of the building and the doors opened into the light an airy space that was the Observatory.

This was Virgil’s ode to John.

The engineer and artist had seen the plans for the rooftop space and immediately made suggestions. Scott wasn’t sure if you could stargaze in the middle of the city, but Virgil and the architects certainly did their best to make it appear as if you could.

The massive function area consisted of a glass enclosure that was the apex or the building. At night, lights shone on the glass in perfect constellations for the southern hemisphere. Even Scott was impressed.

During the day, the glass mosaicked shadows on the floor tiles that created those same constellations in lines.

Virgil hadn’t been the designer, but he had poked the team until they came up with this. To be honest, it was Scott’s favourite place for a board meeting.

It kept him close to the sky.

Gardens wove around the centre of the structure and when the meetings broke, there was plenty of fresh air and greenery to breathe in.

Today it was as grey as the ocean in the distance. Rangitoto Island defied the grey with its green volcanic cone.

The cruise ship had made dock.

Scott straightened his shoulders and stepped out of the elevator.

Immediately, every eye in the room turned and targeted him.

A moment later, every single eye slipped off him and landed on his father as he stepped out behind him.

“Mister Tracy!”

The name fell from the lips of Janine, Scott’s secretary who was there ready to take minutes.

“Well, are you just going to stand there or come in and take a seat?”

Scott couldn’t help but smile. “Captain Taylor.” A nod of greeting. “How was your trip from Mars?”

“Oh, Albert was excellent as always.”

Scott snorted as behind the astronaut, Alan, dressed neatly in a suit, rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Virgil, dressed in a grey almost as dark as his hair, emerged from the crowd, his eyes bright. “Hey, Dad, Scott.” He held out his hand to his father. “Welcome to Tracy Industries, Mister Tracy.” And yes, there was an amused smirk on his brother’s face.

Their Dad took Virgil’s hand, puzzlement on his face. “Virgil, what are you doing here? I thought you had command?”

The engineer tilted his head a little. “Well, sir, this is a full board meeting. Two is not far away, we can move fast enough. I can guarantee it.” There it was, the leader that was his younger brother even if the man didn’t see it himself.

“But at the moment, all of us are required to be here.” A flash of red hair and John stepped up from behind them. His suit a deep blue grey paired with his signature turquoise tie.

“What do you mean?”

Gordon appeared beside John, his smart pinstripe suit looking almost alien on the aquanaut…until you looked closer and realised there were purple octopuses on his tie and he was wearing sandals.

Scott rolled his eyes. He gave up. Gordon was never going to conform. It made him want to throttle him for it and yet love him even more.

“Jeff, dear.” A slim hand slipped around Gordon’s arm and Lady Penelope, all blonde and pink perfection, smiled up at his father. “You have to realise that your sons are all on the Tracy Industries board. Along with myself and Captain Taylor, of course.

His father spun to stare at Scott.

He just shrugged. “It’s a family business, Dad.”

Alan stepped forward. “Aunt Val sends her apologies. She is caught up in the States.”

His Dad was still staring at him. “But what about all those board member portfolios you shared with me?”

Scott tilted his head just a little. “They are board members, Dad. But so are we. We don’t have the luxury of be available for all meetings, but we do what we can. The quorum manage and keep us apprised.”

Lips thinned. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

Scott let out a breath. “Dad, if you knew we were all on the board, would it have affected your decision?”

Those eyes held his, but Scott could see the concern behind the grey. He knew this had been a very hard decision for his father and had wanted to support him in any way possible. It had been John who suggested they keep the family out of the equation, to hopefully put less stress on their father.

Mister Tracy frowned. “I guess we will never know.”

Scott didn’t smile, but he let a little hope flare at that statement. “Shall we call the meeting to order?”

A single nod from his father. Scott waved his brothers to their seats at the broad conference table to one side of the room. The non-family members of the board only had eyes for the elder Tracy.

Virgil slipped in next to Scott. Whispered. “FAB?” How’s Dad?

Equally quiet. “FAB.” Okay, but the same. They had both been worried that this was too soon, but Their father was as stubborn as the rest of them and wanted to do it now.

Virgil sat to his right as he always did, John to his left. Gordon slid over one with Alan and their father sat next to Virgil.

Scott didn’t sit down, but stood standing at the head of the table, a good twenty people staring at him…when they weren’t darting glances at his father.

A bird landed on the glass far above, its feet clattering against the surface.

“Thank you all for your attendance today for this special meeting of the Tracy Industries International Board.” He drew in a breath. “As the first item of business, I would like to announce my resignation as President.”

Several members gasped out loud. Janine let out a high-pitched squeak. A ‘no’ was whispered from the back of the room. Scott held up a hand and a respectful silence fell. “I don’t do this lightly and it is not for personal reasons, but for the betterment of Tracy Industries.” He straightened his shoulders. “I move to nominate my father, Jeff Tracy, to return to his rightful position as President of this company. Do I have a second?”

Six hands shot into the air.

The rest of the room sat in stunned silence.

“It will be noted that the motion was passed and that the board will vote, pending any additional nominations as per the constitution.”

The silence was profound.

The bird on the roof chattered to itself.

Scott caught his father’s eye and smiled.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy #jeff tracy #fabfivefeb #fabfivefeb2020 #tag spoilers #tagspoilers

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harianadimples · 5 years ago

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Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Warning: none 3.7k+: fluff, light angst, university!au, spooky szn

| – | – | – |

The house begins to look like a haunted house well before October 31st.

They finished refurnishing the walls and the floors of the living room three weeks into September and are now in the process of putting in furniture and decorating. Harry didn’t really bat an eye when Ariana was bringing home small Halloween related pieces like ceramic jack-o-lantern models and a practical witch’s spell book, but he felt he needed to step in once he saw her carrying a familiar bust into their living room.

“You are not putting that in here,” Harry immediately takes the bust from her, maneuvering it away from her grabby hands as they reached for it.

The bust was from a shoot he did for his first year, special effects makeup class in university. He had to create a prosthetic of his face; a mask, essentially. It turned out a little wonky since Harry didn’t have the experience he has now, and he might have been high while working on it. He kept it as a portfolio piece before it inevitably ended up in a storage unit. He would have thrown it away if Ariana hadn’t wanted to have it, and now he’s strongly reconsidering his decision to keep it.

“Come on, you know how much I adore that thing. It’s art!” Ariana huffs as she tries for the bust with Harry’s face again, but he only holds it above his head where he knows she won’t be able to reach it. “Hey, careful with him!” She gasps, making the jump to grab the bust from Harry which she quickly runs and places on the coffee table.

“It clashes with my Michaelmas Daisies,” Harry huffs motioning to how the fleshy bust dampened the soft nature of his purple flowers.

“What if I put him with the landline?” Ariana asks.

“No, it’s old and the direct sunlight isn’t good for it,” Harry shakes his head, trailing off as he looks around the living room, “I suppose he can go on the shelf there, with the paper weight Matt gave us.”

“Hmmm, if Matt ever heard you calling his wedding gift for us a ‘paper weight,’ he’d ghost you again,” Ariana laughs as she brings the bust over to the shelf.

“What would I do with a small crystal dog other than use it as a paper weight?” Harry asks. “It can’t give me kisses or cuddle me.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ariana grins as she steps into Harry’s arms which invitingly wrap around her in an embrace that warms them both. She leans upward and kisses the bottom of his chin before slipping out of his arms so she could continue her decorating.

“Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder”

The one where Halloween complicates a marriage when you couldn’t care less about Halloween while your wife’s the kind of person to paint ‘YOU’RE NEXT’ on your new walls with fake blood

-:-:-:-

After five of years of marriage and being together for nine years in total, Harry thinks he knows his wife pretty well at this point. So, when she came into their living room one summer morning, her eyes suspiciously aglow for someone who had to go to the pharmacy to pick up his ointments, Harry knew that she was up to something. He could see the cog wheels in her mind turning as he met her eyes from across the room.

“Look what I picked up. I saw it in the shop next door, and thought it was the cutest thing. I think it’ll look great on our mantle,” Ariana says, the pitter patter of her socked feet thud over their half-done wood floors to where Harry is sitting by a pile of floor boards. She pulls out a small skeleton doll, made mostly of tiny (he hopes are fake) bones and a barbie-sized head. Only the head is missing a face, and had a head full of matted black hair.

“It’s creepy,” Harry makes a pinched expression as he looks at it up close, “isn’t it a bit too early for shops to sell Halloween decorations?”

“It’s never too early for Halloween,” Ariana disagrees as she takes the doll from Harry, taking it to the fireplace to place it on the mantle.

They’re currently re-doing the living room so, the mantle isn’t flocked with family photos and the small gifts they’d collected at past weddings and birthdays. She sets the doll down in the middle of the mantle, stepping back to admire it in its lonesome.

“Have we decided on ‘silver chalice’ or ‘silk pillow’ for the walls?” Harry asks as he sets his phone down.

“Silk pillow,” Ariana sighs, “but I still think black would be divine.”

…

The house begins to look like a haunted house well before October 31st.

“You are not putting that in here,” Harry immediately takes the bust from her, maneuvering it away from her grabby hands as they reached for it.

“It clashes with my Michaelmas Daisies,” Harry huffs motioning to how the fleshy bust dampened the soft nature of his purple flowers.

“What if I put him with the landline?” Ariana asks.

“Hmmm, if Matt ever heard you calling his wedding gift for us a ‘paper weight,’ he’d ghost you again,” Ariana laughs as she brings the bust over to the shelf.

“What would I do with a small crystal dog other than use it as a paper weight?” Harry asks. “It can’t give me kisses or cuddle me.”

Harry spends some time rearranging their photos on the mantle which is worryingly overcrowded now, but he felt adamant about every photo being included. Each photo held a great importance to him, so much so that he went out of his way to have them printed and framed. There’s one from their first date, one from when they got engaged, and of course, when they got married. The other photos were every-other-day photos of them that he really loved, not to mention that they’d be great to show their kids and their kids someday; Harry can’t wait to be that one grandparent with the stories, you know the one.

Harry glances at the photo he’s holding and can’t help but grin. It’s a photo from when they met; a group photo taken at a Halloween party she’d hosted in her third year of university (Harry was a year below her).

…

“Why the hell are we here, Matt? Holly’s moved on and so should you,” Harry looked at his desperate friend in disbelief, trying his best to keep up with Matt as he kept walking further into the house. Harry didn’t even know whose party they’d crash, but he knew he needed to stop Matt before he caused a scene.

“I just want to see the prick she left me for,” Matty huffed, “now put on your mask, I don’t want to actually confront her. If she sees you she’ll know I’m here too, because we all know you hate Halloween. She’ll think you’re only at this party because I dragged you here.”

“Heeey!” Harry frowned, “I don’t hate Halloween, don’t make me out to be some bad person. I just don’t find it fun; the dressing up, the decorations, the stress of it all–.”

“Yeah, whatever man. Come on,” Matt slipped on his zombie mask along with Harry and the pair began walking through the house.

Harry wasn’t impressed much when he saw the different costumes. It’s clear that not everyone got the memo about the Night of the Living Dead theme, though to be honest there weren’t many people to begin with. While Harry still didn’t care much for the festivities of Halloween, he figured that if a Halloween party has a theme you should at least try to follow it, otherwise why attend? He felt most unimpressed by those who disregarded the theme entirely. It wasn’t that bad of a theme. A little dated maybe, but Night of the Living dead is a cult classic horror film that he can appreciate for the special effects makeup.

“Hey Matt, you know whose party this is?” Harry asks.

“Ariana Grande, from one of Holly’s classes. I think they’re friends, but you never know with her what your relationship is,” Matt shrugged, “Anyway, yeah, she’s kind of weird.”

Harry took in the decorations littered around the house. Through the dim mood lighting, he could make out the cobwebs stuck in every corner, the gentle fog which sweeps around his feet, and finally the fake bloodied limbs. There’s fake tombstones set up in places, and models of zombies made for lawns propped up in random areas. Whoever this Ariana girl was she really put in the effort in decorating the place.

The two made their way into the kitchen where the drinks were. Harry poured himself some red punch, which he wasn’t surprised was spiked with some alcohol when he gulped it down. He heard Matt gruffly speaking next to him, but it wasn’t towards him. He looked and saw Matt speaking to someone dressed as Mark Hamill’s Joker. They’re talking about Holly again and Harry’s about had it with Matt being hung up on Holly; if he didn’t love his best friend so much he’d be anywhere else, but he didn’t want Matt to do something stupid that would end up in a fight again.

Deciding to distance himself from the two, Harry made his way back to the table with the punch. He poured himself another glass and looked around. There’s some finger food (literally… fingers; they’re sugar cookies, he discovers) which admittedly tasted sinful with his spiked punch. There was a large bowl of chocolates as well which he was inclined to reach into when he spotted his favourite chocolate brand. When reaching into the bowl Harry was startled when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist from within the bowl, buried beneath the chocolates.

The noise that came from Harry wasn’t pretty.

He’s sure that the whole house heard him scream. Matt and his friend were looking at him in confusion and worry, while other’s just stared in awkward silence.

Then muffled laughter; he heard laughter, coming from the bowl?

Harry looked for the owner of that laugh, readying himself to tell them off for being so childish, but instead he watches with forced composure as a young woman slides out from under the table. Her laughter is less muffled now, and when she’s standing in front of him with a pleased expression he notices how she looks like a proper zombie, her face in a genuine state of decay with her large school sweater ripped and dirtied.

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting under there,” She said, reaching for a cup to pour herself some punch.

“I suppose I’m your first victim, then,” Harry murmured as he fiddled with his cup.

“You’re actually the only one to fall for it so far. It’s an old trick that only the dumbest people fall for,” She smirked, “I miss when Halloween had more tricks, as well as treats. Isn’t it fun getting scared?”

“Not a fan of the surprise but the aesthetic is sublime,” Harry shrugged. “I’m not much of a Halloween enthusiast but, whoever put this party together knows how to throw a good Halloween party.”

“Why thank you,” She smiled as Harry realized who she is.

“Ariana, right?” Harry decided to make sure it was her.

“Yup. So, you’re Harry. Holly mentioned you hated Halloween,” Ariana said as Harry sighs, “It’s not that I hate Halloween, I just know it takes a lot of dedication so I’d rather not bother myself with the stress of it all. I’m a last-minute-costume sort of guy. I have nothing against anyone who celebrates Halloween,” he defends.

“Well, at least you came to my party on-theme so I’ll forgive you for being a Halloween hater,” Ariana said, referring to his mask.

“I’m not a Halloween Hater–!”

“Not after I’m through with you,” She warned, grinning mischievously as she approached Harry, “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. I’ll give you a Halloween you won’t forget.”

Harry watched as she leaves, immediately losing her in a sea of fake fog and other party goers. Matt wasn’t wrong about her being kind of weird, but Harry thought of it in the best way, like she clearly has a personality behind her prosthetics and costume rather than sharing a hive mind with the rest of the undead in the room. Harry made a mental note to ask her about her prosthetics when he had the chance. In the meantime he rejoined Matt.

Though he’d rather not admit it, he was on edge for the rest of the night. He genuinely feared getting tricked by Ariana again, mostly because he was the jumpy type and would leap out of his skin even at the slightest noise and he’d rather not have to deal with her laughing at him for being such an easy scare.

Harry is unsure if Ariana let it slip to Holly that he was here, because at some point in the night Holly had come up to him and Matt (she was dressed as a zombified pageant winner) and somewhere between his fourth and sixth cup of spiked punch, Harry had lost the two and was left alone to mope on the sofa next to some couple making out. Right when he was thinking about getting up to look for Ariana, she’d reappeared from the hallway and had caught his gaze from across the room. She smiled and approached him, careful not to bump into the dancing bodies loitering the living room.

“Hey,” Ariana greeted him as she sat next to him.

“What happened to those tricks you said you have up your sleeve?” He teased her, smiling when she rolled her eyes.

“I think the real trick was not having to do anything and just watching you constantly turning around to make sure I wasn’t there. Anyway, I waited a bit but Matt was by your side most of the time and he’s hard to scare, so I gave it a rest. I thought you’d have forgotten about me by then,” She said.

“It’s kind of hard to forget you after my life was threatened,” Harry retorted.

“I just wanted to give you a little fright,” She laughed.

“Your face is frightening, alone,” Harry huffed as his bleary eyes began to struggle to find where her eyes exactly are.

“Thank you,” She smiled, “it's all prosthetic though, but don’t worry there’s a whole lotta ugly underneath this mask too.”

Her comments made Harry laugh as he shook his head, “Yeah, I took a special effects makeup class in my first year. I’m in the film studies program. So, I know a thing or two about prosthetics.”

“Oh sick, I’m in the theatre program. Same as Holly,” She replied. “You probably think my prosthetics look like trash.”

“No, no, actually, I think it’s pretty good. You know, for an amateur. You did that yourself?” Harry asked.

“Yup, just myself with an hour long tutorial on YouTube,” She nodded, “I had Holly help with some of the placement though. Is it really fine?”

“Honestly, it’s fine. I doubt I could do any better. I had to reconstruct my face for an assignment once. Got it on a bust in a storage unit at my dorm. It looked horrifying to say the least,” Harry chuckled.

“Can I have it?”

“No offence but, I just met you so it’s a little weird that you’d want to keep a bust of my face. You’d probably make it a part of your whole Halloween theme and I’d rather not showcase my worst work yet,” Harry shook his head as Ariana pouted. “Well, then how about we get to know each other better?” She suggested. “I know your name is Harry and friends with Holly and Matt, and I know you’re a film studies major and you know how to do special effects makeup. You know that my name is Ariana, and I’m also friends with Holly and Matt. I’m a theatre major and I love Halloween. Oh, I almost forgot, you hate Halloween.”

“I don’t!”

“Right, you just don’t think Halloween is fun,” Ariana rolled her eyes, “shall we unmask the monster under there?” When Harry didn’t try to stop her, Ariana continued to lift the mask over his head. When she saw Harry beneath the zombie mask she swore her heart skipped a beat.

“Well?” He asked her, his green eyes bleary from the alcohol, late hour and fake fog.

“Nothing,” Ariana huffed as she slid the mask back over his face.

Harry pulled his mask off again and set it down in his lap. He glanced over at Ariana who’s got her arms crossed, the rim of her cup tucked between her lips as she looked anywhere but at him.

“Now this isn’t fair. You know what I look like without my mask, but I don’t know what you look like under yours,” Harry pointed out.

“You’re not missing anything,” She assured him with a grunt, “trust me.”

“I suppose I’ll be the judge of that when I see you next, say, tomorrow afternoon? Coffee to nurse our hangovers?” Harry asked.

“Sure,” She shook her head, though she sounded a little hesitant in agreeing. “I’m sorry, are you asking me out?”

“I’m just completing your suggestion. I guess I want to get to know you better too,” Harry shrugged.

“Okay, but fair warning. There’s a lot of weird going on up here,” Ariana motioned to her head as she looked at Harry. “And I love Halloween, so I don’t know how that’ll fit in your anti-Halloween agenda.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake–,” Harry started but was cut off by her laughter. This time he realized he found her laugh quite pretty and nice in his ears despite him being a little annoyed by her teasing.

“Hey you two, we’re doing a group photo. Care to join?” Holly appeared with Matt behind her. Neither Harry or Ariana rejected the offer so they both stood; Harry first, and then Ariana who he helped pull off from the sofa.

Harry and Ariana end up stood beside each other. It’s then that harry realized that Ariana was quite small compared to his height and the other’s. She seemed to be getting pushed back by whoever else was trying to get in the photo, so he did was seemed logical in the moment and ushered her to stand in front of him.

Ariana seemed thankful and Harry gave her a small reassuring smile before putting his mask back on. He rests his chin on top of her head and wraps his arms around her.

“Say… Halloween!”

“Halloweeeen!”

…

Halloween morning, Harry wakes up alone with his face pressed into Ariana’s pillow having rolled onto his right side at some point overnight. He can tell because he can smell her on the pillow covers.

He wanders through the hallway, his socked feet sliding over the new floor boards just for the sake of it as he mindlessly admires his handiwork. He’s wrapped up in his lavender dressing gown as he makes his way downstairs where the temperature drops, and he wonders if the thermostat is being faulty again.

What he finds in the hallway leading towards the rest of the house is worse than a faulty air con. Among the corny Halloween decor, is the words ‘YOUR NEXT’ painted on the walls in thick fake blood (he hopes).

“Babe?” Harry calls for his wife as he blinks at the mess on the wall.

“Yeah! I’m in the living room!”

“Come here a minute!” Harry says as he stares at the wall.

The pitter patter of her feet follow his request and soon Ariana meets Harry in the hallway, her hands still covered in the fake blood she’d smeared on their newly painted walls. She’s still carrying a plastic Tupperware container of the fake blood with her.

“Morning baby,” She greets him nonchalantly as she looks at him for a reaction to her work on the walls. “What do you think?”

“You used the wrong ‘you’re’,” Harry sighs as he takes the Tupperware container from her and dips three of his finger’s in. He begins to fix her mistake, adding the apostrophe between the ‘U’ and ‘R’ and an ‘E’ at the end.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize. I was honestly half asleep when I started in the hall,” She admits with a giggle as she takes the Tupperware container back from Harry. “Come see the living room.”

Their living room doesn’t appear much different to Harry except for the fake blood smeared across the walls and on the floors. Though his bust is sitting on a silver platter, acting as a centre piece on their coffee table, and somehow it seems to be flattering his Michaelmas Daisies today.

“We’ll have to paint the walls over and then wax the floors again,” Harry reminds her, “this time it’s your turn to do the work.”

“Of course, but I want to keep this all up for as long as I can,” Ariana pouts. “Do you think our guests will finally dress on-theme this year?”

“Well, if we’re talking about our party being the Met-Gala of Halloween parties…. I doubt it,” He chuckles.

Later that day, Harry helped Ariana with the prosthetics for her costume. She’d asked for a deformed reimagining of her face earlier that week, so Harry had drawn up a few sketches for her to select. She’d chosen the worse looking one of course, and excitedly pestered him about it throughout his process of making the pieces.

As Harry finished up on her face, he took a step back to take in the finished product.

“How do I look?” Ariana asks, looking at him through the vanity.

“You look horrifyingly, beautiful,” Harry grins as he dabs his brush over the corners of her mouth before hooking his finger under her chin so he could turn her head and press a gentle kiss over her prosthetic lips. “Couldn’t be more in love with you, y’weirdo.”

“Thank you,” She laughs.

Harry’s costume is meant to match Ariana’s, so he’d made himself prosthetics as well. When the pair finished getting ready, they went into their living room and set up Ariana’s phone on a timer so they could take photos.

“I really like that one,” Harry says as she stops scrolling on the photo where they’re sat on the sofa next to each other just talking. It’s candid, and lovely, knowing she was probably going on about how excited she was about their party and Harry looks properly enamoured by her love for Halloween and her passion that shows when she talks about it.

You wouldn’t have guessed that he didn’t find Halloween very fun, though he’ll admit that over the years he grew to appreciate the spooky season more and more for the way it never failed to make Ariana’s eyes light up with pure happiness. The essence of the spooky season never really leaves, so long as Ariana has anything to do with it. Harry doesn’t mind, after all, Halloween is just another Thursday night for the pair nowadays.

| – | – | – |

Hey there, thanks for reading! I really wanted to write something inspired by the events that unfolded today: Harry saying with his whole chest that ‘Halloween is not fun’ and Ariana’s extra™ ass posting endless Halloween content of her in her twilight zone costume which this one shot title takes its inspiration from. I just love the parallel and wanted to write it in the context of a marriage because no one stopped me lol.

Hope you liked it ♡

+ masterlists

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mermaidxatxheart · 5 years ago

Text

Some Rules are Never Meant to be Broken Part III

Part I | Part II

Pairing: Paramedic!Bucky X Reader

Warnings: Some language probably, nothing too crazy, the feeling of being watched. IDK. This is kind of a mild chapter.

Word Count: 7143

Summary: The reader is a Muse living life as a tour guide at a museum. Bucky is struggling with returning home from war and adjusting to civilian life. He used to be a paramedic and now works security, but what he really misses from his pre-war life is his ability to draw. Cue the reader, determined to do her job and get him back to a point where he can do what he loves most. But, spending that much time with anyone always leads to romantic feelings, which is against her laws. Will she be able to resist Bucky long enough to help him and not get her in serious trouble?

A/N: I haven’t forgotten about this story at all. I’m just terrible and my brain simply can’t stop coming up with new ideas. Also, work has been sucking my soul dry. But I’ve finally reached a point, I feel like, where it’s a full chapter. It might not be the most exciting chapter, but I enjoy it, and I hope everyone else does, too. Mood board below was made by the ever amazing @captainsteveevans I can’t stop staring at this thing, it’s so gorgeous!! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. If you do, comment or send me a message. They’re some of my favorite things and I can’t stop smiling when I see them.

(Look at it^^^ I’m in love!)

Between school field trips and tourists in town for the holiday weekend, the museum had never been busier. You had given six tours and it was barely two.

You miss Bucky. It had been three days since you’ve seen him and you’ve hated every second, especially since he left you so flustered at not being kissed.

What a tease.

“Y/N, there is a man in the Greek wing that would like to speak to the expert. I told him you would be happy to talk to him. He’s very charming.”

Bucky!

“Alright. I’ll head over there right now.” you try to stop the ridiculous grin trying to pull at your lips.

You step into the hall and look around, expecting to see Bucky’s muscular frame. It wasn’t crowded in the exhibit at the moment, a few families milling about, but he was nowhere in sight and you feel a sinking feeling in your stomach.

He’s not here after all.

Nothing feels worse than getting your hopes up and then feeling them fall to the floor.

“Excuse me, you are the expert in this area?” a man asks, coming up to you. You quickly fix your face into a pleasant smile. He’s average height, shorter than Bucky, but a few inches taller than you. His whole appearance is immaculate, suit crisply pressed, dress shoes polished and buffed, his hair is styled professionally-not a thing out of place. His skin is flawless, not a freckle, blemish or mark of any kind. Perfect in every way, it’s almost unreal.

“Yes, you were looking for me?” you reply, holding out your hand.

He shakes it, his hand is soft in yours and after getting used to Bucky’s calloused one, it’s a strange sensation.

“Yes. My name is Doctor Feldman. I was hoping I could pick your brain about an exhibit I’m putting together.” He has an accent, it’s familiar but something you can’t place. It’s not anything that you’ve heard in the last fifty years. Maybe you’re just too out of touch with the rest of the world.

“Absolutely.”

He releases your hand finally and pulls out a portfolio from his briefcase. It matches his shoes, right down to the embellished stitching. An unfamiliar sensation fills your stomach.

“This is the space that I have to fill.” he hands you a photograph. The space is large and your mind starts racing about all the things you could fit in there, so many statues of yourself.

“Quite impressive.” you say, taking the photo from him, trying to avoid skin contact.

“Thank you. I was wondering, how would someone like yourself go about filling such a space with history?”

“Oh, there are many ways.”

He hands you more pictures of the artifacts to go inside and you’re able to easily recognize them.

“You could easily just set it up the Greeks on one side, Romans on the other, but I find that style quite boring.” you flip through a few more pictures, an idea forming in your head.

“Or, you could do an interactive style, in which you start with the oldest artifacts, and as history progresses you move through to the point where Rome invaded and then you could split it into two directions.”

“I rather like that idea.” he says, taking the pictures back.

“I’m glad I could be of help.”

“I may come back to pick your brain once or twice more.” he tells you, shaking your hand again. “You have such wonderful ideas.”

A chill creeps up your spine as he smiles at you. Something is very off about him, something you can’t quite place. You want to tell him to find another expert, that you can’t help him anymore. You open your mouth to speak, but he releases your hand.

“Have a good day.” he bids before walking away.

Your face flushes in annoyance that he cut you off like that. You make a face at his back, wishing that your powers extended to anything more than just inspiring people. That wasn’t exactly great for defending yourself.

You find, not for the first time, that you’re missing Bucky.

Rubbing the mark on the back of your neck, you walk back to your desk, counting the minutes until, hopefully, Bucky shows up at five.

As it turns out, five o’clock passed about twenty minutes ago and he never showed up. And you’re miserable for it. You wait to leave, thinking... hoping that he was just stuck in traffic or left the office late.

But as five-thirty passes, you’re forced to admit he’s not coming. Again. You retrieve your things and head out into the night air. Autumn is falling fast upon the city and the air is getting colder.

You wrap your coat tighter around you as you make your way home. You first notice something off in the subway car. It feels like eyes on you. You’ve volunteered for art classes over the years, students studying your body, learning how to draw, countless eyes focused on you. You’re intimately familiar with the feeling of being watched, of being watched with intent.

Subtly, you look around the car, trying to take in all the faces of the strangers around you. There are so damn many of them, it’s nearly impossible to remember. You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder, trying to ignore the feeling crawling along your skin. It’s a city with 8 million people. They have to look somewhere, so why not at a beautiful woman on a train.

The doors creak open, rocking the car slightly and you exit, making your way home. Once inside the door, you drop off your bag, pulling out your phone and finding Bucky’s number. Your finger hovers over the call button, an internal battle between wanting to hear his voice, and not wanting to look like an idiot. Your thumb twitches, pressing the call button on accident.

Shit.

Bucky

“Stark, how long does it take to update? You’ve had it for three days.” Bucky sighs, leaning against one of the many lab benches.

“It takes as long as it takes, Barnes. You can’t rush science.” he gives a small shrug. “Also, consider me holding it hostage as payback for you breaking my very nice door.”

He groans in annoyance. Tony had physically removed his entire arm, claiming he needed it for a software update. What Bucky hadn’t realized was that it would take four days to do it.

The door to the lab opens and Steve walks in like a man on a mission. “Tony, have you seen-” his eyes land on his best friend and Bucky gives a half-hearted wave with his one good hand. “Never mind. I found him.” Steve leans against the bench next to the dark-haired man.

He’s uncomfortably silent but Bucky refuses to break first. Steve came in here looking for him, he can speak first. Bucky can feel his blue eyes on him as he studies his nails, trimmed short as usual. There’s nothing fascinating about them, maybe a little grease from working on the arm but it’s utterly boring and Bucky is rapidly running out of things to examine.

“You know it’s almost seven.” Steve announces finally.

Internally, he winces. Externally, he’s a stone, unmoving and unflinching. “Uh-huh.”

“Are you going to see her? You’ve been here late every night this week, later than everyone else.” he nudges Bucky’s arm a little harder than is necessary.

“Her who?” Tony pipes up, glancing up from his laptop screen.

He glares at Steve. “Thanks for that. And no, I’m not going to see her.” he crosses his arm across his chest, the action falling flat without the second arm to complete it. As much as he hates the stupid thing, he feels lopsided without it.

“Bucky! Have you even been out of the building in the last three days?”

“Would it even matter? I’m not seeing her.” he retorts.

“Still waiting over here. Who’s the ‘her’? And why won’t you go see her?” Tony interjects.

Bucky’s phone rings in his pocket and he’s forced to dig it out awkwardly. Tony grabs it from his hand, his reflexes not as quick as they should be.

“Who is... My Muse? Is that her? Should I answer for you? Hello, Bucky can’t come to the phone right now, he’s a little shorthanded.” he chuckles at his own terrible joke.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t answer it, let it go to voice mail.”

Tony’s thumb hovers over the screen and he glares at him. He sighs loudly. “Fine. But in return I get to hear all about her.” he declines the call and turns off Buck’s phone. “You can tell her I banned phones in the lab-it screws with the equipment.” he leans against the counter next to him.

“There’s not much to tell. I met her at a museum a couple weeks ago.” he shrugs unevenly.

“And has spent every day since with her.” Steve adds.

“Dude, who’s telling the story?”

“You’re not doing it well. She’s crazy about him.”

He sighs, annoyed. “You don’t know that. We barely know each other.” Bucky reasons, but deep down where he doesn’t have to admit it out loud, he likes the possibility of her liking him.

“Man, no girl that hot is going to hang out with some guy every night for two weeks when she just likes him as a friend.”

“Every night, huh? Sounds like love to me.” Tony interjects and he glares at Steve. “And you’re avoiding her now? Why?”

“I’m not avoiding her.” he says hotly. “You said it yourself, it’s been every night for two weeks, we need a break.” even as he says the words, he hates how they taste. Lies and bullshit. He wants nothing more than to go see her right now, to bombard her with questions about her day and to feel her fingers on his.

“I don’t buy it. Aside from the fact that you broke my door, this is the happiest I’ve ever seen you. And the most normal, at the very least.”

“Will you let the door thing go? Fury bought you an even better one. You came out on top with that.” he snaps.

He grins widely and looks at Steve. “Aww. He misses her.” he coos and Bucky wants nothing more at this moment than to smack him through his fancy new door.

Steven, the traitor, has the nerve to laugh. “I have to agree with Tony. I don’t buy it. There has to be another reason you’re hiding out here with Tony, of all people.”

His arm beeps on the table and he perks up, looking at it. “Is it finally done?”

“I don’t think so.” Tony gets up and goes to look. “Nope, that was just part one.”

He feels his eyes widen. “Part one?”

“How many parts are there, Tony?” Steve asks, doing a better job of keeping his cool than Bucky is.

“Just two, but they’re both big files. Your arm is completely outdated at this point as far as technology goes. I’d compare it to the first telephone. I need to figure out a way to update the entire software system. Otherwise, there’s nothing else I can do. I update this every month, and the updates are getting bigger and bigger. Soon, I’ll just be keeping your arm on this table just to update it.”

He groans, pressing his fist to his eyes. “It’s going to take another three days to upload that file?”

“Maybe, I won’t know until it’s done. It could be less, it could be more. Look, if you like this girl, just call her and tell her you’re sick. Don’t leave her hanging.” Tony says.

He sighs, knowing he’s right. But Bucky also knows that she’ll want to come over and make sure he’s okay.

Tony walks towards the back of the lab and Steve turns to him. “Why won’t you call her?”

“Just leave it alone.” he shifts uncomfortably and Steve’s eyes drop to Bucky’s arm on the table.

“Please tell me this isn’t a pride thing.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.” he rolls his eyes.

“Oh my god, it is. Bucky-” Steve sighs, closing his mouth. “Are you going to call her?”

“Not tonight.” he hedges, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Fine.” he claps him on the arm. “Good luck with the update.” Steve shakes his head but leaves the lab without another word.

“Back in a tick.” Tony jogs after him. “Steve!”

Steve

Tony follows him into the hallway. “In all seriousness, if I can’t find a way to update his arm, he won’t have it for much longer.”

Steve sighs loudly and rubs his face. “Okay. I still have a few military contacts, I’ll put out some feelers. Maybe someone knows something that can help. Just... do what you can. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Tony steps back inside and Steve heads towards the building’s exit. He has a pretty good idea of where he needs to go, but Bucky is going to be pissed at him.

Too damn bad, pal.

The drive only takes about twenty minutes. But then it’s another fifteen to find the right building. He’s read so many little white name cards he’s starting to go cross-eyed. He presses the buzzer and sighs in relief when he hears her voice.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“How about a trip to SHIELD?” Steve replies. There’s a brief pause.

“Steve?”

“At your service.” He waits for what feels like five minutes but probably was only one.

“Throw in a snack and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Done.” He readily agrees.

A few minutes later the door opens and Y/N steps outside, shutting the door behind her. He expects a smile from her but when she turns around, her pretty face is anything but pleasant.

“What’s the matter?” Steve asks worriedly.

“Is he okay? What happened? I haven’t heard from him in days. He keeps ignoring my calls.” She rambles before suddenly freezing like a thought just occurred to her. Her face scrunches up. “He’s not... mad at me?” She asks it like it’s a completely foreign concept.

Steve chuckles, holding up a hand to stop her. “He’s being an idiot, definitely, but it’s not over something you did.”

“I don’t follow.” She starts, her tone uncertain.

“You’ll see when we get there. Trust me, if he wasn’t so hard-headed, he would have come to see you.” He watches as she nods, but she still seems distracted by something. “Is there something else going on?”

“I was hoping...” she shakes her head. “I’m just being stupid.”

Steve opens the door to his truck for her before going around to his side. “If something’s wrong enough to bother you, it’s not stupid. You can tell me.”

“This guy came into the museum today to ask for my help.” She starts, fiddling with her fingers.

“Was he rude? Offensive?”

“No, perfectly polite. Professional. Shook my hand, thanked me for my help.” Her tone suggests that she knows how she sounds, but whatever it is about this guy, it’s not something obvious.

“Y/N, I’m trying to understand, but I fail to see the problem. Unless you tell me what’s bothering you, there’s nothing I can really do.”

“He was just... too nice? Too immaculate?”

“Too perfect?” Steve adds, understanding, and she nods with a sigh.

“It sounds so stupid but there was just something off about the whole thing.” She opens her mouth to say something else but shuts it again.

Gut instincts are to be trusted for a reason. “What else?” He prompts.

“On the subway home, I felt uncomfortable, like someone was watching me.” She rubs her face in frustration. “I feel so stupid! I’m probably just overreacting.”

“Look, you’re a smart woman. If you feel something is wrong, don’t brush it off. Be aware of everything around you. Trust your gut, we have these instincts for a reason. Give me the guy’s name. I’ll see what I can find on him. That way you can rest easy.” If it’s within his power, he’ll help keep her safe.

“Thanks, Steve.” She smiles wide at him. “Can I ask another favor?”

“Sure.”

“Can we keep this between you and me? I don’t want to freak Bucky out if it’s nothing and I’m just being paranoid.”

Steve considers the request for a moment. There’s no harm in getting all the facts together. If it turns out it really is nothing, then Bucky will worry and stress for no reason. He’s finally starting to heal and be better. “Sure, but the second we find out anything other than you’re just paranoid, I tell him. He’ll be the best one to keep you safe if anything happens.”

“That’s fair.” She agrees and he’s content with the arrangement. Bucky will understand why they kept it from him at first, he may not be happy with it but he’ll understand.

Now, bringing her to SHIELD, on the other hand, dangerous. Bucky won’t be happy at all, he may even inflict some bodily harm on Steve. But it’s a risk he’s willing to take; she deserves to know what’s going on. And whether Bucky wants to admit it or not, having her there will be good for him. Steve already thinks of her fondly because of how much she means to Bucky, and how much she’s helped him already.

He pulls into his parking space and they both climb out, heading for the front door.

“So, what’s the protocol here? They’re not going to take blood samples are they?” She asks and Steve grins.

“Not a fan of needles?”

“Something like that.”

“Nah, nothing too invasive. We just have to take a tissue sample, run a background check, run your fingerprints.” Steve shrugs casually, watching her reaction out of the corner of his eye.

She doesn’t disappoint. Stopping, she turns fully to stare at him. “I’d hate to see your version of invasive.” She says and he laughs.

“Just sign in and get your visitor badge.” He gestures to the marble-topped desk where a guest book is laying open. She picks up the pen and signs it quickly, her elegant script standing out among all the others. She clips the visitor’s badge to her shirt as Steve leads her over to the elevators.

It’s silent for a minute as the car rides up. Then a thought occurs to Steve. “I should probably warn you; Bucky isn’t going to be happy.”

She looks up at him. “Because you’re bringing me? I thought you said-”

“He wants to see you, I can see it in his face, but he’s being a prideful bastard. Tony... well, Tony has his arm.”

“Has his arm?” She repeats, her pretty face going blank. “The whole thing?”

“No, just part of it.” He replies sarcastically. “Yes, the whole thing. And Bucky is being...” he glances at her. “Well, he’s being a man about it, letting his ego get in the way. Just, something to keep in mind when you see him.”

Y/N nods and falls silent. Steve can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking about, however, before he has time to ask-the doors open.

“This way.” He leads her out and down the hall to the lab. He holds the door open for her and she steps inside and stops dead. Steve touches her arm gently. “He’s over here.”

***

You don’t know what you were expecting when you walked into the room, but the sheer number of high-tech machines surprises you into stopping in your tracks. You can feel Steve behind you as he nearly walks into you.

He lightly presses his fingers to your arm. “He’s over here.” He says quietly, leading you around a corner of sorts.

Bucky is leaning against a metal counter, head hanging as his flesh arm is braced against the counter behind him. Somehow, he seems less bulky with only one arm. The other one is laying on a table hooked up to cords. He definitely seems a little more vulnerable without it, you can easily see why he doesn’t want you around.

You had a scathing comment all ready to fire at him for being so stupid but seeing him now, you realize that wouldn’t help. You swallow it down and take a step forward.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding for three days.” You say and his head snaps up fast.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He snaps and you try not to feel offended.

“Steve brought me.” You take another step forward, looking around at the machines, an idea forming, maybe part of an answer to his problem. “I have to say, if you’re going to avoid me, this is a good place to do it. I would hide out here, too.” You don’t miss the way his eyes slide over to his best friend behind you, hardening into ice.

“Steve.”

“You were being ridiculous. I had to do something. And she’s here now, so... you know... you’re welcome.”

Bucky’s eyes get wide and you can’t help but chuckle a little.

“Probably not the best lead, Steve.” You tell him, taking another step towards Bucky. His eyes move back to you and you still see the anger there, but there’s something else. It takes you a minute to place it because you’ve never seen it on him before, fear.

“Where’s Tony?” Steve asks, looking around.

“I may have threatened to rip his arms off so he may be hiding.” Bucky admits.

You break into a grin. “That wasn’t very nice, was it?” You take the last few steps and lean against the table next to him before he can move.

“He deserves it. After you left, he kept harping on me and I got annoyed.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, getting comfortable. “Will I get to meet him?”

“I guess. If you want to.” Bucky sighs, his arm tightening around your shoulders.

“Barnes! Are you calm now? Or do I have to call your boyfriend?” A voice calls from the back of the lab.

“Why don’t you come find out, Stark?” He calls back, his voice vibrates through you.

“Will you at least text your girl? You can blame it on me and tell her I banned phones in the lab.”

“You mentioned that already.” Bucky replies with a grin down at you.

“That’s what you were gonna tell me?” You ask incredulously. Raising your voice, you continue, “you know no one actually believes that, right?”

“Why do you think I didn’t actually say it? I’m not out to insult you.”

“Who’s that? Is that her?” Footsteps hurry forward.

“So, I might have an idea.” You whisper to Bucky. He looks down at you curiously as a man appears in the doorway.

“Wow, Barnes, I’m impressed. Hello, I’m Tony.” He offers his hand, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Nice to meet you, finally.”

“Has he been bragging about me? He has a man-crush on me.”

You snort. “Not exactly. I have a question. Do you make your own computer chips here?”

Tony opens his mouth to reply, but then shuts it, tilting his head curiously. “Why?”

“Well, I’m just wondering why you haven’t made newly updated chips for his arm.”

“They wouldn’t be compatible.”

“Why not? Because of the attachment heads? That’s an easy fix. With everything in this lab, you can make anything.”

“Well...”

“Bucky, can I see the inside of your arm? I didn’t get a super good look last time.” You ask and he nods, an unspoken question on his face. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you as Bucky steps forward and unlatches his panels.

You pluck the flashlight out of Tony’s hand and aim it into the arm cavity. There you spot a row of microchips nestled into a bar of receivers. You pull one of the magnifiers in front of you to blow up the bar. You study it for a minute, getting a feel for the technology.

“Is this Russian made?” You ask, nudging some wires around.

“How on earth can you tell that?” Tony asks.

“It’s obvious, really.” You stand up and snap off the flashlight. “Where do you build your chips?” You look at Tony.

He leads you to a workbench towards the back. “We don’t have any compatible.”

“Tony, Tony, Tony. Have a little faith, will you? Also, do you have a computer with all of his information on it? I’ll need that, too.” You scoot out the stool and sit.

“What are you going to do?” Steve asks, stepping up next to you.

“I’m going to help.” You answer obviously.

Tony comes back and sets a laptop next to you before moving away again. He starts gathering up some supplies as you begin to pull the tools you would need towards you.

“Bucky? Hand me those glasses right there.” You point up to the safety glasses on the wall above you.

“You’re making me nervous.” He mumbles, grabbing them and placing them gently in your outstretched hand.

You catch his hand and pull it to your mouth. “No need to be nervous.” You smile and press a kiss to the back of his hand before letting it go. Tony brings back over the boxes of pieces you would need.

You start assembling the first chip, not pausing to really think about it, just letting the pieces fall into place. Once you’re satisfied that you have everything you need on there, you set the tools down to let it cool.

Stretching your back as you straighten up, it cracks loudly. You glance around and realize you’ve been lost in your own head for a long time, a lot longer than you realized. Tony has gone off to work on something else, and Steve and Bucky are talking back in the room with his arm.

You tilt your head from left to right, cracking it before pulling the laptop to you. Searching through the different programs that make his arm work as a whole, you find the one that controls basic function.

You scroll agonizingly slow through the millions of code lines, adding what you can to improve the quality. It takes you forever. The lines are tiny and your eyes are ready to fall out. You sit back for a minute, closing your eyes and pressing the heels of your hands into them.

“You doing okay?” Steve asks, his hands coming to rest on the back of your shoulders.

“Yeah. It’s a lot of code. It won’t be perfect, I’m not as familiar with this kind and it should probably be rewritten better, but I’m not that good.”

“Well, how much do you have left?”

“About six hundred and fifty pages, give or take.” You answer off-handedly.

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, where did Bucky go?” You ask, looking around.

“To make some coffee.”

“Oh good, I’m gonna need it.”

“So, bad news. We’re out of coffee.” Bucky says, coming back and draping his arm around your shoulders.

You tip your head back and look up at him. “How can you be out of coffee?”

“Either that or someone moved it. Which would just be dumb.”

“Well, with the amount of code that I have to correct, there’s no way that I can keep going without any.” You sigh and rub your face. “I can’t even fix it all.”

“Who can?” Steve asks.

“Super geniuses?” You reply sarcastically, then you have a serious, actually helpful thought. “Well, I’ve heard of this girl, crazy inventor good. She might be able to help if we bribe her with something good. But, she lives...pretty far.”

“How far?” Bucky asks.

“Africa, Western Africa.”

“Well, I better make some calls.” Steve says matter-of-factly.

“If you can get her here, I think she and I can fix this.” You tell Steve and he nods.

“Then it doesn’t look like you can do any more tonight. Bucky, why don’t you take her home? You can come work on this tomorrow, Y/N.”

“You sure?” You ask.

“Yeah. Go home, get some rest.” Steve nods.

Bucky steps back and holds out his hand for you.

“Are you sure you’re okay to leave?” You ask Bucky. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I think I’ll survive.” He smiles and you slide off the chair to follow him.

“Goodnight, Steve.” You say and he kisses your cheek. “Bye, Tony!” You call as Bucky pulls you towards the door.

He’s silent on the elevator ride down to the lobby, across the wide-open space and outside. He’s walking slowly so you can keep up with him, but still silent.

“Are you mad that I came tonight?” You ask quietly.

He looks down at you, surprised. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because now you’re not speaking.”

“I’m just thinking. Definitely not mad at you.” He pulls you tight against his side. “Are you kidding? You were the best part of the last three days.”

“I can’t believe you thought I would care about your arm.”

“I don’t have a decent response to that, so I’m just gonna shut up.”

“Probably a good call.”

“So, how forward would it be if I showed up tomorrow to walk you to work?”

“It would be worse for you if you didn’t. Trust me.” You grin, poking his side.

A cold shiver trickles down your spine and you stop dead, looking around. You’re definitely being watched. You glance up to the windows on the side of the building but no one is looking out of them.

“What’s the matter?” Bucky asks.

You want to tell him but there’s just so many benign explanations that you still don’t want to worry him over nothing.

“So, does this mean we can have dinner at your place now?” You ask, tilting your head to look up at him as you continue walking.

“Yes. I will pick you up from work, and then we can finally have dinner.”

“Excellent.”

You walk in silence for a while, his arm wrapped around you and you couldn’t be happier. The implications of your happiness aren’t lost on you, you know what will happen if you fall in love but as long as he’s your favored, you can claim it’s all an act, that this is what he needed to get going again.

But you know the truth.

And it scares the Tartarus out of you.

He walks you up to your apartment, hesitating outside your door again. If he leaves you a second time without a kiss, you’re going to throttle him.

“You’re coming tomorrow morning, right?” You ask, tilting your head to look up at him.

“I’ll be here.” He promises, taking your hand gently. You lift it to his face, cupping his cheek softly. He lowers his face to yours and you meet him the rest of the way, capturing his lips with yours. Your skin prickles, nerves coming alive as he kisses you, backing you into your door slightly. Your fingers slide into his hair, curling into the strands and scraping against his scalp.

He pulls away breathlessly, his eyes unfocused. “I should go.” He mumbles.

You nod, hating to watch him leave. “Tomorrow morning.” You remind him. He smiles at you and turns for the stairs. You wait until he’s out of sight before unlocking your door and heading for the window overlooking the street. You watch him emerge and he glances up at your window, a broad smile on his face. You can’t stop the weightlessness of your heart.

This is bad.

Really bad.

But you can’t bring yourself to mind too much. Not after he kisses you like that.

With a sigh, you turn and get ready for bed.

Bucky

Why is walking to her apartment so difficult? He’s walked home from there plenty of times. He groans in frustration and reaches for his door handle again.

“Just fucking open it, you coward.” He mutters. And yet, his hand hesitates just out of reach. He groans and pulls back, pacing away from the door.

“What are you so afraid of? She’s already seen you without your arm, and she wants to continue seeing you. She wants you to walk her to work.” He says to himself, pacing around his living room.

“And then what? Leave her at the museum while you go back to work and deal with Tony being insufferable? You’re no good for security with just one arm, so Fury makes you stay in the lab. You’re alone all day.” He sighs loudly and smacks his face a few times, trying to get himself together.

“You like being alone, moron. It’s better than having to deal with Sam or see Nat. Definitely don’t wanna see her.” He catches sight of himself in the mirror and points at his reflection.

“Listen here, you little shit. Twenty minutes with Y/N is better than three days without her. Get your ass over there and walk her to work.” He snaps.

He marches over to the door, flings it open, and steps outside. He barely remembers to lock it behind him before he’s off, walking to her apartment before he can chicken out. But with every step, his stomach tightens into a series of knots and he can’t catch his breath.

“Damn it, Y/N, what have you done to me?” He mutters.

Her building comes into sight and it’s like his skin ignites with electricity, nerves ramping higher and higher. He steps up to her door and raises his finger to push her doorbell. His hand is shaking so bad he nearly pushes the wrong one.

“Come on, man, get it together.” He shakes his hand as if that can expel all his nerves and pushes the right buzzer.

“Hello?” Her voice comes over the box and he can’t answer. “Bucky? That better be you.” She says and he smiles, despite his anxiety.

“Yeah. It’s me.” He replies.

“Come on up.” She says, buzzing him in. He pulls the door open and goes inside, her voice echoing in his ears.

He reaches her door and knocks nervously. His hand starts to go to his hair, maybe to flatten it down or fix it, but honestly, what good would it do at this point?

She opens the door in her robe, with a tank top and long pajama pants on underneath, a big cup of coffee in her hand. “Come on in.” She steps back, watching him.

He steps inside, trying to look anywhere but at the gorgeous woman in her pajamas. “You’re not ready yet?” He asks, turning his gaze to her living room. He wanted to be here twenty minutes ago, but now, with her swirling all around him, he just needs to leave. To get this over with.

“I called in sick.” She says, giving a pathetic fake cough.

The knot in his chest loosens and he can breathe a little easier now. “You did?”

“Yeah. I thought we could have breakfast, and then go back to SHIELD and work some more on your arm.” She says with a shrug.

“You did?” He repeats, stunned. She continuously surprises him.

“Is that not okay? I thought that since we haven’t really spent a lot of time together over the last three days that we could now, and under the pretense of a good cause.”

“No! I like that idea. I just wish I had thought of it first.” He says and she laughs, walking passed him into the kitchen, catching his hand in her soft one as she goes.

“Besides, you still owe me for that kiss you withheld. Don’t think I won’t be collecting on that.” She warns and he can’t stop the grin on his face.

“I genuinely can’t wait.” He says as she pushes him into a chair, her hand trailing around his neck.

“Can you use a fork right-handed?” She asks, leaning down close to his ear.

Her perfume clouds around him, seeming to seep into his skin, fogging his brain and he can hardly focus on what she’s saying. All he can picture is pinning her against the wall and kissing her for all he’s worth. “Um, yeah. I got used to it before I got the arm.” He answers nervously.

“Good.” She straightens up and steps back, leaving him feeling empty like he’s missing something.

It’s quiet in her apartment as she moves about the kitchen. He feels pressure on his shoulders, something weighing him down. He gets up and goes to the bar to watch her.

“I’m sorry.” He says after a long minute.

She looks up at him in some surprise as she cracks eggs into a frying pan. “Sorry for what?”

“Avoiding you.”

“I understand, Bucky. Probably better than you might realize. But I want you to know something, okay?” She puts down the spatula and walks around to stand in front of him, easing herself between his knees. She places her hands gently on either side of his face, her skin soft and warm on him. “There is absolutely nothing that you can do, or reveal about your past, or say to me that will make me leave. Do you understand? I don’t care if you have one arm, one eye, and one leg. I’m in this.”

He closes his eyes and nods. “I understand.”

“Promise me, no more secrets.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Her hands slide down his chest and she grips his shirt, pulling him against her, kissing him deeply. Her lips are soft, sweet on his, and yet so urgent.

He wraps his arm around her, pulling her against him. She pulls back, her beautiful eyes closed as she rests her forehead against his. “I should make breakfast.” She mumbles.

“I’m not done kissing you yet.” He sighs and she chuckles.

“We have time. We can pick up where we left off later.”

“You miss the arm.” He says softly.

“I like the way the hot and cold feels. And I don’t like that you’re uncomfortable.” She pulls back out of his grasp and goes back into the kitchen.

“I’m feeling better.” He shrugs lopsidedly. It mostly has to do with the fact that she’s so accepting of this whole situation.

“Be that as it may,” she pauses and looks up at him with a soft smile.

He sighs and sits back. “Fine. We can finish kissing later.”

She laughs, grabbing a mug out of her cabinet. “Sounds like a plan.” She pouts him some coffee and sets it in front of him. He captures her hand, pulling it to his mouth, kisses her palm, inhaling the scent of her skin. Images of flowers, bright and full and oh so delicate, fill his mind. Peonies and roses and lots of others he didn’t know the names of. Soft pinks and deep purples and bright reds. So vibrant, so alive. He lets her hand slide out of his and his fingers itch to grab a pad of paper, but he doesn’t have his dominant hand.

Maybe she’s right, they need to finish his arm.

He lifts his mug and sips at the coffee, savoring the flavor of it. She hums softly as she cooks in the kitchen and a strange feeling washes over him.

The complete sense of domesticity about this scene. This gorgeous woman that he can’t get enough of, making breakfast for the both of them. The normalcy of it twists in his heart like a knife.

He knows he shouldn’t rush things, should take their time. It hasn’t really been that long in the grand scheme of things. It’s dangerous for her, he’s dangerous.

But he can’t make himself stay away from that look in her eyes when she sees him. Soft and affectionate, not disgusted, not terrified. She treats him just like he’s anyone else. And it’s been so long since anyone has done that.

Even Nat, when she came to see him. She had a hard time looking at him. She stayed across the room the whole time, afraid of him. It’s not her fault. She did what she needed to do for herself, to protect herself and he can’t blame her for that.

A plate sets in front of him and he blinks and looks up.

She’s smiling at him, teasing. “I think I lost you there for a minute.” She says.

“Just thinking. This looks great.” Scrambled eggs with fresh tomatoes and spinach, sausage and toast.

“Just breakfast.” She shrugs, bringing her plate around to sit next to him.

“Well, unless Stevie and I go to a diner for breakfast, mine usually consists of protein bars.”

“That’s boring.” She sighs, digging in.

They eat in comfortable silence. He can’t stop looking at her. The gentle way her hair falls like a curtain between us, the casual way she flips it out of her face. Her cheekbones are a work of art, her long eyelashes laying against her cheeks soft and delicate like a flower. He has a sudden urge to sketch her, to get her lines down perfectly.

“Mmm. That was good.” She hums, scooting her stool back. “I’m gonna jump in the shower really quick.” She carries her plate into the kitchen and sets it in the sink. “Make yourself comfortable.” She presses a kiss to his cheek and heads into her bedroom.

He slowly finishes eating before taking his plate into the kitchen. He draws some hot water and quickly scrubs the dishes, setting them to dry in the dish rack. He settles into her comfortable couch, looking around at all the pictures and artwork in her living room.

There’s a statue sitting on her entertainment center. It’s of a couple waltzing. The woman looks like she’s wearing a flowing dress but the only details visible are at the bottom, her sculpted back looks bare. She has her face tucked into his neck in an intimate moment, a private affair just for them. The rest of their world faded away while they’re in each other’s arms.

Bucky stands up and crosses the room to the statue, picking it up and examining the couple. His finger traces across her back absently.

“Do you like it?” She asks behind him.

He nearly drops it as he turns around. He sets it down carefully so he won’t break it. “Yeah.” He looks up at her in time to see her struggling not to smile.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” She steps forward and picks up her shoes.

“It’s okay. Ready to go?” He asks, holding her hand as she balances on one foot.

“Yeah. Can we call a cab? It would be quicker.”

“Sure.” He opens her door for her and makes sure to lock it, handing her keys back to her.

Master List

Tag List (to anyone I miss, I’m sorry. If you’d like to be added, send an ask. Strikethrough means I couldn't tag you)

@everythingisoverrated @dsakita @shreddedparchment @bitsandbobsandstuff @after-avenging-hours @alexblrus @thinkingsofamadwoman @i-dont-want-to-be-called @thefridgeismybestie @fortheloveofallthatsholy @crazychaotic @pleasureoftheguiltiestvariety @redstarstan @septic-boye @justreadingfics @themistsofmyavalon @sebastianstanslefteyebrow @wkemeup @thiccbinch @glide-thru @moli1497 @ellaenchanted91 @part-time-patronus @janeyboo @jensensjaredsandmishaslover @thirstybitchqueen @uncledaddykelbo

#some rules are never meant to be broken #Bucky Barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns x reader #paramedic!bucky #marvel #romance #mermaidxatxheart #writing is hard

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xmxisxforxmaybe · 5 years ago

Text

Decryption_Error: “The Server Room, Part I”

Summary: Elliot is locked in the server room by a few of his colleagues to stop him from ruining their Memorial Day weekend. Y/N, Elliot’s manager, finds him and comes up with a solution to fix the broken servers, but because of Elliot’s injuries and his refusal to go to a hospital, Y/N makes him stay at her place for the long weekend. As Elliot and Y/N bond for the first time outside of work, something a little more than friendship starts to emerge.

Summary/Mood Board

Word Count: 5800

Disclaimer: I know 0 things about technology and want to cry real tears for making my narrator Elliot’s boss. I sincerely apologize to anyone I offend for my whack tech references--please let me know if you need me to fix something because it’s awful and I will credit you for saving me some embarrassment!

Tags: @sherlollydramoine @rami-malek-trash @teamwolf2411 @thingsfandom @limabein @lovie-rami @txmel @hopplessdreamer @ouatlovr

Warnings: Physical injuries/blood, language, **=heavily paraphrased from a monologue on Robot

Author’s Note: I won’t be able to update this story as quickly as Remnants because my life is about to get crazy busy. However, I will do my best so y’all don’t lose interest : ) Special shoutout to @alottanothing for helping me get this story organized and underway! Thanks for being my cheerleader 💕

For fuck’s sake! I thought as I changed out of my swimsuit and into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, shoving my still wet feet into a pair of sandals.

I had made it to my family’s place for Memorial Day weekend for the first time in years only to be called back to work because something happened to the servers. My boss, Miles, was out of town like everyone else in the goddamn city, and he trusted me as the Senior Manager to handle the situation.

CIStech Cybersecurity had been my life for the past four years. Starting as an Analyst really fostered my affinity for data and subsequently put me on the fast-track to become management. I liked working hard, and when I first started at CIStech, I would be mystified when I realized it was 10 pm, everyone had gone home, and I had skipped dinner (again) because I was 5,000 clicks deep into testing a contingency plan I created for scenario 11/1,000 in the event of a security breach.

My relationship with my job was complex--I knew I worked too much, but I needed those long days to help quell my anxiety; data gave me a focus and helped me make sense of a world that seemed to be drifting further and further into shades of grey, a place where evil and good barely served as separate entities anymore.

This long weekend was an important test for me—I needed to prove to myself that I could step away from the office and the world wouldn’t end, nor would my mental stability.

Except that I did step away from the office and the world did end—sort of. So much for convincing my brain that taking time off was a good thing.

For the first three quarters of the drive into the city, I had gone over about 30 scenarios in my mind and just as I was about to drive myself crazy, I shook my head and cranked up the music. There was only so much I could mentally prep for until I knew whether the problem was physical or within the network.

Because everyone in the city had fled to escape the rising humidity, I was able to park on a side street about a half of a block from work. I swiped my badge to get into the lobby of CNC Precision Machining, our host company, then said a quick hello to the head of night security, Lance. I swiped my badge again to activate the elevator, and as I rode up to the 18th floor, my anxiety curled into a lead ball and made itself at home in my stomach. Something did not feel right, and I almost, almost went back downstairs to ask Lance to radio a guard.

But, how often do we actually act on our anxiousness? For me, I had to talk myself out of so many horrors a day that I always felt silly when I gave in to whatever idea had made itself at home in my mind.

I talked myself down, thinking, It’s almost 11 pm, and all I have to do is check the servers. Maybe one of the fans broke. Maybe a plug fell out. I can fix it and still get back to Mom and Dad’s by 2.

Once again, I swiped my badge. I entered CIStech’s wing, but as I opened the door to the cybersecurity offices and turned to deactivate the alarm, I saw it had never been set. My mouth fell open, and again the idea of turning back flitted through my mind, except being pissed overtook my apprehension.

Whoever was the last to leave was getting a letter of reprimand. Sure, the building itself was secure, but to not set the alarm in a company’s tech security office? Inexcusable.

Since I was now fuming, the unset alarm compounding with my ire over my ruined start to the weekend, I grumbled away my nagging thoughts as I quickly walked to the server room, swiped my badge and scanned my fingerprint to open the door.

The harsh lights were on an automatic switch, so they popped to life as I stepped a few inches into the room; however, the crunch of plastic and the popping of glass made me stop, one foot poised in the air as I looked down to see what I stepped on.

The remnants of a server, or more than one server, were littered across the ground, and as I scanned for the source of the damage, the last thing I expected to find was a body. Immediately, my mind wondered if this was a trap, and then I wondered if the body was even alive.

My voice emitted a sort of strangled groan which caused the body on the floor to move—and when I saw that it wasn’t just a random body, my heart sank.

It was Elliot, my employee and my friend.

***Eight Months Ago***

“Next up is Elliot Alderson. Recent grad. Bachelor’s in Computer Engineering from Stevens Institute of Tech. This is the guy with the impressive skill set, knowledgeable in everything we use. His portfolio backs it up, too.”

“Mmm, I remember reading through it and thinking if even half of it is legit, he’s smarter than everyone in that room put together,” Colin said, gesturing in the direction of the office floor.

“I tested his work on the headless Raspberry PI he sent with his portfolio—worked like a charm.”

“That could save us a lot of headaches,” JaLeah said, clicking through the description in Elliot’s portfolio again.

“Did you notice how streamlined his portfolio is? It’s masterfully organized and aesthetically pleasing,” I said, leaning over to look at JaLeah’s screen.

She hummed in agreement.

“Jayne? Bring in Mr. Alderson, please,” I said as I pressed the button on the wireless intercom.

At CIStech, we strived to maintain a comfortable atmosphere. Instead of a panel of interviewers, it was just myself and my two Supervisors. Instead of interviewing in our board room, we interviewed in my office, the three of us seated at a round table so when the applicant joined us, they felt less on-the-spot.

However, when Elliot Alderson walked in the room, his unease was so palpable I doubted anything would alleviate his nervousness.

“Mr. Alderson,” Colin began, extending his hand. “I’m Colin Greene, Supervisor.

Elliot paused long enough for me to give him a onceover, and peripherally, I saw JaLeah do the same.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N, Senior Manager,” I said, shaking Elliot’s hand, his grip light as if the last thing he wanted to do in the world was touch me.

As JaLeah introduced herself, I took another quick inventory of Elliot Alderson. He was dressed well, although in clothes that were a bit too big on his small frame. His haircut, however, was immaculate, cut in a close fade on the sides with a mop of styled black hair on top.

His big, greyish eyes were moving around the room as if he were searching for the exit; and then, suddenly they stopped. It was like he reminded himself to pick a spot and focus.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” JaLeah said, sliding over the piece of paper that listed our interview questions.

As Elliot pulled out the chair and settled in, I explained what would happen during the interview, the goal to once again ease the nerves of the applicant.

“So, Mr. Alderson, I’m going to explain the process for this interview. First, we will give you a few minutes to read over the questions on the paper in front of you. When you are ready, let us know and we will take turns asking those questions. Once the Q&A portion is complete, we will connect our laptops to the one right here via RDP, and we will ask you to complete a specific task. Any questions so far?”

Elliot shook his head no.

“Excellent. Please take a few minutes to read over the questions, feel free to jot down notes in the spaces provided, then let us know when you are ready to begin,” I explained, ending with a smile.

Elliot did not return my smile; instead, his eyes dropped to the interview questions. As I watched him scan the paper, I had to remind myself not to stare. There was something about him that drew me in. His eyes were unlike any I had ever seen, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that damn, overquoted line from one of Walt Whitman’s poems: “I contain multitudes.”

Looking at Elliot, it was clear he contained depths, and I wanted to know everything there was to know about him. I could count on one hand the number of times I felt so immediately intrigued by another person.

After a minute or two, Elliot looked up, his eyes flickering between the three of us, and said, “Okay.”

Colin began, asking Elliot to tell us about his schooling and his professional experience.

Elliot answered carefully, reciting his academic and professional history. His voice was deep, a soothing monotone that was more like a raspy rattle than a melodious note.

“Thank you,” I said once he had finished speaking. “Question two asks about the steps you would take to secure a server. Walk us through that process, please.”

Once again, Elliot’s answer was correct and succinct.

“To secure a server, you use the SSL protocol for data encryption and decryption. Establish a secure password for your root and administrative users. Create the new users in the system. Remove remote access from the default root accounts. Configure your firewall rules for your remote access.”

I watched Elliot as he answered, his eyes focused on a spot over my shoulder. I made my notes as JaLeah moved on to the next question.

“What are the most common types of cyberattacks? Explain which attack you feel is most common and why it is most common.”

Elliot listed off the usual attacks with ease—phishing, malware, DDoS, password attacks, malvertising, man in the middle, but it was his answer to the second part of the question that allowed us to see a glimpse under his carefully crafted façade.

“People. People are the only reason cyberattacks happen and people are the ones who make it easy for hackers to execute any attack. The most common cyberattack in a large corporation is phishing—people are all too willing to provide information without first checking the origination. People who work in companies operate on autopilot, running their daily programs, usually without interruption, and in order to avoid a runtime error, people will click a link, enter their password, and by then, they have you.”**

We were all quiet for a moment and Elliot looked a bit surprised, as if he couldn’t believe what he just said aloud.

“Excellent answer, Mr. Alderson,” JaLeah said, narrowing her eyes and nodding, still mulling over Elliot’s response. “If only we knew how to prevent human error—but I supposed that would be a billion-dollar answer,” she finished, flashing him a smile.

He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a tiny smile in response.

That was the only real glimpse of Elliot’s personality we got for the rest of the interview, but he absolutely nailed the task, finding each vulnerability we set up in our system and fixing it in record time.

“Do you have any questions for us, Mr. Alderson?” I asked as we closed out the interview.

“I’ve already found out everything I needed to know,” Elliot replied, his eyes meeting and holding my gaze.

I smirked and nodded.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Mr. Alderson. You’ll hear from HR within 24 hours, either way,” I said as I hit the intercom.

“Please see Mr. Alderson out, Jayne.”

Elliot left as nervously as he entered, not bothering with any attempt at casual conversation to make his interview a bit more memorable.

As soon as the office door clicked shut, Colin leaned back in his chair and said, “No way. Guy’s weird.”

“Weird?” I questioned. “Since when is being nervous the same as being ‘weird’?”

“He didn’t make eye contact with me once—and not like in an ‘on the spectrum way.’ More like, he has a secret and no one can know it way. I’m not trying to be a dick—I just got a bad vibe.”

“Well, you are being a dick,” I said. “There are a thousand reasons why people struggle with eye contact, Colin. Don’t stereotype. Give me something factual if you really didn’t like him for the position.”

“And I remember a time when you couldn’t look me in the eye, Colin,” JaLeah said, her dark eyes flashing.

Colin rubbed his hands over his face and sighed.

“He didn’t elaborate on any of the questions—he spit back text-book answers on every one, except for JaLeah’s question about cyberattacks. I felt like he wasn’t hungry for this job—he acted like he didn’t really want it.”

I nodded my head.

“I wish he would have elaborated, too. However, I think his tech skills far outweigh any subpar people skills.”

“I agree with Y/N,” JaLeah said. “But I do see Colin’s point—remember when we had those interns? We ended up hiring Steph because she was able to build a rapport with everyone here. Granted, they all had about the same skill set, but her ability to communicate set her apart.”

“Doesn’t it also work in reverse, though--tech skills over people skills?”

Colin nodded in agreement. “It does.”

“So, let me make you both a deal: if any of the remaining candidates perform as well or better than Elliot Alderson on the task, we hire them. If not, we go with Alderson.”

“Works for me,” JaLeah said. “For the record, I did like him. He really spit some fire on that answer about human error.”

I smiled at JaLeah and nodded while Colin rolled his eyes.

“Alright—who’s up next?” he said, already accepting the idea that he was probably not going to win this one.

* * * * *

I closed my eyes and rolled my neck, listening to the bones pop and crunch. It was time to get up and take a lap around the office before the blood decided to pool in my calves and send me to an early grave.

It was nearly 8 pm, so when I saw the illumination of a computer screen reflected in a set of big grey eyes, I was a bit surprised. Elliot Alderson had accepted our offer and started at CIStech three weeks ago. He was proving to be an excellent engineer, and once he settled in, I wanted to assign him to the white hat team.

However, Colin saw fit to initiate a trial by fire and made Elliot the project manager for the development of a new code that could counter a DDoS flooding attack.

Colin may have done it to be an asshole, but I permitted it out of curiosity to see if my hire had what it took to climb. It was already clear that Elliot’s skills were unmatched. If he could pitch, he would be on the fast-track to becoming my boss one day.

When he saw me approach, his fingers immediately stilled and a look of apprehension crossed his features.

“Hey, Elliot. Working late?” I asked, surprised at the butterflies in my stomach as I initiated a conversation with him.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Ms. Y/L/N. I didn’t realize how late it was,” Elliot said in his deep voice, his words rolling out in that gentle monotone.

“Y/N. It’s Y/N—we don’t do that Mr. and Ms. stuff once you’re hired. Call me crazy, but I like to think of all 50 or so of us as a family. Distant and dysfunctional, sure. But whose family isn’t?” I finished with an awkward chuckle at my own joke.

Elliot looked at me, his expression unreadable, and said nothing for what felt like an obscene amount of time. I’m certain my cheeks colored at my failed attempt at a joke and his subsequent silence. I began to feel an urgent need to fill the quietness with this almost-stranger I just called “family” when Elliot finally spoke.

“That’s . . . nice.”

I laughed and said, “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

Elliot gave me a tiny smile, if you could even call the fleeting upturn of his lips before they drew back into a straight line a smile.

“No. I’m not.”

I thought for a few seconds, wanting my first one-on-one interaction with Elliot to be right. A thousand things to say barreled through my mind like Shanghai’s Maglev, and I saw Elliot’s attention turn back to his computer, his fingers twitching, probably wondering if it would be rude to go back to work.

“Do you know what I wish, Elliot?” I said, my words rushed as I reigned in the speeding train of my thoughts.

“No,” Elliot said, looking at me with genuine confusion.

“I wish we had a code we could input to just automatically cut out the bullshit of small talk. Imagine if our minds could input all of that information—we’d know right away whether or not a person was to our liking, whether they would be someone who could become our friend.”

Elliot looked at me, his eyes shining from the monitor in the dark of the office, his mouth a bit agape; he looked at me as if I were either the first human he’d ever seen or the last human he’d ever see—I couldn’t make up my mind on the former or the latter.

“Is that totally crazy?” I asked.

“It’s the least crazy thing I’ve ever heard,” Elliot said, his voice breaking with its normal monotone to convey honesty.

I smiled, and the butterflies in my stomach finally settled. I moved around Elliot’s desk and leaned on the edge. He scooted his chair back so he could angle it toward me, his hands fidgeting, unsure what to do without a keyboard underneath of them.

“I’m willing to pretend that code is real—we’ve scanned each other, determined we’re cool, and can now proceed along the route of friendship. At least, that’s what my data has output.”

Elliot grinned, and the fucking butterflies came back in full force. There was no part of my 8 pm afterwork self that was equipped to handle how damn good-looking this guy was.

“My data reads the same,” he said, his smile turning shy, his eyes flickering away from my face and toward the floor.

“Excellent. So, as emerging friends, I want to confess that, believe or not, I’m not much of a talker either.”

“I—I don’t think we are the same kind of not-talkers,” Elliot said, frowning up at me.

“Do me a favor. Tomorrow, pay attention after you pitch the DDoS counter plan. Once the pitch is out, everyone shoots off their own ideas and if they don’t have an original thought, they’ll turn to criticism. I won’t say a word—I never do.”

“Why?” Elliot asked, clearly interested because his response was immediate.

“Because I listen. People are so consumed by a need to have self-validation that they talk just to talk, hoping something that comes out of their mouth is what sparks someone else’s path to self-validation. It’s a . . . circle jerk, if you don’t mind me speaking in my ‘off the clock’ tongue.”

Elliot’s mouth had dropped open a little again as he listened, his brows drawn in as he gave it some thought—well, a lot of thought because once again, the silence bordered on oppressive before he spoke again.

“I thought people only said things like that inside their minds. Especially bosses.”

“Did I reveal an inherent human truth you were unaware of?”

Elliot chuckled, a gravelly rumble, and it was the cutest damn thing I had ever heard.

“No—I’ve thought the same thing for as long as I can remember.”

“See? Our data chose well. Now, do you want to sit there and tell me more about how unalike we are or are you ready to trust me enough to help you with whatever is plaguing you about pitching tomorrow?”

“How did you—” Elliot began before sighing and popping off of his chair to stalk over to the window. It took me by surprise that a little piece of his mask was so readily falling away.

I stayed where I was, even though his form was little more than a shadow that moved against the backdrop of the lighted city.

“I am not good with people,” Elliot said, his voice sounding harsh and too loud in the quiet office. “I don’t know how to talk to them one-on-one, so I sure as hell don’t know how to talk to them in a group. All I can think of when I get in front of anyone is how much of an idiot they think I am. I even typed up a letter of resignation,” Elliot said, his voice returning to its normal murmur with his confession.

This time, it was my turn to nurse the quiet. I thought about saying, Bullshit—you’re talking to me. You can do anything you put your mind to! But Elliot wasn’t someone who needed a pep-talk. He was deeper than that—probably even deeper than I could ever comprehend. “I’m not gonna bullshit you. You could walk out of here and get hired just about anywhere in any one of these buildings with your skill set. But I’d like to believe that you care, maybe just a little, that I am the one who extended you an offer—gave you a shot at your first ‘real’ job. So, yeah, you can run. But you’ll hurt my feelings if you do.” Whatever Elliot was expecting me to say, it wasn’t that. He walked back to stand in front of me and he blinked those big eyes that were once again a reflection of the light blue of the desktop.

“You don’t even know me enough to be affected by anything I do. I’m just another cog in the wheel.” I thought we were on a path to friendship, but if this was Elliot’s response to my admission I cared about whether or not he quit, I knew he was hiding, deep, deep inside of himself. “What makes you think you’re unworthy of general human concern? You are human, aren’t you?” I said, once again making an awkward joke for myself to softly laugh at. “I—I didn’t mean that I—" “Careful, Elliot. You intrigue me. And when people intrigue me, I have to figure them out. Have to.”

Elliot took off toward the window again, pacing as he struggled to convey his fear.

“Like I said, I’m not much of a talker and I’m not very good with people. I can do anything with a computer, but people. I just . . . can’t.”

“Mmm, until I see a T-800 running around and declaring “I’ll be back,” I will disagree with you that you can do ‘anything’ with a computer.”

Elliot stopped pacing and turned to face me, his head comically turned to the side as he decided whether or not to finally laugh at one of my jokes.

This time, he did laugh, a soft little chuckle as he shook his head and shoved his hands in his pants’ pockets.

“Let me make you an offer—”

“An offer I can’t refuse?”

I giggled and shook my head.

“Yes! He jokes! We really are on the path to friendship. . . which means, I want to help you: Fill me in on the details of what you’ve designed, and we can practice. Come on—we’ll go in the meeting room.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“You did not ask. I gave you a command. All you have to do is type Y,” I said in a sing-song voice, smiling before pushing off the edge of his desk and walking toward the meeting room.

I turned after a moment to see Elliot grab his laptop and follow me.

When we crossed the office to the meeting room, I paused with my hand on the door.

“Actions help us believe what our minds have convinced us not to believe—if I truly thought you were nothing more than a cog, would I give my time to you? Tell me—what’s more valuable than time?”

Elliot didn’t answer me. Instead, he smiled at me, his expression conveying his gratitude.

I turned the knob and walked toward the sofa, plopping onto the cushion.

“So, fill me in.”

* * * * *

Elliot and I passed many nights like this, and I quickly realized Elliot wasn’t going to follow in my footsteps and climb up the management ladder. After his DDoS proposal, Colin followed my recommendation and moved Elliot to the white hat hackers, a small team of ten. The white hats worked a little more in isolation than the other techs, which is what Elliot wanted.

So, we worked. We talked. We listened. We ate too much take-out and spent too many late hours at the office.

Our data was compatible, which would be Elliot-speak for saying, “We became friends.”

***Present***

“Elliot! Elliot, what happened?” I asked as I dropped to my knees and rolled him the rest of the way onto his back.

His eyes snapped open and darted around the room, looking everywhere but at me. Elliot scooted away and backed up to the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and crossing his arms over his legs. He looked like a trapped, feral animal, trying to make itself as small as possible to avoid capture.

I noticed the cuts and the trails of blood that smeared across his hands, and I saw that there was blood on the floor where he had been laying. As I looked him over, I also saw a gash across his forehead that ran into his hairline. Blood was still trickling down the side of his face.

“Elliot,” I said again in a soft, calm voice.

He still didn’t react; instead, he looked around the room and started mumbling, thumping the back of his head off the wall.

I got up and quickly moved to drop down in front of him, placing my hand between his head and the wall. It looked like he already had a concussion and I didn’t want him to hurt himself anymore.

“Elliot. Hey. It’s Y/N. You’ve gotta focus, sweetheart. Focus on my voice.”

I kept repeating myself in the same soothing tone. After a few moments, I slowly reached out and grasped his shoulder, running my thumb over the material of his light grey dress shirt.

Slowly, Elliot stopped moving his head and his eyes stopped darting. I still had no idea what he was mumbling and if it weren’t for the vibrations of his chest and the very subtle movements of his lips, I wouldn’t have known he was speaking.

When Elliot finally fixed his eyes on my face, his brows contracted into confusion.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice raspy, like someone who had been talking too loudly over music or who had smoked too many cigarettes in a night.

“Hey,” I said smiling and removing my hand from his shoulder.

“Shit! The servers!” Elliot said, and tried to dart up, but I held him back.

“No. Don’t move. Your head is bleeding and so are your hands. I need to get you to a hospital.”

Once again Elliot’s eyes began to look everywhere but my face and he tried to scramble up. This time, he broke free from my grasp and I found myself flat on my ass as he bolted up from the floor.

He didn’t get very far because after about three steps he swooned and crashed into one of the broken servers. I scrambled to my feet and helped him sit back down on the floor.

“See? Hospital. Now.”

This time Elliot looked right at me, his eyes filled with tears as he begged me not to take him to a hospital. The display of pure emotion was a shock for me—even though Elliot and I spent a lot of time together, he was always very careful in his interactions and remained emotionally distant. To see him so vulnerable made me rethink my insistence.

“Shh, okay. Okay. Listen—I don’t know if you’re concussed or what, but can you tell me anything about what happened? Or when this happened? If the tapes never went out. . .” I trailed off, unable to even imagine the repercussions.

“The courier left at 4:48.”

I raised my eyebrow at Elliot’s precise answer.

“Okaaaay.”

“I remember the time because—” Elliot broke off and looked away.

“Because why?”

“That’s when they locked me in here,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the buzzing of the air conditioning that kept the server room so cool.

My phone rang, startling both of us. As I talked, Elliot retreated further into himself again, his knees pressed to his chest once more, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“Yes, I’m at work, Miles.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah.”

“We definitely have a problem, but everything’s been backed up—the tapes were couriered out this afternoon.”

“No—you don’t need to come in.”

“Uh, it’s a problem with the a few of the servers themselves, some broken parts. Listen, I promise—I’ll take care of it and everything will be up and running on Tuesday like nothing ever happened.”

“You’re welcome—enjoy your night.”

“I will. Bye.”

I hung up the phone and stood up, leaving Elliot to himself for a moment. I surveyed the damage that was apparently done by Elliot himself. My mind couldn’t even grasp the idea that people I supervised, many of whom I had hired myself, would do something so inhumane.

It was no secret that people avoided Elliot, even his white hat teammates—he was closed off, smarter than most of them, and worked harder than all of them. I wasn’t blind to the way he was he treated, but I also knew him in a different way; I knew he kept to himself because it was so difficult for him to socialize with people he considered strangers.

I also knew Elliot didn’t mean to do this.

After I surveyed the damage, I began thinking outloud, “Towers 2, 3, 6, and 7 are fucking toast, but the rest are untouched. I need to synchronize the traffic to the secondary servers and synch the databases. Since it’s Memorial Day weekend, the traffic is light enough that no real damage should have been done. I have a friend who might be able to get us new towers.”

Elliot was watching me as I talked and figured out how to fix his mess.

“I can—” he began, but I cut him off.

“I have to tell them how this happened, Elliot. I’m not making any promises, but if I can fix it by Tuesday morning, you might be able to keep your job. And I can promise you, the fucking assholes that did this to you won’t.”

Elliot looked to the floor again, his face filled with sadness.

“Sit—do not move while I grab some papertowels and ice.”

Elliot gave me a barely perceptible nod, and I went off to gather what I needed to ice his head and clean up the blood.

When I came back, Elliot was sitting at the desk in the server room, his fingers poking over the keys on the keyboard.

“Damnit, Elliot! I said not to move.”

“This is all my fault. I have to fix it. I have to fix it. I have to—”

I cut him off by lifting his arms away from the keyboard and scooting the rolling chair back. Elliot turned his bloodshot eyes to mine, the rims lined with red and I wondered if he’d been crying.

I sighed and placed my hands on both of his shoulders.

“This is not your fault,” I said firmly, my eyes flickering between his, refusing to release him from my gaze until he listened to me.

Elliot opened his mouth, then closed it, choosing not to fight me.

“Hold this on your head,” I said, tearing my eyes from his face, and reaching for the ice pack I had set on the desk.

Elliot complied, and I turned back to the desk to finish synchronizing the servers. Once I was done, I wiped up the blood on the floor with the wet papertowels, then unplugged the damaged servers.

“Now, let’s get out of here. Your head is still bleeding,” I said as I made a final lap to check for damage.

I helped Elliot up by wedging my hand under his elbow, careful to avoid his fucked up hands. For a moment, the two of us were face-to-face. His eyes lifted up to look into mine and I sighed, reaching up to grasp his chin and turn his head to look at the gash.

“Head wounds are the worst. Never can tell how deep they are,” I whispered, looking closely at his cut.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“I know, El. Come on.”

Elliot followed me out of the server room and I locked the door. After throwing away the bloodied papertowels in the bathroom, I came out to see Elliot at his desk, struggling into his hoodie, hissing as his bleeding and bruised hands slid through the fabric.

“I’ll get your backpack,” I said as I approached and reached under his desk to pull it out. “Is there anything else you need?”

Elliot shook his head no and I shrugged into his backpack. He stayed close as I set the alarm and waited for the elevator, neither one of us wanting to talk.

“Good night, Lance,” I called toward the front desk as I kept walking.

“Eh, Ms. Y/L/N? Do you need me to call—”

“Nope—all is well! Sorry you’re stuck here tonight, though,” I said with a wave.

“Me, too,” Lance answered, chuckling a little.

I led Elliot to the passenger door of my SUV, opening it and then waiting for Elliot to get in. Once I made sure he was settled, I shut the door and opened up the back door to take off his backpack and place it onto the seat.

I got in, buckled up, and put the key in the ignition. The radio started belting out the Britney Spears song I was rocking to on the way in, and I quickly turned it down after Elliot and I both jumped.

“Now you know my darkest secret,” I said shaking my head.

Elliot looked at me, the hint of the smallest smile in the universe turning up one corner of his mouth.

“I’m taking you to my place and I don’t want an argument. I have a friend who is a PA and I’m going to call her. She’s going to look at your head and if she says you need to go to the hospital, you are going to go. Is that clear?”

Elliot frowned and his eyes looked to the door as if he was contemplating whether or not he could escape.

I quickly put the SUV in gear and swerved out into the street to prevent him from making a move.

“Ok,” he said quietly, knowing he had no other choice.

#Elliot Alderson #elliot alderson x reader #female reader #elliot x reader #elliot alderson fanfic #rami malek #rami malek character #mr robot #mr robot fanfiction

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spaceplanninguru4u-blog · 4 years ago

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How to create mood boards that inspire: 20 pro tips - Paul Watt

Learning how to create mood boards will transform your pitching experience. Mood boards communicate a designer's vision at the start of a project. They should be visually stunning collections of ideas, full of textures and images that paint a picture better than words alone. A mood board is the closest you can get to inviting someone to climb inside your creative mind.

It's crucial that your mood board is more than a confusing, messy collage. Instead, it should be a cohesive, beautiful expression of your vision. But how do you achieve this? We've put together a series of tips that'll let your inner creative genius sing by replicating your creativity on a fantastic mood board.

Have you got an awesome design portfolio to accompany your mood board at your next pitch? If you think it needs some work, we've got lots of portfolio examples to inspire you.

01. Look beyond the digital world

When putting together mood boards, it's easy (and therefore tempting) to just use images found online. But just because you're working on a digital product doesn't mean you have to stick to digital inspiration. Plus, you may be breaking copyright laws by using them.

For example, while working on the ITV news website, digital product design company Made by Many looked at copies of the veteran Picture Post magazine in order to express how powerful and effective an image plus a caption can be for telling a news story. Real world inspiration such as this can be a very powerful 'convincer' when putting together a board for a client.

02. Take pictures

Real-world inspiration is all around us. So use the camera on your phone to take pictures of everything you see that inspires you, whether that be a bird in flight, great use of typography on a sign, or the brickwork on a building. Or maybe it's just a little corner of your house.

They don't have to be great photos in the traditional sense – it's all about capturing thoughts, impressions, themes and feelings.

03. Curate what you include

Have you ever had the misfortune of going to a gallery exhibition and it just not doing anything for you? You weren't 'touched' by the exhibition or 'moved' by what was on show – and other similar emotive profusions. It's very easy to shove a load of stuff together and call it an exhibition; it's an absolute talent to curate threads and synergies between works and call it an exhibition.

When putting together mood boards, think of yourself as a curator rather than a collector, and try to introduce meaning and threads from one image to the next. It makes for easier interpretation.

04. Choose the right format

From the outset, establish how you mood board is going to be presented, as this will determine how you go about it and how much or little detail to go into.

An 'offline' mood board will generally be looser in style and could still be presented online, with some explanation, while a completely online mood board should be tighter and will generally need to work harder to convey a theme or style. Think about how a person viewing your mood board solely via email would view it.

05. Build things up around a large image

Whether your mood board is electronic or physical, the layout needs to give prominence to key theme images. You can then surround these with smaller supporting images that enhance the theme.

It's a subliminal trick. When someone sees a large image on your board in their heads they'll have questions about it – and they'll quickly scan the rest of the board to find answers for those questions. If you place smaller supporting images around the larger image they should answer these questions by clarifying the messaging given in the larger one.

06. Get tactile

When making a physical mood board, don't be afraid to get, well, physical. Traditionally, mood boards are made from foam board. Although cutting this stuff up with a scalpel and spray mounting cut-out images onto it can be a pain (especially if you're not dexterous with a blade), it's extremely effective as a presentation tool. The tactile nature of cut-out images glued onto boards enhances the emotiveness of what's being explained.

It may seem like an old-fashioned thing to do, but perception-wise it's a real ace up your sleeve as a designer. Just be careful with your fingers on that blade...

07. Incorporate your board into your pitch

Generally mood boards are considered to be separate to pitch or presentation work: they stand alone to show mood and tone. This is standard practice, but consider instead making them part of your pitch or presentation. Remember, you're trying to use subliminal visual tricks to make a client 'get it'.

Mixing mood board elements in with the presentation – rather than bolting them on at the end – can be an effective way of communicating your concept to the client.

08. Don't reveal it too early

It's important to make sure that a well-meaning project manager doesn't email an offline mood board ahead of the presentation 'so the client knows what we're presenting'.

For an offline mood board, it's far better to let it all sink in to the client's mind as you showcase it, rather than come armed with lots of questions before you even start.

09. Present your own mood board

In a similar vein, if your mood board is being presented to the client, try to be involved yourself. It makes no sense to have something that originated in your head being communicated by someone else, because that way meaning can become muddled in a Chinese whispers-type mess.

10. Keep things loose

Locking an idea or a style down in a mood board can be detrimental, as the client will feel shoehorned into going with a particular aesthetic. Keep everything a little loose and don't make everything look too final.

If you're using preview images from image libraries, don't worry about the watermarking on them – it all adds up to a 'hey look, we can change this, these are ideas' feel to the board.

11. Watch the audience

When you're presenting a mood board, watch the faces of those you're showing it to. Ignore any verbal client 'oohs and ahhs' but instead watch their facial and emotive reactions as they look around the board. This will give you a much more honest take on whether the board is doing its job and if they're reacting well or badly to what you're showing them.

You have to put these people 'in your mood', so ignore their mutterings and watch their emotive reactions.

12. Hone your mood board skills

Employees at branding agency Landor Associates use a form of mood board to showcase themselves to other members of the team. Individuals put together nine images in a 3 x 3 grid to give their work colleagues an insight into what they're like; their interests, passions, cares and worries.

If you ever want to test out your mood boarding skills, try this out and showcase it to your colleagues.

13. Text it up

Don't ignore the power of a few isolated words on a board. Well-chosen words can be fantastic show-stoppers and give your viewer pause for thought as they have to mentally read what's in front of them. Big, bold words juxtaposed together work very well at creating drama, tone and meaning for any project.

14. Make the theme obvious

Obscure references can be fun, but try to have a number of relatable items or 'touchpoints' in your mood board. You want to let others in, so being deliberately obtuse will earn you no points at all. It's easy to fill out a board with a pile of incomprehensible references; it's much harder to be clear and use imagery to sell your vision. But it's worth the effort.

15. Aim to spark an emotional response

Think a little bit left of centre if you're presenting a mood board to a client. What would give them a genuine emotive response? Real world objects are good for this. If you were inspired by the beach, bring in a shell. If your eureka moment happened on the train, bring in the ticket. This type of thing intrigues people's brains and gains that all-important emotive reaction.

16. Don't make presumptions

Expecting too much of the audience can be the difference between a successful mood board and one that's dismissed as being too cerebral. There's a danger of assuming they'll 'know what you mean' – chances are they won't. So if it takes a few more references, images or textures to get what's inside your head into a client's then add them in.

17. Test your mood board

Don't forget to test out your boards before you send them off. It's not a game of Pictionary, so if your testing audience have to ask too many times what an image means or why it's there, then it probably shouldn't be there.

18. Have fun

The whole process of creating mood boards should be fun – a refreshing break from the often tedious tasks of the jobbing designer. If you're not having fun then it's a sure sign you're going about things the wrong way...

19. Use mood boards to brief designers

Following on from the previous point, mood boards are a good way to brief a creative. Don't be afraid to go into detail. The mood board above was compiled for animator Tom Baker as a mood and style guide for creating cartoon versions of The Avengers TV series characters. Instead of relying on one example of a character, several types were found in many different poses, which gave Baker a clear take on the style and direction of the piece.

20. Speed up client sign-off

Mood boards shouldn't just be for pitches. Consider preparing mood boards to show other similarly themed projects, websites or functions before creating polished visuals.

'I'll know it when I see it' is a phrase that most of us are familiar with. But to hear this when finished artwork comes back from a client is gutting, signifying that it's back to square one. Using mood boards at different stages of the process can help you avoid this happening.

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snazzyo · 6 years ago

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In praise of J2M’s handling of the decision to end Supernatural

Supernatural has always been special. And the way that they managed the news of the shows ending is another example of the care and skill they bring to the Supernatural experience. This decision could have rolled out in so many different ways or different times that would have been much more devastating. But it’s clear from start to finish, the boys deftly managed this announcement in expert fashion. Long ass post - skim the bold for the gist.

Ways that showed careful attention to managing o this decision:

They unambiguously ending it versus the CW or the WB. This is a victory for the show, for fandom, and for the boys. And J2M didn’t just randomly make a decision. At some point this past year, they started to believe it was time to end. But in order to make it a #SPNFamily choice they had to have some things fall in place and they had to time when they let people know in order for this to be a ‘choice’ rather than ‘cancellation’. Specifically:

They had to be renewed. And renewed for 20 episodes. This means the CW was prepared to continue at the ratings level they had achieved. Once that happened, then J2M could take over the narrative. Timing: renewal followed the traditional timeline of late January - which would give TPTB enough time to rewrite the last 4 episodes into a series finale if they needed to. This has been a consistent pattern since S4. The last time they totally flew off the cliff without a net was S3 (bless them!).

They needed to time when they told Dabb & Singer. I’m pretty sure they told Andrew around the 31st of January - when CW made the renewal announcement. Some have made a case that this decision happened earlier and Andrew’s absence on Nov 16th (300th party) was related to him hearing S15 was ‘the end’ news. BUT I'm thinking they did not share - or maybe hadn't even cemented the idea yet. First, it would really dampen the mood. Second, they wanted renewal. Any hint of hanging it up at that party would have been hard to keep quiet. Too much press. Too much alcohol. So, I can't totally get on board with a final decision at that point. Even if the boys were seriously talking about the remotely sad -- so they weren’t certain they were going to end at that time. These guys are good actors but not robots. I think it would have shown. BUT Andrew had to know how to shape the last 4 episodes of S14 (again end of January). Which means the boys would have provided him the information that they were going to wrap in S15 and he should target the last 24 episodes as supporting that eventuality about that time.

Either the CW was prepared to let the boys decide on duration or they waited til relatively the last minute so that the CW didn't restructure a shorter season. I'm torn on this one. Pedowitz has been respectful of the boys BUT there's definite bad blood on not picking up Wayward Sisters -- and the fan backlash. If Pedowitz did know early enough to weigh in on duration, he only did it for the boys. Not the CW and not the fans. He was visibly pissed at the fans backlash on Wayward Sisters. And I'm 100% certain that him sticking the knife in the back of any other spin-off (which he did last fall by saying Supernatural is just the boys and he doesn't see another spin-off) is because Warner Brothers financial deal was not what he wanted. Never underestimate the grudges that develop after failed negotiations (which is what the Wayward Sisters was -- it was all about the money). So, I'm inclined to believe that Pedowitz knew before the announcement but not as quickly as Dabb and Singer did. The boys were more likely to hedge their bet here. THEY controlled the narrative by how they informed key players.

They strategically timed the public announcement - literally the DAY of the wrap party. This accomplishes two important things for the crew.

One, the crew WILL get new jobs but this gives them a full year to line up something new. Some will jump early, some will jump no later than pilot season. Others will go sporadically based on their intent. The point is that they have a rich portfolio to show and time to show it off to prospective bosses.

Second, they gave the cast and crew to have one big happy cry-off/celebration. The boys both stayed this year - which hasn't been the case in a while. The party was immediately after the announcement - which meant they could have the bulk of the crew there before they headed off to various summer activities. And some now won't come back (as they leap to other jobs). So it was a maximum crew party. If there's one thing I'm confident of, it's that J2 understands they hold the livelihoods of so many in their hands. You really couldn't have asked for a better handling of the end announcement from a crew perspective.

They clearly informed key recurring cast members before they made the announcement. This is a fitting professional courtesy to a trusted few. Especially the ones that were likely to come back on the show. So Speight, Benedict, Rhodes, Buckmaster, Connell, Smith. Those guys knew for sure. And knew no later than SPNNash. But maybe not much earlier. If these people were going to get a pilot during pilot season, their recurring role wouldn't have stopped them.

Unambiguously, Misha was always part of the discussions IMO right from the jump. He would have been engaged in the actual debate about what to do with J2 and when. Because while it may be J2's show, Misha is IN that circle of trust. He has a large dedicated fandom, he's got a huge international charity. And they just love him dearly. Seriously, they ran a marathon cause he asked them to. IMO if Misha needed more time, they would have given it to him. But that's not Misha. He has zero sense of entitlement.

But this also lets the recurring cast have a private freak-out because the show IS likely their primary professional income stream. Veterans like Benedict & Rhodes have already been taking other gigs but the conventions mean big dollars too. It's a nice testament to their friendship that they told them personally and early.

I think JDM was the exception. I think Jensen told him that this was a real possibility before he signed onto the 300th. I don't think they had made the final decision that early (pre-Christmas) but they were leaning that way.

The timing and approach of the public announcement ALSO massively helps the the fandom - They truly care about fandom. They understand this is going to be actually life-changing hard for some. But with this timing/approach they optimized it as best they could with a staggered process.

We get four more episodes this year while we are 'actively engaged'. Versus some announcement during Hellatus when there's less folks on line. It shifts our view of the last four episodes.

It's done right before a massive con (SPNLV) where Jensen will sing (always a treat). So it's really good pacing for us. We get to react to the news and then hear MORE detail from them. This is also the con that is broadcast via Stage-It. Could be coincidence. Maybe not.

It keeps Comic Con a celebration not a bummer. We'll start to 'wind up' versus be crushed.

The announcement was a 1+1+2 strategy. I don't know if they realized that. They said one positive (yay! S15), they got immediately to the bad news (it's the end), and then followed up with at least two positive statement (we're excited, this family doesn't go away). Maybe it's instinct but it's a tried and true method. (Full disclosure: 2+1+1 is the classic method, but I think they knew the jig would be up as soon as they started talking on the video so they ripped off the Band-Aid quickly).

All which leads me to the following speculation:

When they signed the S14/S15 contracts, they were prepared to walk away then. It wasn't how they would want to end it, but they were going to prioritize family time. Note: the timing of when they were 'asked back' was much later than I think they were hoping. Based on things both Jared and Jensen said, I get the impression they were hoping to orchestrate the next two contracts earlier than Nov 17 (when they were 'asked back'). They had been talking 'mini-series' or other event-like content. I think understanding when/how they have leverage was informed by this relatively traditional November 'ask back' and this shaped how they went about the end announcement strategy. But the 20 episode contracts with clearly more time off was both a necessity and a bit of a test -- would it hold up with that level of involvement?

I think they really expected Wayward Sisters to be picked up. They thought crossovers with Wayward would help make a two-year transition smooth. That they didn't get picked up, that Pedowitz crushed any spin-off hopes was significant in how they played the S15 decision. Without Wayward, a S15 was necessary to give the crew time to land elsewhere IMO. That also includes writers, producers, and recurring guests. But the unexpected failure to pick up Wayward DID shift some storylines early in the season. I think there is literally NOTHING left of Wayward tie-in after mid-season. Except for a general "they exist in offscreenville' commitment. As mentioned elsewhere Kathryn Newton was gonzo right away. Yadira is on an Apple show with Jason Mamoa. Kim has had guest appearances on other shows. Briana has music going and probably actively looking for work for the last year. The other 3 are back in the hopper, looking for acting gigs as far as I can tell. And I honestly think Berens still has a gaping chest wound from the loss of his hopes and dreams. I think Dabb has moved on but also feels the loss. But without Wayward, the boys lost their structured soft ending for Supernatural. Maybe something pops up later (a special or movie) but that's dependent on how they end the series. We won't know if it's even viable until 2020.

They are truly ready to move on. They've been prepared since Nov 2017. I think they were open to more (under the 20 episode, less time contract terms) but they sense "now" is the time. It could be the storylines, it could be the fan reaction to their less involvement (which has been understanding but generally unhappy), and it could be a variety of things. Unless they say something specifically about the ' why now', I think it's fair to say they didn't see enough momentum to make it extend. Hence the 'go out on a high note'. I'll be shocked if they ever criticize anyone or any story specifically.

Bottom Line: They brilliantly played the hand they were dealt. It's so nice to be part of a fandom where the stars put such a priority on taking care of others. It's why I buy in, completely, on the #SPNFamily concept.

#supernatural #spn ending

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ahgasefordayz · 6 years ago

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The Pink Triangle

Pairing: Im Jaebum x Male Reader

Word Count: 1,813

Request: Can you maybe write something about Jaebum being one of the popular guys in school, kind if like a play boy. He liked flirting with women and teasing them, messing with their hearts since he was gay it didn't matter to him. No one knew he was gay though. But when a (Male) transfer student comes to his school he has a change of heart or something like that? (I'm a gay guy and majority of the kpop dabbles I read are straight and it's kind of depressing to be honest.)

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this because I honestly enjoyed writing it. I realize that a lot of writings are female based, and I will try in the future to make our writings more gender neutral. I do not want to exclude anyone from reading our works because they don’t identify with the pronouns used. Please if you would like a specific set of pronouns used in the works you request please let us know. We will have no problem doing that for you. -admin izzy

Once again, the inbox is open for you to request anything! ( reactions, drabbles, texts, snaps, mood boards, etc.)

One thing everyone knew about Im Jaebum was that he was a fuck boy. I guess not your traditional fuck boy, he never slept with the girls he messed with, but there was no doubt he went through them like magazines. Every girl in his grade, and even in other grades, knew he wasn’t willing to settle down or even stick to one girl for longer than a few weeks. College is stressful for a lot of students, and I guess that was his way of dealing with the stress, right?

He wasn’t always this way, but he is definitely not the type to take home to your parents, that is if you even managed to date him for that long.

There was one thing that no one knew about Jaebeom. The women he dated had no effect on him soley because he wasn’t sexual attrated to them at all. Jaebum was gay. He always knew he was different than the rest of his classmates, but once he hit high school he realized that women weren’t what he was looking for. Since coming to college, he felt as if that he could be himself, but a lot of the students he attends college with are from the same town. Let’s say the general population of his hometown would not be happy to learn that he does not conform to their heteronormative values. That is why he has refused to be who he really is, and instead being the player everyone knows him to be.

Jaebum isn’t the type to indulge in his feelings, so this secret about himself was left unknown to everyone. He didn’t like the fact that he wasn’t comfortable enough to come out, but that’s a lot for someone to do. He didn’t have anyone that he felt close enough to be able to do it, so the secret was hidden from everyone. One thing that gave him comfort was the pink triangle pin he kept on his backpack to remind him that one day he will have the courage to come out.

Jaebum’s favorite thing about the spring semester was the cold weather, and the fact that he didn’t have to be in class until 11:30 due to how his schedule worked out. Walking with a coffee in tow, he makes his way to his first class unaware to what is about to happen.

You had always been the outcast of the family, and struggled to fit in to not only your family, but your peers at school as well. Since you were a kid, being who you were wasn’t good enough for your family and they made many efforts to hide who you were. Forcing you to date many girls, to going fishing or golfing, anything to hide the fact that you were not the manly son they hoped you would be. You were to be a straight man, and lawyer, but that isn’t who you are.

Switching schools was one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do. Being a lawyer was something your parents have stressed to you since day one, but it was never your calling. All the men in your family were lawyers, and as their only son, you too were destined to follow that path. Your final year in high school you took a filler class in order to have enough credits to graduate, and so you took Photography. Since that day, photography was and is your calling and what made you decide your third year of college to abandon the family tradition.

Secretly, over the break between the fall and the spring you submitted your portfolio and applied to the college in Seoul in order to get your degree in Photography. The day you got your letter in the mall, your parent’s were furious, but there was nothing they could do. Your mind was set, and you were moving to Seoul. You packed your bags and prepared for the scary, but exciting adventure ahead of you.

Having a photography class near lunchtime was both good and bad. Good because the lighting and the brightness of the day was refreshing, but bad because you were starving. Having classes from 8 am to 12 wasn’t so bad in theory, but in practice you wished you didn’t have to wake up so early. Making your way to the last class of the day was good, but you weren’t so sure how you were going to be able to do this. You were hopeful since it was the first day of the semester.

You made a mental note to yourself to take the elevator on the way to and from this class because there was no way you were going to climb four flights of stairs. Walking in, you were earlier than most, so there were only a few people that were in the class already. Making your way to a seat toward the middle of the classroom so that you weren’t labeled a bad kid, but you were the teacher’s pet either. There was only one person on the row you chose to sit in, so you sat one seat away from him in order to give him space, but also a chance to talk to you if he wished. He did not.

Well, you were dead set on having at least one person you could pair up with or at least talk to, so you spoke first,

“Hi, I’m Y/N. I am a transfer student from (University/Name). What is your major?”

Silence. You were greeted with pure silence. Did he not hear you? Getting a better look at him, you notice he has headphones in his ears, so of course he can’t hear you. You guess he feels your eyes on him because he looks up from his phone and sees you looking at him. Taking his headphone out of one of his ears he says, “Yes?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t notice you had your headphones in. I’m Y/N and I transferred from (University/Name) this semester. What’s your major?”

“Why did you transfer from there? That’s a rich people college. Are you dumb?” he says with a disgusted look on his face.

“It isn’t a rich people school. It’s for people with well off families to send their kids who don’t have any real direction in life or law students, thank you very much.” you said.

“Which one are you?” he says with a smirk.

“Honey, if you can’t tell which one I am, then I picked the wrong person to sit next to.”

Who is this guy? He is asking all these questions as if I’m an idiot. He hasn’t even answered my question. How rude of him.

“I’m a photography major.” he says quietly as if he isn’t sure if he should tell you or not.

“Oh! I am too, but I am just starting this semester. Any tips you could give me?” you say with a smile.

“Don’t forget to take the lense cap off.” he says with a straight face.

Who IS this guy? That was funny, but what in the world? You liked this guy, but you weren’t sure how this interaction was going to go. Where you going to have a buddy in the class, or an enemy?

“Well, thanks for that. You know my name, but I don’t know yours. Care to sure it with me?” you say.

“Im Jaebum.” he says with a small smile.

“Well, Im Jaebum, I look forward to the encounters we face together in this class and throughout the semester.”

Im Jaebum. What a cute name. It wasn’t your intention, but you did notice how cute he actually was, but now way in hell was he gay, right? What a manly looking man, but that was totally your type. Even though it was the first day of class, you were determined to make something out of this connection. Maybe asking him out right would be too forward? Looking around everywhere except his eyes, you noticed his backpack. It was a normal black book bag with pins on the front. Usually one puts pins on their backpack to represent who you were as a person, but there was one that stood out to you especially. It was a small pin, toward the bottom of the bag, and it was a simple pink triangle.

“Where did you get that pin?” you asked as calmly as you could.

“Which one?” he asked curiously.

“The pink triangle.” you say.

Jaebum pauses. What was he supposed to say? Maybe you didn’t know what it meant. Well, you did call him ‘honey’ earlier, and no straight man would ever call him that. Where you in the LGBT community, too? Did you just think it was a nice pin, and was totally unaware as to what it meant?

“I got it from Hot Topic, I think?”, he said.

“Are you apart of the community, or an ally? I know that’s a really personal question, but the pink triangle is the symbol of celebration and pride for the LGBT community.” , you say.

“I uh.. am not straight, but please don’t tell anyone. I haven’t been in the position to come out yet and have a lot of people in my hometown here at school.” ,he said.

Wow. That was not what you thought he was going to say. This really is going to be a good class because you were totally sure you already had somewhat of a crush on him. You knew that it took a lot of courage to even tell you that. You suddenly felt guilty for prying, so you decided to apologize.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to tell anyone. Plus, I literally don’t know anyone, so your secret is safe with me. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question, and for that I am sorry.” ,you say with your head down.

“It’s okay. You were only curious, but I know you weren’t trying to be rude. It’s totally obvious that you’re not straight either considering you called me honey earlier.”, he says with a laugh.

“Do you have a class after this? We can go to this coffee shop I drove by on the way to campus! It’ll be fun! Plus I can get to know you more, so then you’re technically forced to be my friend.”, you chuckled.

“It’s a date.”, he says with a smirk.

With a shocked look on your face, your forced to focus now due to the fact that your professor walks into the class apologizing for their tardiness.

“Sorry for being late, class. I had a meeting with the Dean and it ran a little late. Hello, I am going to be your professor for this semester!”

This was definitely going to be an interesting semester to say the least.

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carmenlire · 6 years ago

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Higher than the Big Trees Ch. 20

read on ao3

Alec slips the cufflinks through his jacket, giving his sleeves a brief tug. Looking in the mirror, he likes what he sees.

It’s not an unusual sight-- fuck knows that Alec has an entire section dedicated to formal wear. Everything from tuxedos and more adventurous suits to slacks, blazers, and a dozen classic suits in black and similarly neutral colors.

His look today wouldn’t be amiss on Wall Street. His modern fit suit is hand tailored to perfection. His silk button down is in a snowy white, offering a beautiful contrast between the pitch black of the jacket and pants. His Tom Ford belt gleams subtly and his oxfords shine.

As Alec goes back into his walk in closet, he flips his collar up. He has a business meeting with one of his sponsors today, hence the extra effort, and truth be told he doesn’t really mind. There’s something to be said for his sweaters and jeans but Alec enjoys dressing up on occasion.

How fortunate for him that he picked a career where there’s always a gala or awards show or party.

His tie rack is teeming with bow ties and ties in a hundred different colors and patterns. Alec forgoes the more adventurous options-- there’s a light blue one with penguins on it that he usually wears at least once during the winter-- choosing instead a dark maroon tie.

He starts tying a Half Windsor Knot on autopilot as he moves out of his closet and back into his bedroom. His meeting is slated to start at nine and it’s half seven now.

With one last look in the mirror and a half-assed effort to tame his already messy hair, he grabs his phone, wallet, and keys and heads out into the penthouse. He takes the leather portfolio that has some reports and information his lawyer had put together with him.

He has the place to himself-- Jace is at work and Izzy wanted to spend the morning at Uptown Java, something about wanting to read one of her medical books.

As he walks to the elevator, he checks his phone. He sees a text message from Magnus and unconsciously starts to smile. It’s Wednesday morning and this will be the third day that Magnus is out of the country. While Alec had thought that things might fizzle out a little this week as the physical distance between them grew, he was pleasantly surprised to see that they talk just as much, if not more, than when they’re both in the same city.

While there are long periods between texts, they’ve kept up the same thread since yesterday afternoon. It’s something about the merits and pitfalls of public transportation and Alec chuckles in the elevator as he reads Magnus’s tale about accidentally shutting his jacket in a taxi door as he was being dropped off from a night out-- and not realizing until the driver started leaving.

Dave isn’t due to arrive for another half an hour and with that in mind, Alec walks a few blocks over to the closest Starbucks. The line is almost to the door and he messes around on his phone while he waits, unobtrusive.

It never fails to surprise him. Alec’s been in secluded boutiques and been mobbed but New York barely bats an eye most of the time. Oh, he still meets fans regularly wherever he goes, but he can also do normal things. He can stand in line at Starbucks and not worry that he’ll cause a scene.

As he thinks about how lucky he is to live in the city, he guiltily thinks about the internet snafu with Magnus a couple of days ago.

He didn’t have an excuse. While it was early as shit-- not even six in the morning yet-- Alec had been awake, training with Jace. They’d just finished their five mile race, Alec winning, when he’d walked over to his bag. Taking a few gulps of water, he’d heard his phone start vibrating. It’d been far too early for anyone to be calling him and as he’d seen Magnus’s name come up on the screen, he’d been curious. He knew that Magnus was flying out today but he hadn’t thought it was so early.

Jace had sent him a quizzical look as he’d picked up the phone, swiping to accept the call. Alec had mouthed Magnus and Jace had raised his brows, smirking.

Rolling his eyes, he’d turned away and talked to Magnus as he waited to board his flight. They'd talked for almost forty minutes and it had been chill. There’d been a few silent stretches where neither one had anything to say and hadn’t thought of a new topic yet and it hadn’t felt awkward.

Really, it made Alec content. They were both just happy to relax on the line with each other. Halfway through the phone call, though, Alec had been a little stunned to realize that he wasn’t following Magnus on anything. Especially since Magnus followed him, apparently.

He’d thrown the phone on speaker and Jace had been all ears at being the first to know what Alec’s new friend sounded like. Thankfully, Magnus had realized he was on speaker pretty quick and there hadn’t been any potential blackmail on the phone call for Jace to commit to memory.

Alec had went to Twitter first, following and liking a few tweets. His profile picture looked like it was taken in an office, dark wood walls serving as the background. He had a few thousand followers and Alec liked the mix of trivia, mundane observations, and photos.

Instagram was the same, though Alec couldn’t resist commenting on a few posts. When Magnus had told him that he regularly practiced yoga and was actually a certified instructor, Alec had almost swallowed his tongue. It was one thing just to be told that, however, and quite something else to see Magnus doing a One Handed Tree Pose (he looked it up) in nothing but form fitting black boxer briefs.

It was obvious that Magnus kept in shape but seeing him post a few workout videos not only got Alec a little hot under the collar, but genuinely made him interested in working out together. While he liked to work out alone, he also enjoyed having a partner. Alec thinks that there could be a little friendly competition going on between them and it’d be fun to see just how evenly matched they were.

Alec orders and pays with little fanfare, still marveling at how stupid he’d been. Or, not even stupid-- he’d just been oblivious for the first time in years.

Alec knows that his life is under a microscope, that the daily minutiae that is deeply uninteresting about everyone else is fascinating when it’s about him. He should’ve foreseen that his fans-- smart as hell and twice as tenacious-- would immediately noticed that he followed someone on not only one, but two platforms.

Alec might dedicate a lot of time to his fans but he’s also intensely private when it counts. He follows less than a thousand people and rarely adds to the number. His fans hadn’t wasted a minute.

After hanging up with Magnus, Alec had gone right back to working out with Jace who had mock scowled at him for taking so long. He’d just shrugged, a little helpless, and Jace had just shaken his head, clapping him on the back as they took their positions to spar a little.

When Jace had finally finished with him, he’d flopped down next to the mats and asked Jace to toss his phone over to him. Jace had gone over to their shit and in true brother fashion had unlocked his phone, scrolling through his notifications. He always acted like a kid, as if Alec wasn’t perfectly aware of what he signed up for when he asked Jace the favor but he just laid on the floor, catching his breath while Jace invaded his privacy.

After a minute or two Jace had handed the phone over, merely saying, “I never get used to how many notifications you have.”

Alec wasn’t in the mood to deal with it, so he’d just opened his messages, confirming lunch plans with Izzy and getting caught up on a few emails and calls.

He’d finally checked his phone in the early afternoon after lunch and had been surprised at the number of engagements. Even for him, it was high. When he’d tapped into the apps and seen the root of the damage, though, he’d wanted to kick himself.

He should’ve known.

He’d texted Magnus as soon as he put the pieces together, hoping that his few moments messing around on social media wouldn’t be the end of things between them. Alec’s very cognizant of the fact that his life isn’t for anyone and he’d promised Magnus discretion two weeks ago. This was the very definition of indiscreet.

He’d sweated it out, knowing that Magnus was still flying. He’d spent a couple of hours preoccupied, distracting himself with fine tuning the song he and Catarina had worked on. Thankfully, Magnus had understood and he’d ended up abandoning his song for almost an hour as he texted Magnus in a flurry.

Alec had taken the rest of the afternoon afterwards, messing around on his piano until the sun started fading and he was playing more by feel than sight. He’d finished the day cooking dinner for the three of them and Clary, retiring back to his bedroom by eight and falling asleep reading.

Alec’s pleased to realize that his writer’s block is officially over. All of those months of trying to string two sentences together, not finding the right chords or note runs and it seems to be a thing of the past. He’s not churning them out but he’s making steady progress. In addition to the collab with Cat and his song tentatively titled Angel, he has two or three others that are brewing in the back of his mind.

He’d really just been fucking around on his piano, a Steinway & Sons K-132. It had been one of his first large purchases and it’d been ages since he’d had time to play for fun, trying out chords and arrangements or playing some of his favorite pieces for pure, simple enjoyment.

The past few days had been quiet, especially without Magnus to potentially see. He’s spent that time writing half a dozen songs. While he wasn’t concentrating too much on the content-- really he was just writing whatever came to mind-- the tone was undeniable.

His last album had racked up the awards for being gritty, dark. He’d written about the price of fame, about one night stands and one city lovers and jaded ennui. There’d been one or two softer songs-- one he’d collaborated with another artist for, another that he’d written with Jace and Clary in mind-- but overall, An Arrow in the Dark had been cynical and cutting with an overlay of sensuality that the public had loved.

So far, this album looked to be forming as the total opposite. The songs were softer, sweeter, and Alec couldn’t help but notice that he was drawing on these burgeoning feelings inside him for source material. He thought of how easy things were with Magnus, how much he was enjoying making a new friend and learning about an incredibly interesting man. Then there were those fucking butterflies that wouldn’t leave him alone when they touched accidentally or he learned something else entirely endearing about Magnus.

He’d say Magnus was his muse but their arrangement was too platonic for that. You couldn’t write an entire album about a friend, after all. He refuses to look too closely at the fact that the only real thing that's changed to break his block is meeting Magnus. He doesn't think he could handle it-- not with everything else the man brings out in him.

As Alec walks back to the front of his building, he sees Dave pull up right on time. Dave gets out and heads to the rear door of the Lincoln town car, nodding as Alec approaches.

“Right on time, Alec. That’s what I like to see.”

Mock affronted, Alec holds out one of his coffee cups as he asks, “When am I ever not on time?”

Dave doesn’t respond, just hums as he accepts the drink and takes an appreciative sniff.

“Vanilla latte, my favorite.”

“You’ve been my driver for almost eight years. I would hope I’d have your order memorized by now,” he says, grinning.

Alec climbs into the back seat and spends a few minutes relaxing. The upcoming meeting wasn’t anything intense but his lawyer, Underhill, wanted to pin some numbers down and Alec wanted to brush up on the details before they walked into the boardroom.

He opens the portfolio, taking out a few handouts and skimming them as a refresher. He’d gone over everything when it was first sent but it never hurts to review things one more time.

Alec had a healthy relationship with sponsors. There were those for his tours but also a handful of companies that wanted his name and his face on their products. This morning’s meeting was to discuss a renewal of his Nike contract and Alec was looking forward to it. While the company might be sweating a little, Alec and Underhill had already talked things through and knew that they’d be walking out of the room partners for another two years regardless of Nike's offer today.

Traffic is brutal as ever in the early morning rush hour and Alec almost spills his coffee twelve times, taking ill-timed sips just when traffic slows to a stop. Still, Dave knows what he’s doing and they make it to the corporate offices with ten minutes to spare.

He gets out, without assistance, and waves Dave off with a mutual confirmation to return at two.

As he walks towards the glass and steel doors, he sees a familiar figure walking towards him.

“Hey, Alec,” Underhill says as he nears. His five thousand dollar suit looks impeccable and he look ready to do business.

“Morning, man. How’s Adrian,” Alec asks as the two move in for a handshake.

Underhill turns towards the doors, smiling and opening the one closest to him, gesturing for Alec to go through first as he answers.

“Adrian’s great. We have a vacation planned for next month in Aspen. He’s already got a dozen trails mapped out for us to try.”

“Yeah? Are you still going through with it?”

The two of them share a knowing look as the secretary calls for her boss.

Looking both giddy and unnerved, Underhill smiles. “Of course. I’ve had the ring for six damn months. I think it’s time that I actually used it.”

Alec claps him on the back just as one of Nike’s lawyers meets them in the reception area. There are a round of handshakes before they’re being guided to one of the conference rooms.

The room is utilitarian. Four walls of glass show a large conference table where six people are already sitting.

Underhill has shed his easy going demeanor. Instead, he looks serious, ready to do business and get Alec the best deal possible.

There are no pleasantries and as the three of them take their seats, Alec opens his notes up, face impassive.

He may not have gone to college, but he’s no slouch. He knows that Underhill has his best interests at heart-- has for four years now-- but you don’t get to be in Alec’s position without being screwed over a time or two, in both his personal and professional life. Alec spends not an inconsiderable time reading up on a variety of topics on a routine basis. Among those are music, business, and law. He may not be ready for his LSATS but he’s read through every piece of business that crosses him. The terms they’ve offered are a fair counterpoint to what Nike had initially given them and the next few hours promise to be lively if nothing else.

Underhill remains cool under pressure, no less intimidating for being one against six. While Underhill had his own firm with a range of junior partners, interns, and paralegals, he was always Alec's representative.

The room breaks after a few hours, reaching a bit of a stalemate. The opposing team offers it as an excuse for a quick bite to eat but when Alec’s and Underhill’s eyes meet, they know the truth.

They're going to the other partners to see if they can accept the new deal.

The two of them go to a close cafe where they each get a smoothie, drinking them as they walk around a park across the street. They return to the room when the thirty minutes are up.

Everyone sits down and it’s quiet for a minute before the partner in charge of this deal stands, buttoning his suit jacket, before reaching a hand out first to Alec and then Underhill.

“I’m pleased to say that the other partners agreed that the proffered terms are acceptable. We’ve reached an agreement and are pleased to announce that you’ll be partnered with our company for the next two years, continuing our contract without issue."

As he hears the words, Alec stands and there’s a few minutes as he and Underhill shake everyone’s hands. Alec is given a Montblanc pen and scrawls his signature a dozen times on a contract as thick as a book.

Just a few minutes later, they’re leaving. They wait until they reach the sidewalk before looking at each other and laughing, half relief and half pure amusement.

“Our terms were hard and I have to say that I’m a little surprised that Nike accepted them. You’re getting eighteen percent more up front with a two percent rise in your kickbacks. They must really like you.”

Alec shrugs, playing coy. Though really, he’s surprised at their luck, too.

“You know how much buzz they got for signing an openly gay man to represent their company. Those commercials went viral as soon as they were released. I am proud of you, though! They definitely thought we were going to back down first.”

Underhill shakes his head. “If only they knew that we would have accepted what they offered last week.”

Laughing, Alec says, “Another win for us.”

He takes a step back and looks at his watch, sees Underhill do the same.

Underhill waves his briefcase a little, saying, “I’ve got to head back to the office and file these. Plus, I think I’m going to try to meet Adrian for a late lunch. I’ll talk to you later but you should be good for the next few weeks on everything from my end.”

Alec nods, taking out his phone. “Sounds great man. Thanks for today-- you crushed it.”

The two of them smile at each other before heading off in opposite directions. Looking down at his phone, Alec sees that they let out about forty minutes early and he calls Dave to let him know that he’s not needed.

Alec takes the opportunity to do a little shopping. He’s not the most avid shopper but once in a while when he has some free time, he likes to kill some by poking into stores. He usually just ends up buying stuff for everyone else but it’s a nice way to spend an afternoon every six months.

He ends up buying a necklace for Izzy and phone case for Jace who insists on never using one despite the fact that he’s had to replace his iphone at least twice this year alone.

It’s calming, really. Alec spends most of his time with people, though he gets his fair share of time solo. There’s just something about walking around a city alone-- even his hometown-- that makes him feel like just Alec, anonymous. A free agent.

He’s walking down the street, heading towards the subway station, when he sees a cameraman headed his way. Sighing internally, he resolutely keeps walking.

“Hey man, it’s TMZ. How are you doing today?"

Alec smiles but it’s his public smile. Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t genuinely enjoy some interviews and promo. But sometimes there are certain reporters, or companies, that he’s not a fan of and so he has to use his public persona a bit more.

“I’m good, man. What about you,” he responds easily.

“Can’t complain. What do you have there?” He aims his camera at the few bags in Alec’s hand. There’s one from a jeweler’s, another from a small boutique, and a last bag from an independent bookstore around the corner.

Shrugging, Alec says, “Nothing much, just doing a little shopping.”

“Who are you shopping for, Lightwood? Do you have a special someone that you’re buying gifts for?”

Alec looks at him drolly. “My sister.”

TMZ guy nods along, still looking like he’s going to get the scoop. “We heard you followed someone on Instagram this week. What about him?”

Inside, Alec seethes but he keeps the bland expression pasted on his face as he continues walking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think his name is Magnus? He’s a professor?”

Hoping the camera doesn’t pick up on his clenching jaw, Alec returns, “He’s a friend I met a few weeks ago.”

“Oh? Is that all there is or should we be worried that the music scene’s most eligible bachelor is finally taken?”

Alec smiles, though it feels more like a grimace. “No, I’m still single and unattached. There’s nothing going on there except friendship.” No matter how much I might want that to change.

The reporter looks at him like he’s digging for more information before turning to another topic. “What about your music? With your tour wrapping up, do you already have plans for your next album?”

Here, Alec can relax. The tension eases out of him at the familiar question. This, he knows. He grins a little but still remains facing forward as he approaches a crosswalk.

“I’m just in the studio seeing what we have. Every album has a different vibe and I’m having fun coming up with the concept for number seven.”

“Can you tease anything?”

Alec thinks for a minute. The words are on the tip of his tongue but he bites them back as he thinks about possible repercussions. In the end though, he decides to go for it. Even if he ends up completely scrapping what he has so far, this is where he’s at right now. Plus, it’s never too early to start building buzz.

“I think this album will be the best I’ve ever written.”

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“I’m experiencing something new for the first time in ages and I can’t help but write about what I’m going through. I think this album will explore a source bank I’ve never tapped into before.”

“What’s new with you?”

Alec declines to answer as the reporter asks a few more leading questions. After a minute, the TMZ guy backs off, throwing out a goodbye.

Alec returns it and continues on his way home.

He makes it back to his apartment twenty minutes later. The sun is starting to dip in the sky and the penthouse is washed in golden light. He sees Izzy on her phone in the living room. She looks up as he enters.

“Hey, hermano.”

“Hey, Iz.”

He tosses one of the bags at her and she stills for a moment before sitting up and opening it. When she takes out the necklace, she studies it for a few minutes. It’s a double tiered piece. The top is a choker but the second layer falls down, several inches longer. It’s gold with different colored stones every few centimeters. It’s colorful and unique and perfectly his sister.

Izzy must agree because she’s grinning. As Alec nears her, she leans over and hugs his middle.

“Thanks, Alec. I love it and can’t wait to show it off. You didn’t have to, though, you know that right?”

Alec just looks at her. “That’s half the fun of shopping for me. You know that. I saw this in the storefront and felt like spending money. It works out for both of us.”

Alec sits on the other end of the couch and the two of them relax in the quiet for a little while, both on their phones. It’s a companionable silence and one that Alec misses when he’s on the road.

After a while, though, Izzy looks up, excited. “You know what we should do?”

Alec doesn’t answer, remaining engrossed on a game on his phone.

Izzy kicks him and he groans before asking, “What.”

“We should go out tonight!”

lec must not look enthused with the idea because she glares at him. “What? It’s been a month since you last went out-- when’s the last time that happened?”

Alec opens his mouth to argue but abruptly closes it, realizing that she’s right. Alec might like to stay home with his book or piano but he also likes having a good time and usually goes out at least once a week. There are periods when he’s parties for days on end, passing out just to go out again a few hours later. Huh. This is different.

As he thinks, Alec just pictures Magnus. They’d only hung out a few times but any time spent with him was valuable and there was no contest between talking to Magnus or going out to the latest club.

A friend shouldn’t affect him like this. A friend shouldn’t change his patterns so thoroughly and so gently that Alec doesn’t even notice-- doesn’t even care.

Decision made, Alec looks over at Izzy and nods. “Alright, then. We’ll go out. Is everyone going?”

Rolling her eyes, Izzy stands up. “What do you think I was doing on my phone? Clary has an art class that runs late tonight but Jace can go.” She smiles as she starts walking toward her bedroom. “It’ll just be the three of us, like old times. Now I have to go get ready. We’ll head out at ten?”

She doesn’t wait for confirmation, just goes to her room, shutting the door with a resounding click.

Alec finishes the text he was writing to Magnus, relaxing against the couch as he presses send.

It had been ages since just the three of them went out. There was always a date or Clary or friends or it was for a special occasion. While Alec hadn’t planned on going out tonight, the idea doesn’t sound hideous. He’ll go, have a few drinks, dance with a few people.

Maybe this is what he needs. He needs to shake Magnus. Maybe if he meets someone else, he won’t be so hung up on Magnus’s eyes and his intelligence and his everything. He needs a distraction.

Maybe if he gets laid Magnus won’t get under his skin so damn much.

Alec stands up, stretching his back.

If Magnus is just his friend then by God Alec will get this thing out of his system one way or another. Something's gotta give and Alec is a master at distraction when he needs to be.

That thought in mind, he heads to his room.

He needs to get ready.

#I hope you like this!!!!!!<3 #httbt #my writing #malec fic #malec au #malec wip

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kat-writes · 3 years ago

Text

An Elk in a Sweater

This is my creative nonfiction portfolio piece.

CW: suicidal thoughts and ideation, depression, anxiety, Very Descriptive

Brains fail sometimes. Not the kind of catastrophic failure that means death or the loss of executive function, but tiny, miniscule failures. Usually, it’s things like forgetting where you put your keys, or struggling to locate a spoon, though the silverware drawer has always been just to the right of the sink.

I was sitting in a friend’s apartment, working with her on our cast list and production calendar for the show we were directing together. We’d gone to Five Guys and splurged on shakes and the biggest, greasiest burgers we could afford. Of course, this meant that an hour or two later, I needed to use her bathroom. Once I was finished, I reached to the left to pull the toilet paper from the room. Except, there was no roll. There was no fixture to hold a roll. The bathrooms at my parents’ home, my dorm, the stalls I choose to use on campus all have the toilet paper rolls on the left. I nearly called out to my friend to ask where her toilet paper was – before I even considered looking to my right. Once I finally looked the other way, I remembered that I had indeed seen the toilet paper roll on the right side of the toilet before I sat down.

My brain fails in these little ways often. I forget what I was supposed to do for a class the moment I leave the classroom. Or I can’t remember what I had for my last meal. I can’t remember what day it is, and I think it’s Wednesday when it is actually Monday.

Often, I wonder if I should worry about it more. Should I talk to my doctor and let him know that I forget things so much? That I can’t find things that are sitting right in front of my face, or files that I spent forever organizing so that I could know exactly where to find them? But then I remember: I know exactly why I forget so many things.

My brain isn’t just failing me in the small ways. It’s failing me in one big way; arguably, one of the biggest ways. It causes it to fail in all the tiny ways, too.

Sometimes, the brain experiences chemical failures. It doesn’t produce enough dopamine, norepinephrine, and/or serotonin. Or maybe it can’t properly regulate mood. Perhaps there is a genetic vulnerability, or the person has had something traumatic happen, or they take certain kinds of medications. Whatever the reason, or combination of reasons, the brain just… fails. It develops depression. Or anxiety.

Lucky me, I have both.

I can’t pinpoint when it started. (Of course, I can barely pinpoint what I had for breakfast this morning. Did I have breakfast this morning?) But I remember breaking down in my math class during my freshman year of high school. Math has never been my strongest subject. I’m a theatre major; I do artsy stuff. Having a math class that was over my head at 8 o’clock in the morning was already enough to make my stress skyrocket. And still, on top of that, I’d let my counselor talk me into taking AP Geography and History of the World. The course loas was worse than any college class I’ve taken at university.

I was out of my mind with stress. I could feel the weight of it on my shoulders, the ache seizing the muscles in my back and crawling up into my brain, clutching at every muscle and fiber of my being. My body hurt, my head ached, and I could only sit still in my desk chair, trying not to let the ache seize my lungs, too. Breathe. In, out, release the pain. Release… Please release.

I was staring at an inspirational poster on the teacher’s bulletin board. I can’t remember the exact wording, but it put a Tenth Avenue North song in my head, one that I liked, but hadn’t paid too much attention to before.

You are more than the choices that you’ve made / You are more than the sum of your past mistakes / You are more than the problems you create / You’ve been remade

But I couldn’t believe it.

Well she tries to believe it / That she’s been given new life / But she can’t shake the feeling / That it’s not true tonight / She knows all the answers / And she’s rehearsed all the lines / And so she’ll try to do better / But then she’s too weak to try

I couldn’t hold the stress anymore. I couldn’t hold in the ache, the sadness, and the fear… so I cried. I curled over my desk and cried, as silent as I could to not embarrass myself. None of my group members were there that morning. The one times I needed at least one of them to be present, I was alone, confused, and hurting and stuck in the very back corner of the classroom, crying my eyes out at 8 AM in a math class.

No one noticed. At the next cluster of desks, Spencer’s head was down. Unbeknownst to me, but apparently to the rest of the class, his father had passed away the day before. My classmates beelined to him as they came into the classroom, one by one. They checked on him and tried to make him feel seen and cared for. No one noticed the other student falling apart in the back of the room, no matter that my face was sopping and I was trembling, curled up in my hoodie.

To me, that meant my suffering didn’t matter. No one noticed, or no one cared. I kept it inside, where it festered. It boiled and steamed, permeating my body and mind. Everything was a struggle. Walking to the bus in the morning, I felt like I was carrying a sack of bricks on my back. Trying to think clearly enough to focus on any of my classwork was like swimming against the ocean current, trying to grasp something that was always floating just out of reach. Every night for weeks, I stayed awake long after dark, sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of my bed and staring out into the darkness beyond my window. (Any other time, I would have been terrified to see a face on the other side. Not then.)

Mom had shown me a few weeks prior how to remove the glass pane and the window screen on the outside. This was ostensibly for the purpose if washing my windows before it became too cold outside. It was also so I would know how to escape in case of a fire or emergency – or in the case I decided I no longer wanted to deal with all the pain and nerves that choked me and made me nauseous every day I woke up and continued to live.

Of course, that wasn’t ever what Mom meant for me to get out of that lesson. But there I was, thinking about it anyways. I kept thinking that if I fell just right, I could hit the small ledge at the property line, or land in the rock “garden” at the side of the house, instead of landing on the grass. If the fall itself didn’t work, maybe I could crack open my head, or break my spine. I could die pretty quickly, right? Or at least I’d be incapacitated, in the hospital, maybe a wheelchair, and someone would finally care enough to ask what was wrong. They would know that I was hurting.

Only once did I ever get up and stand at the window. I was too scared to go any further. But for a week, maybe longer, I would sit there at night, staring an imagining. How would it feel, when I landed on my back on the ledge? Would I snap in half? Would I lay there in agony until someone noticed and called the authorities? Would I have time to scream? Would Mom, or my father find me? Would my sibling miss me?

I tried to message friends to distract me, or my youth pastor, or read fanfiction on any number of websites. Finally, I was desperate enough to pray. I just wanted the pain to end. I wanted to be happy again. I didn’t want to want to kill myself so badly, so often. God, please help me. I swear I could feel arms around me, holding me close and warming me, easing the pain in my body for just a moment. A warm tingle started at the base of my neck, flowing down my back and arms, all the way to my fingertips and toes. The sensation was gone after only a minute, but it was enough. I stared at the window less after that.

After that year of school ended, I thought it would get better. I wasn’t in the same math program anymore and I wouldn’t take another AP class in a subject I wasn’t prepared to handle. I would keep my stress down and my excitement for school up.

And then my father had a back surgery. A slipped disk in the lower spine had been causing him problems for years, and the doctors decided they needed to fuse his spine. The surgery was supposed to take eight ours, or twelve at the most. It took fourteen.

The morning of the surgery, I went to school. My first class of the day was German 2, and we were reviewing the vocabulary for that unit. But I was staring at the clock. I knew that my father was in surgery. It was supposed to start half an hour ago. Was he being prepped? Was he open on the table? Was he easy to get to sleep? Would he be out by the time I got home from school? Panic swirled in my mind until the loud questions turned to silence, and I was no longer breathing. I stared down at my desk, frozen in my seat, my joints locked. I thought I would die there, in the front row, in front of Herr Langton and God and everybody, not breathing and already in rigor mortis.

My first panic attack, but again, no one noticed. I was able to catch my breath finally, and I continued on with the lesson, silent. I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling. I pretended it never happened.

Thanks to the fourteen hours under anesthesia, my father’s head was a little… out of place, let’s say. He cried a lot, often at nothing. I was not used to seeing my father cry so much, not from just look at me, or my sibling, or his episode of NCIS. We were getting lots of calls from family members and friends, having casseroles and pre-made dinners sent over. A lot of care. I couldn’t feel it.

Grandma called often to check on her son. She used to be a nurse and wanted to make sure he’d been doing well and was following the doctor’s instructions. She asked if he was seeing anyone for the emotional responses he was having. When he said no, she told him that even after only an eight-hour knee surgery, she had needed to see someone to shrink her head. Apparently, anesthesia can do that to you. Especially if you’re under for eight hours. So, my father started going.

I stayed quiet about my own mental and emotional anguish. He’d just been through a whole surgery. I was just sad and nervous to go to school. Lots of kids probably were, and I was way better off than most of them. I didn’t have the right to ask to see a therapist.

I wanted someone to just notice. To give me the option.

But it never got better. I stayed up late most nights, unable to get my brain to turn off. I found it harder and harder to speak up in class and be candid with my thoughts to engage in my learning. Making friends was terrifying, and so I was looped in with people I barely knew, scraping for some basic human interaction.

Finally, I had enough, and I timidly asked Mom if I could see a therapist. I felt I needed it. I couldn’t tell her everything. What would she do if I told her I’d wanted to kill myself for half a year and I was having panic and anxiety attacks at school? I couldn’t do the hospital or a mental institution, I wasn’t strong enough for grippy socks jail. Plus, Mom’s insurance covered six initial visits to each mental health professional I wanted to try. They recommended a place not too far from my house, and I decided that it would be a good enough start.

Tom was a nice enough guy on the phone, old and probably with a lot of wisdom to impart upon a struggling young person. Instead, he constantly referenced Robin William’s recent suicide, compared himself to the comedian at every chance – presumably to help himself seem approachable (it didn’t work) – and talked theory more than he listened or tried to understand. I was too nervous to share. He filled the space of my silence with his own chatter, and somehow decided that I must have some form of ADD. I knew that wasn’t the problem I needed addressed, and I left each week feeling worse and worse. I didn’t go back. Oh well. I didn’t like the smell of his office anyway.

It took me weeks to work up the courage to call the insurance people again. I didn’t want to have to deal with a whole trial-and-error circus for months while I continued to just get worse. When I finally called, they gave me a list of people and let me choose on my own. I searched each name, looking for a gentleman who I thought would listen and give me the help I needed. They were surprised I hadn’t asked for women, but I knew I would be too nervous and compare myself too much to a woman. I would be more comfortable talking to a man, I thought.

A few of the places seemed too hippy for me, or too based in chakra and spirits, things I couldn’t put my faith in. I just needed someone to talk to, who would listen and work with me. Only a couple people stood out, and I made a couple phone calls.

The only call I had returned was the one to Chris Weber. He was only a half hour away in the next town. There was very little information about him online, but my gut was telling me I could trust him. I couldn’t place why I trusted him so much, but I rationalized it to myself in his name. I was friends with or a fan of a lot of people names Chris, and Weber was like Andrew Lloyd Webber, one of my favorite musical composers. It didn’t make sense to base him off of those things, but I was desperate.

My nerves kicked in as I entered the building. It was an old bank building, a printing office and a tax office on the bottom floor, and several small business offices on the upper level. It was musty and the doors stuck, the metal stairs too loud in the echoing staircase. The top floor was almost like a maze, taking us through room after room to get back to Chris’ office. It smelled weird here, too. But less gross, and more like an old building. It would be tolerable, as long as I could get alone with Chris.

The waiting room was quaint, which I hadn’t expected. There were a couple of office couches and a table for children to draw at, stacked with coloring books. In the left wall was an opening with a counter stacked with puzzles and a coffee maker on the end. A radio played a local news station. Against the front wall was an old Singer sewing machine that seemed somehow out of place and exactly where it belonged. I sat down and doodled in one of the coloring books while I waited to be called in.

Instead of coming out of his office, Chris came in through the entrance, much taller and ganglier than I had imagined him. Immediately, he reminded me of a dad. But the good kind. The kind that sits with you at the dining room table and actually helps you with your math homework rather than yelling at you for ten minutes because you can’t remember what thirteen times four is. (How many cards are in a deck!?)

He chattered as he unlocked and opened the door to his office, the door to which was hidden around the corner past the counter, tucked away at the end of a quarter-hallway. He walked in and walked over to his desk, getting off his coat and putting away his earbuds while still chatting away. I froze for a moment in the doorway and gasped as I entered.

During freshman year, I had been introduced to the world of superhero movies, and I developed a bit of an infatuation with Marvel Studios and Captain America. Chris’ office, to my shock and delight, was covered in Superman paraphernalia. It wasn’t my hero, or my company, but it was a superhero. Figures and collectibles covered every available shelf, all the wall space he could manage, and even hung from the standing coat rack. There, I saw Thor’s hammer, Captain America’s shield, and Iron Man’s helmet, and I knew. I knew I was safe.

That first session, all we did was get to know each other. Sure, I started by telling him I was depressed and anxious, but he just asked me more about myself. What did I enjoy at school? What were my hobbies? What did I want to go to college for? Which Captain America movie was my favorite? I was more than my mental illness to him; more than another job. I left that day feeling comfortable and relaxed. I hadn’t talked too much about my struggles, but, somehow, my head had shrunk just a little.

We worked our way up over a few weeks to talking about the more serious things, like how my depression made it impossible to focus, or remember the small things, or get out of bed in the mornings and sleep at night; how my anxiety made school hallways into oceans where I would drown amongst the sea of backpacks and the swell of backpacks. Often, I held one of the coloring books from the drawing table in my lap, needing to do something with my hands as I bared my soul to a man I could only see for an hour a week.

One such coloring book was a sort of prompt book. It would tell you to draw a leave, or splatter pain and draw what you saw within the platter. My favorite spread had realistic sketches of animals and asked you to draw clothes on them. All I had with me was a graphite pencil, since I’d forgotten to grab the colored ones from the drawing table. But there was an elk on the page, and I needed to draw clothes on it. Graphite would do. I couldn’t explain it, but the elk looked soft, and too bare for such a sweet little guy. It felt like he needed a sweater. So, I drew a grey sweater on the elk. I took a picture and posted it on Instagram. I think it was my profile picture for a while.

I still see Chris, now as a third-year college student. We have phone therapy sessions while I’m away at school, and I go in to sit on his couch when I’m home. He’s had to put away the books, because of the Covid-19 pandemic. I miss them, because it’s still hard to talk sometimes about what I feel. I can’t always put into words the loneliness I feel, how empty the world is and how it seems to ignore me and push me aside; how terrifying it is to even consider walking to the dining hall to get food some days, so I stay home and don’t eat, or I lose my breath much too quickly on the walk. My brain still fails me, even with Friday phone calls and antidepressant prescriptions.

But sometimes, I can sit down and look at a little elk in a sweater. I pull him up on my camera roll, or look back at my old Instagram posts. He’s always there, cozy and warm in the little sweater I drew for him. I can remember that I used to be a lot worse off. My brain still fails quite often, but not as badly as it used to.

#creative nonfiction #short story #content warning #mental illness

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ladyvialana · 7 years ago

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Fic: Friday Night Revelations - Ch. 5

Final Fantasy XV fic. band!AU, pre-relationship Prompto/Noctis

Chapter Summary: Prompto is having a more difficult time with everything than he’s admitted to Noctis.

Chapter Notes: Prompto POV, pining!Prompto, light angst, fluff

Also on Ao3

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Prompto had always been told he was good with his hands. Never in the sexy way (which was a perpetual source of disappointment for him) but quite a few people had admired his dexterity and steadiness from a young age.

He was a deft hand at drawing. He’d never seriously pursued traditional visual arts, but he could sketch well enough when needed and was quite good at drafting. He did enjoy photography as a hobby, though, and his steadiness was beneficial when he needed patience to capture the perfect shot (and not drop the camera when jostled—he learned that expensive lesson very early on).

Prompto had latched onto music with an enthusiasm that startled both him and his parents. They’d put him in lessons to learn the drums since it seemed an easy way to help him burn off all that excessive energy he seemed to produce when he was younger. They soon regretted it when he would play for hours at a time, never tiring of the repetitive practice since every time he hit a skin or cymbol it produced a sound just slightly different each time. He loved that every time he played it was different, whether the beat or rhythm of the song had changed or his mood or actual physical exhaustion was influencing how he played. It was a chaos of his creation that he was allowed to be proud of.

His parents gave him a guitar when they could no longer bear the noise or complaints from their neighbours. He’d loved that just as much as his drum kit and, thankfully for his parents, the neighbours seemed to enjoy it more too.

It wasn’t long after mastering basic chords and developing a repertoire of popular songs that Prompto started teaching himself to sing. He watched endless videos of guitarists online, mimicking how they strummed and positioned their wrists and held themselves so they could both play and project their voice. But, unlike with his other instruments, Prompto was more reluctant to sing when he knew he had an audience—especially during puberty. It wasn’t his voice that people had originally praised him for and Prompto didn’t want to seem egotistical in asking for opinions about it.

(Self-esteem was funny that way. He was allowed to take pride in his talents and skills if other people brought it up first but he hated drawing attention to his body, regardless of who initiated the discussion. If people thought it was okay to criticise his voice, maybe they would think it was okay to criticise other things about him. And Prompto had worked so hard to have the sort of body and face and appearance that passed without scrutiny. Maybe it was better all round if he just didn’t advertise his singing.)

As much as Prompto enjoyed music—and he grew even more attached after meeting Noctis and hearing him play for the first time—he knew that his parents didn’t take it as seriously as he did. Of course they admired his talent and dedication to the art and would praise him in front of their friends, but they never thought of it as a long-term goal for his life. A nice hobby maybe, but nothing he could (or should) make a career out of.

See, when his parents or their friends used to comment about how good he was with his hands, they always used to segue into comments about engineering or science. “I hear they’re doing interesting things with mythril plating over in Longwythe.” “Aeronautics is the way of the future, especially if we want to keep up with Niflheim.” “He’s got the same look as my husband. He’s just accepted the job as head of surgery at Insomnia Central, you know.”

So, when applications for university came around during their third year in high school, Prompto reluctantly put in his choices for courses and decided not to think too much about the future. His parents weren’t wrong about music; it wasn’t like Prompto intended to make a career of it.

Staring at the dismal end-of-semester report in his inbox, Prompto had to reconsider that thought. Because, with these grades, there was no way he was going to be able to pursue a serious career in mechanical engineering. And there wasn’t much else he was good at.

Well, there was his photography, but Noctis hated paparazzi and, in terms of full-time freelance work in Insomnia, that was about all he was going to be able to get with his limited professional portfolio. Not that Prompto was much more of a fan of paps himself, but Noctis had legitimate reason to dislike the entire industry. Prompto was surprised that Noctis posed as willingly and—dare he say—eagerly for Prompto’s impromptu shoots and selfies.

Prompto sighed and threw himself back dramatically on his bed, his laptop teetering precariously near the edge of his mattress before settling against the rumpled sheets shoved at the bottom of the bed. He stared up at the blank ceiling, trying to pay more attention to the hairline cracks in the plaster than the tightness in his chest causing his breathing to quicken.

Sure, he’d passed (barely), but there was no way he could show his parents these results. It was heavily implied that if he couldn’t manage at least a credit average they would refuse to pay his board at the dorm. Sure he had a pretty good part time job with regular hours but, with transport and food costs—not to mention the very expensive textbooks, as well as gear for his music and photography and leisure stuff like games and concert tickets and alcohol (yeah, okay, he could probably cut back a little on some things)—there was no way he could afford even a double room with a shared floor bathroom on campus. And he’d been at university long enough to have heard way too many horror stories about off-campus sharehouseing. (Or just gross stories. Or weird in a way that some people might find sexy but just made Prompto want to gag.)

He’d give it a week before he told them, maybe he could scout out some opportunities in the meantime. His parents might be more amicable and willing to let his disastrous grades slide after they got back from their holiday in Altissia.

(They wouldn’t be.)

Regardless, Prompto couldn’t deal with thinking about it right now—he was barely staving off a panic attack having just glanced at the email.

Honestly, all he really wanted to do right now was get drunk and cry, but he was supposed to meet Noctis for a jam session soon, so that was out. And he’d been aching for weeks to play something with Noctis; it felt like he hadn’t seen his best friend in years.

They’d been too swamped with studying and exams to get any practice in. After the exam period was over, they’d only managed one night of drunken relief before Prompto had to spend nearly every spare hour for two weeks working at the department store at the huge complex a suburb away. His hours increased during the semester break since it coincided with their stocktake. On top of that, a few people had left in recent months and they were short-staffed—hence even longer hours than usual. He’d probably worked in every department in the store at least once by that point. (Toys was his favourite, even if little kids were slobs with no sense of restraint or care for other people around them—some of them were cute and actually put things back in the aisle where they belonged after their temper tantrum failed to influence their parents.)

He felt like that old saying: all work and no play made Prompto want to scream and drink himself into a stupor.

Prompto’s pity-party was interrupted by his phone vibrating in his back pocket.

He groaned and stood up, pulling it out to check his messages.

Pizza or curry? Noctis inquired about their dinner for that night.

Prompto was supposed to be on his way over by now. His overnight bag sat in the middle of the tiny patch of free floor space in his small room, only half-packed for the weekend.

Prompto attempted to gather his thoughts to reply. Noctis was faster.

Or we could check out the new burger place that opened down the street. Maybe ice cream afterwards?

Prompto sighed. He was looking forward to seeing Noctis but mostly because he needed something familiar and comforting. The very thought of food was making him nauseous, which was never a good sign. And he wasn’t certain he could focus enough to play anything good tonight either.

Astrals, this weekend was going to be awful. And would be Prompto’s fault.

Noctis, not telepathic and thus blissfully unaware of Prompto’s spiralling mood, kept texting.

Who am I kidding. If we’re walking we’re getting ramen and beer.

Noctis knew he had the weekend free from work, so that excuse was out, but maybe he could plead sickness. Although, Noctis would probably call or even come over to check on him if he was sick. He’d probably even convince Ignis to skive off work and cook something like soup then drop by with a thermos and Prompto would feel even more guilty for lying and ruining his weekend.

But sitting in Noctis’ apartment and sulking sounded like a terrible idea too, especially since Noctis seemed so pumped to see him.

Prompto didn’t know what to do.

At the very least, he had to reply to Noctis’ texts.

i’m good with anything

As soon as Prompto sent it, he hung his head and groaned.

Sure enough, only a few seconds later, Noctis was calling. Prompto debated not answering but he could just imagine Noctis’ petulant frown as he stared at his phone and gave in.

“Hey buddy.”

“You okay Prom?”

“Course I am.”

“You just never miss an opportunity for curry.”

Prompto sighed. “Just tired I guess. I’m not really that hungry.”

Noctis was quiet on the other end. Prompto closed his eyes and mentally cursed.

“Look,” he tried to stave off the immediate concern, “I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to come over? I can pick you up.”

“No. It’s a five minute train trip and it’s still light out.” Barely. The sun had started to set while Prompto was moping. His room was covered in shadow. “Besides, I’m almost finished packing. Why don’t you order something now and it’ll be there as soon as I get there.”

Prompto winced as he heard Noctis sigh. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“I’ll get your usual then.”

“You’re the best, Noct.”

“I’ll see you soon?”

Prompto hated that Noctis had to phrase that as a question. “Won’t be more than half-an-hour. Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Prompto let out a huge breath as they ended the conversation.

So, that was decided then. No point backing out now.

Prompto tried his best to shake off his mood, turning on the overhead light so he wouldn’t trip as he finished packing his bag. He focused all of his attention on the task at hand so his mind wouldn’t wander again. His room was a mess by the time he finished packing but at least he wasn’t dwelling any more.

Duffel bag and guitar case slung over each shoulder, he locked the dorm room behind him and set off to meet Noctis.

Despite all the anxiety previously souring his appetite, as soon as Prompto reached the door to Noctis’ apartment and smelled the recently delivered green curry from his favourite shop he felt his stomach rumble in anticipation.

Noctis opened the door at the first knock.

Prompto wanted to wave off Noctis’ concern but, as soon as he saw Noctis’ wide eyes and relieved smile, his own fake smile fell away and he rushed forward to grab Noctis in a desperate embrace.

Noctis’ arms automatically came up around Prompto’s back to pull him closer as Prompto rested his forehead in the curve of Noctis’ neck.

“That bad huh?” Noctis’ breath stirred the hair at Prompto’s nape.

Prompto just hummed in reply, already feeling more relaxed and grounded in Noctis’ embrace.

“Wanna grab some food and talk about it?”

“Not yet.” Prompto’s voice came out muffled. He wanted to savour Noctis’ warm touch—the familiar and enticing scent of him (even if it was just a little sour and unwashed—Prompto probably wasn’t much better after a ten-minute walk from the station).

Noctis shifted his feet, dislodging a scowling Prompto from his position. “Your guitar is poking me in the forehead.”

“Oops.” Prompto pulled back with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Noctis shook his head, his own smile soft and inviting as he gestured for Prompto to properly enter the apartment. “Come on. Food’s still hot. And I got extra rolls and deep fried ice cream for later.”

Prompto dropped his bag on the floor of the living room as he followed Noctis inside. “You are a beautiful man and a wonderful friend, Noct.” He was a little more careful about setting his guitar up against the wall near the window.

Noctis had spread the food out on the coffee table in front of the television, and the space inbetween the couch and the coffee table was piled with cushions and blankets.

They’d made plans to jam tonight, not crash out in front of a movie.

Seeing Prompto’s confusion, Noctis shrugged and plopped down on the floor, starting to open the containers of food. “I figured we needed a night to relax. I mean, I’m eager to get back into writing and jamming too, but I’ve missed just hanging out.”

The fact that he’d sensed Prompto’s fragile mood and changed their plans accordingly to make him feel better went unsaid.

Prompto settled himself in the cushion nest and helped Noctis serve their food. His turbulent thoughts had vanished the instant Noctis sat down and smiled at him. He forgot about his parents and his grades, forgot the exhaustion of last week’s overtime.

Instead, Prompto smiled and laughed with Noctis as they ate.

A C-grade action movie played in the background; they sometimes turned to the television to make fun of a scene or quote melodramatically along with the actors. Stray grains of rice dotted the table and Prompto spilled some curry down his shirt (like he always did) as he tried to talk and eat at the same time. Noctis got up and brought them beers as they struggled to finish the last few bites of food. They turned off the lights and curled up in the fluffy blankets and hummed along to the theme song of the sci-fi show they switched over to once the movie finished.

Two episodes and four beers into their marathon, Prompto told Noctis about the email and his parents and the ultimatum about his grades. They didn’t look at each other in the dim light of the television screen, but Prompto could feel the full weight of Noctis’ attention and concern anyway.

Prompto finished dumping his worries out to Noctis and the starship captain on screen started on his inspiring speech to the crew for the episode.

The episode was almost over by the time Noctis said anything.

“Move in here.”

Prompto’s breath caught as he registered what Noctis was asking. He glanced down at his half-empty bottle to make sure he hadn’t drank more than he thought and started hallucinating.

He looked over at his best friend. Noctis had turned his body towards Prompto, leaning forward and staring at Prompto with a wide hopeful gaze that let Prompto know he was completely serious.

“I …” Prompto struggled to find a coherent argument. “How would that even work?”

Noctis practically jumped at the chance to explain.

“It’d be easy—you already spend so much time here anyway. You can take the spare room——”

“You mean your dad’s room!” No way could Prompto kick Regis Lucis Caelum out of his own apartment.

Noctis shook his head, the motion so emphatic he nearly fell over.

Four beers was too drunk to drive; they were probably too drunk to have serious life-altering conversations like this too, but Noctis didn’t seem to care.

“I’ve already talked to him. He spends all his time at the penthouse anyway. I don’t even remember the last time he slept here.” Noctis’ excitement dimmed for a brief moment as he spoke about his father but, glancing at Prompto, he returned to his argument. “You can change the bed or the rest of the furniture if it feels weird.”

Prompto was still stuck on the fact that Noctis had already discussed this idea with his father.

As Noctis continued with his pitch—talking about shelf space for Prompto’s movies and making space in one of the corners of the music room to fit Prompto’s drum kit and kitchen utensils (Noctis had seen Prompto’s dorm room right? Did it look like he had a reason to own kitchen utensils?)—Prompto realised that this wasn’t a drunken spur of the moment thought for Noctis: he’d been planning this.

Sure, maybe Noctis might have brought it up and tried to explain himself a little better if he were sober, but he’d clearly been thinking about asking Prompto to move in for a while. He looked so excited by the prospect of them sharing an apartment. He pointed out the fact that Prompto’s new room had a balcony with an expansive, almost flailing, wave of his arm towards Regis’ room. He poked at Prompto’s side as he teased him about the fancy moisturiser and moulding clay on the bathroom counter. He smiled fondly as he talked about lazy Sunday mornings making pancakes—because pancakes were always better when you had someone to share them with.

Noctis wanted this.

So did Prompto.

“Okay.”

This was probably a terrible idea. Prompto was drunk and in love—a terrible combination when making major life decisions.

And yet, seeing the way Noctis’ face lit up with happiness at his answer was far more important than thinking about potential future repercussions.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Prompto grinned, probably a little too manic as he got caught up in the excitement of Noctis’ plan. “Let’s do it.”

Prompto’s breath escaped him in a pained huff as Noctis tackled him to the floor in his excitement. He laughed and ruffled Noctis’ hair, feeling the rumble of Noctis’ own laughter against his chest.

“This is going to be awesome,” Noctis said, tilting his head back to look at Prompto. His grin was so wide and bright, Prompto didn’t even care about the fact that Noctis had tackled him onto a cold patch of floor that wasn’t covered in blankets. “Thank you Prom.”

“Seriously? You just solved like every major problem in my life. Thank you, Noct.”

“I just want you to be happy.” Noctis looked away, embarrassed by his admission.

Every time Prompto thought he couldn't possibly love Noctis any more, he did or said something like this to make Prompto fall head over heels all over again.

Prompto had enough self-control not to admit this aloud but he did drape his arms over Noctis’ back and pull him closer to say, “Right back at ya, buddy.” They both ignored the way his voice broke on the words, just as they ignored the blush that still covered Noctis’ cheeks.

Eventually they would crawl back into their blanket nest and finish their marathon but, for now, Prompto closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of holding Noctis in his arms.

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#fanfic #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #promptis #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #au #band!au #pining!prompto #pre-relationship #light angst #fluff #vialana's fic #friday night revelations

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