#chalkboard cog

[centenaryobjectgathering]

[CHAPTER 2 IS OUT!]

After two months of production, Chapter 2 of COG, triviaTussle("Dinner Party"); , is out!

READ HERE

Credits: 1

[snowdropluck204]

Magnetic Force - Spencer Reid x reader (pt 1)

So this is a sort of secret crossover between Criminal Minds and Numb3rs, the reader is going to be based off of Charlie Eppes in that show, but will still be referred to as (y/n)! Enjoy! Xxx

WARNING: This chapter contains mention of rape, death, guns and other weaponry, if you are sensitive to these, you probably shouldn't read this book at all. _______________________________

Third Person pov

The BAU hadn't worked a case this frustrating in a long time. A serial rapist, quite uncommon for what it was, they had a good idea of what profile the guy had, but the last of his victims, was the first one he had killed, so they had to rewrite the profile. This case was difficult on everyone, the rapist had attacked and raped twelve women, now killing his thirteenth. It had taken them this long to get a decent view on his mental state, but now, a wrench had been thrown into the works and they needed reinforcements.

Jason Gideon was stumped, something quite rare for him, he was looking around the room at his team.

JJ was reading through the case file, specifically the newly added victim, Rachel Abbott, most likely trying to figure out what to tell the press. The FBI was getting tips about the rapist for weeks but now that there was a new victim, more specifically a dead one, the tips were becoming too much for anyone, even the FBI, to keep track of.

Morgan was trying to reenact the crime, trying his best to get into the killer's head. Everyone had the same question in their minds, why now? What was so different about Rachel Abbott that the unsub had to kill her? If defiling women's bodies wasn't enough, he branded them too. A final show of possession, a brand, the mark was a ring with four small crosses inside of it, pressed into the neck.

Elle was dead quiet, looking over the files of the victim's family, all of the victims' families... Looking for possible psych matches or clues of the killer's whereabouts.

Reid was, as usual, reading everything. He was taking in the room, the case files, the crime board and photos of the scene, anybody else would have shut their brain down with the amount of information he was flooding into it, but Spencer just sat and observed.

Gideon knew they needed help, but didn't exactly know who to ask. Until it struck him. He stood up, grabbed Hotch by the elbow and led him out of the conference room, a flurry of confused eyes following them. Hotch had been busy looking over people to ask for said help when he had been dragged out of his task.

"(l/n)." Gideon said, a sparkle in his eye and a smile on his face. Hotch looked confused for a moment, until he pulled out a file he had been looking at earlier.

Doctor (y/n) (l/n).

_________________________

The agents walked with purpose through the halls of Georgetown University, they knew who they needed and there wasn't time to waste. There was laughing and cheering as they stepped into a lecture hall, seeing 'Maths for non-mathematicians' written in fun, coloured, block capitals on the chalkboard. They also saw Doctor (y/n) (l/n), teaching the classroom filled with everyday people, not students who went to the school, just people looking to broaden their horizons.

"Okay, most people believe that they can trust their natural instincts, right?" She asked, looking around the room and seeing nodding of heads, her gaze met the stony eyes of Jason Gideon, eyes she hadn't seen in years, he smiled and gave a small wave, she smiled back but continued with her class. "However, maths suggests that our instincts aren't always correct. We're gonna play a little game, I want you all to pretend that we're on a game show," She began, gesturing over to three large cards that she had laid upright, the picture facing away from the crowd.

"And I, am your cheesy game show host," She said with a grin, earning laughter from the room. Gideon could practically hear the cogs turning in the room, the fastest cogs were that of Spencer Reid, who looked intrigued, before figuring it out.

"It's the Monty Hall Problem," He whispered, Gideon and Hotch already placing hands on his shoulders and covering his mouth, before the class for non-mathematicians became taken over by a very real mathematician.

Once (y/n) had finished setting up the cards, she looked back at the class, "Behind one of these cards, is a brand new automobile," She informed, wiggling her fingers at the cards, "And behind the other two, are goats. Yeah, goats, don't ask why, that's just what I wanted to put on the cards!" She declared, laughing with the room. Gideon smiled looking at (y/n), he hadn't seen her in years but could see that she had acclimatised to her position nicely, she had the whole class eating out of the palm of her hand, hanging on every word, including his team.

"Now I need a volunteer," Once again, Hotch and Gideon kept Spencer back from volunteering any information.

"Come on, more of you than that!" She jeered, encouraging others to join in the demonstration. "Julie, why don't you pick one of these cards? Remembering, of course, that the objective is to win the car, not the goat, as cute as I have made them!" She muttered, earning more laughter from the class. The girl from the front of the class, Julie, picked a card, the one in the middle.

Before turning it over, (y/n) asked her class, "Now, what are the chances of that card being the winning card?" At this point, Spencer was silently dying and the team was looking over at him, smiles on their faces at their beloved brainiac.

"One in three." Julie responded with conviction.

"Brilliant, three choices, one car, simple enough right?" (y/n) explained, the class nodding along, "Now, here's where the game takes a turn, I'm gonna reveal to you one of the cards that you didn't choose," Turning one of the cards over to reveal a goat. "Cute isn't he?" (y/n) giggled.

"So, we have one card we know is a goat, two cards left to be revealed. Now, knowing what you know, do you want to switch your choice of card? Or, more importantly, for the purpose of this class, does it matter? Will switching your choice improve your chances of winning?" (y/n) asked the class, genuinely curious to see their side.

Julie looked confused, "Well, no. Because now there's two cards, it's fifty-fifty, right?" She asked, the class mumbling and nodding along with her. Spencer was frantically shaking his head, catching (y/n)'s attention and summoning a loud laugh from her.

"Well, it seems like someone in the back knows the next part of this class," She chuckled, leaving Spencer's face red, beginning to fiddle with his fingers.

(y/n) could already see how uncomfortable he was with this attention, so she moved on. "Seems like many of you agree with Julie, yeah? That's what your instinct tells you, but you'd be wrong." She said, her lips forming a straight line.

"Switching your cards at this point, actually doubles your chances of winning the car," At the volume of confusion, (y/n) gives a light sigh of exhaustion, "Let me explain," She smiled. "Since we started with two goats, it's more likely that your first choice, was in fact, a goat."

Turning the cards to face away from them again, (y/n) asks, "Here, what are the odds of choosing the goats, from all three cards. Two out of three, right. So it's more likely that this is a goat," She said, turning the card that Julie had originally chosen, revealing the goat, "And it's more likely that this one, is the car." She explained, revealing the car was on the card that had yet to be chosen.

"See, switching your choice, gives you a two out of three chance of winning the car, rather than the one of three chance that we all begin with!" (y/n) picks up the card with the car, jokingly making some car noises.

Looking back up at the BAU, she concludes her class, inviting them to make their own Monty Hall scenarios, waiting for them all to leave before turning to the BAU and inviting them closer to her desk.

___________________________

"It's been a while Gideon, how are you?" (y/n) asked, already moving forward to hug the agent, shocking the rest of the team, especially when he reciprocated.

"I've been better Peanut," He whispered at her, before moving back and gesturing to his team. "I believe introductions are necessary." He let the agents take over, wandering over to (y/n)'s desk to do what he was best at, profile.

Looking over at the agents, (y/n) gave a small wave, "Doctor (y/n) (l/n), it's nice to meet you all." She said, her voice dripping over all of them like honey, she had that affect.

First to step forward was a tall agent in a suit and tie, with dark hair, dark eyes and an air of authority. "Agent Hotchner, call me Hotch," He shock her hand briskly before following after Gideon, leaving the younger agents to introductions.

A dark skinned man in a Henley type shirt stepped up next, "Agent Derek Morgan, nice to meet you too," He then gestured to the women standing at the door, one blonde, the other a brunette, both gorgeous and intelligent looking. "Agents Jennifer Jareau and Elle Greenaway," He told the professor, and finally pointed to the lanky man with dark hair and eyes, wearing a cardigan and glasses. "And that is-"

"Reid, uh- Spencer um, Doctor Spencer Reid." The man he was pointing to sort of decided. (y/n) smiled at the man.

"Really?" She asked, almost chuckling, "You don't sound so sure?" She finished, Spender blushed a bright red, the rest of the team chuckling at the woman's teasing.

Gideon walked back over, "Listen, Peanut, we need your help." He began, a sombre feeling enveloping (y/n)'s previously cheerful classroom. (y/n)'s smile faded, stepping back a little.

"Gideon, you know I don't do consultant work anymore... After what happened..." She began, her voice taking on a much more meek sound as she avoided eye contact with the seasoned profiler.

Gideon smiled, his fatherly smile, "I know, but we need you Peanut, you helped the FBI with a lot of cases, what's one more?" He asked softly.

(y/n) looked at Gideon, then at the rest of the team, "This is about the serial rapist, isn't it?" She asked, "In LA?"

Gideon nodded, "We have a fairly comprehensive psych profile, but we still have no idea where to begin searching." He told the mathematician, "We fly out this evening, we want your help." He almost pleaded.

(y/n) sighed, she thought back at the work she had done for the FBI, questioning whether or not she should jump back into it, she sighed, pulling out her phone and calling her TA.

"Lewis? Hi, It's (y/n), I need you to cover classes for me for the next few days... I'm being called away for something... Okay, thanks." She hung up the phone, looking back at Gideon, an unsure look on her face. "You owe me." She murmured, "I'll meet you at the airport tonight, five o'clock, I'll look over the files on the jet, gives me four and half hours to pack what I'll need and prep classes, plus the five hours, give or take fifteen minutes for the flight over..." (y/n) murmured.

Spencer watched as she made the calculations, intrigued, he had never met this woman, anything he knew was based off of her FBI consult file and brief things he'd heard in passing from Gideon, apparently, he was her mentor when she was younger, not for FBI purposes, simply to act as a father figure, they were close, based on the nickname he had given her...

From what Spencer knew, she was a prodigy, similar to himself, no Eidetic memory, but she had an IQ of 182, a PHD in both mathematics and psychology and graduated early from basically every educational establishment. Spencer was hoping this was a person he could get along with, but he was also wary, she had clearly stopped consulting with the FBI for a reason, he wanted to discover why, but also knew that any investigating into her past would violate her trust...

But still... He was curious...

____________________________________________

I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! I know I keep starting and stopping on my series, but writer's block has a serious hold on me right now... Anyway! Love you guys! Xxx

[jamiesfootball]

word: quiet (or loud, if you don't have that one)

Oh what a gem you have hit.

"They didn't break my contract or anything, they just stopped all my campaigns. Went quiet for months." Jamie snorted. It was a dry and humorless sound, one that grated against Roy's earliest memories of him like nails on a chalkboard. "Didn't hear a word from them until well after Zava left us to hang out to dry. Then after that I'm on a hot streak, getting the call up for England, and suddenly they're stumbling over themselves to get me seen in their new line. Even made me a custom hat--the one that Isaac hates, you know, with the letters?"

"The I-COG one?"

"Yeah, the one that Isaac hates."

"It does make you sound like a fucking Apple product."

Jamie shrugged. "He says its more about the kerning on the letters? Isaac's picky about graphic design. You wouldn't believe what he's picked up on of TikTok. Says it makes them look desperate, like they couldn't source their idea on short notice."

[arcaneheadcannons]

I like to think Viktor has a weird side, a side we never see in the show because the producers are cowards- (I’m kidding y’all I’m trying to work at fortiche productions)

ANYWAYS! As I was saying..

Viktor has spent so much time to himself- and we see this in the show. He barley had any friends due to his leg, I like to think that he often put his stuffed animals up along his bed, a semi broken chalkboard hung on the opposite side of his room, chicken scratch equations and drawings littered across it.

“This! is what we’re missing!” 14 year old Viktor would claim as he uses his Cain as a pointer, the end of it smacking against the wobbly chalkboard, it taps against the drawing of a cog he’s done “and-“ His cane suddenly swings around to point at the stuffies on his bed “yes Mr. bear?” Viktor’s brow cocks as he stares at the bear “yes I’m aware that this cog is hard to find in zaun- yes- I am- Mr. Bear- Mr. Bear! I kindly ask that you stop interrupting me” he sighs and pinches between his brows. His eyes darting up as he now semi glared at the stuffed squid “Miss Squid- how kind of you to remind me of my uncomfortable situation” he gestures to his shabby and messy put together room “look.. we’re getting off track, now if we can please get back to the topic at hand, I-“ Viktor lightly jolts, interrupted by the sound of his mother calling him down for supper, and he slumps “no progress as usual..” he starts towards the door, floor boards creaking underneath his feet “oh, right.. you’re all dismissed” he announces, closing the door behind him. Miss squid’s beans weighing her off the edge of the bed, she hits the ground with a small thud.

Now that’s on the tamer side, I have more in mind but this was just something that made me giggle.

Also it’s late and I’m tired as fuck

[nonbunary-does-arts]

It was a task. Hale breathed in the salty air of the boatyard. The glow of the lighthouse being the one thing they could see through the dense fog. They kept their ears perked up. They had been caught by surprise by a manager that wandered the streets, large and smelled of fish. They recall her diving into the depths below, where no gag of theirs could reach her. They had to play smart that time. Now, however, they could not see their opponent. Hale did not know who they were going to fight, only knowing small glimpses of this cog's power. Though nothing but the crash of the waves against the dock was all they heard until a voice rang from the fog. Their hackles stood on end, and they stopped in their tracks. The opponent was ahead… singing? They tilted their head curiously. They stepped lightly, getting closer. As they did, the song became easier to hear.

"Ip dip dip, my blue ship, sails on the water..."

Hale never heard this rhyme before. Before long, they could see a figure seated at the edge of the docks, gently moving side to side. This close, the hare could hear her humming before she began to sing again.

"Like a cup or a saucer..."

The cog's swaying stopped.

"But you are not in it..."

Hale didn't move. They had the element of surprise, carefully reaching behind them to draw out a pie gag. But they froze when they caught the sound of a sniffle. And then another. Her sigh was shaky, as though trying to hold back her own tears.

The hare felt… odd. Hale's paw pulled away from their gag supply, as they were hit with the memories of themself crying alone, nobody around to even hear them.

Before they could even register it, they were reaching out towards the cog.

They stepped forward, and the dock groaned under their weight, making the robot jump with a startled yelp. The cog suddenly turned to look at Hale, eyes full of tears and stained cheeks staring at the blue rabbit.

Hehe Toontown go BRRR.

I feel really sympathetic towards Misty, and I wanted to give her a friend.

Hale there is a mute hare, and uses a chalkboard to talk.

[baronaliswritingcorner]

Fódlan Freewrites #4: Rhyming

“Why must I sit on the hat of a cat on a mat with the bat?” asked Edelgard as she did just that.

“Because, Lady Edelgard, the lick of a tick might kick your pick,” said Hubert as he crossed his arms.

Dorothea sighed. “But Hubert, wouldn’t the dog from the bog make a pog with the cog?”

Linhardt shook his head. “No, because the pub would have a cub since their dub is, indeed, the rub.”

Petra brought a finger to her chin. “Are you to be saying the cart from the mart is to be containing the tart and part from Bart?

Caspar ripped his shirt off. “Nah, he’s saying the fuzz from the cuzz is the buzz of the, uh, muzz.”

Bernadetta howled in E minor. “But that means the butt of the putt is only the mutt of Jabba the Hutt!”

Ferdinand proudly stuck out his chest with all the pride of a toothpick 14-year-old. “And that, my friends, is why the poll is on the roll with the toll from a loll.”

The Black Eagles all turned to Professor Byleth, who had finished writing on the chalkboard.

“And that concludes our freewriting rhyming exercise,” said Byleth as she set the chalk down. “Well done, class.”

Edelgard sighed in frustration as she stood up from the hat of a cat on a mat with the bat. “Professor, I still hardly understand what this has to do with preparing for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.”

“Because the winner gets Pizza Hut courtesy of Lady Rhea, and I’m not letting those goddamned Blue Lions get away with the prize again this year. Now sit down and write me a five-paragraph essay on the fragile balance between Raphael’s biceps and the void of Ginnugagap.”

“But, Professor-"

Byleth cracked her teaching stick against her podium. “Do it.”

As the Black Eagles sat down to write a most irrelevant essay, Byleth chuckled silently as a devious smile played upon her lips.

Just you wait, Hanneman, thought the professor. The Hawaiian Chicken Pizza will be mine. ----

This one turned me on to rhyming. (Not depicted is the hellish scream Byleth unleashed when Claude and the Golden Deer eked out a win with underhanded tactics. Sadly, Pizza Hut was once more out of her reach.)

[chimeofthecomet]

omfg writer moots how do you guys DO IT,,,, had a 1am vision last night (this morning?) with some more plot points for selkie au and trying to pull a story through them today is. i can literally feel the cogs in my head making that chalkboard noise against eachother

[nightmarefuele]

"Hey there little one"

He really is the little one — not that this particular case isn't remarkably common. (Not that 'the case' isn't abhorrently unoriginal, by now. Nails on a chalkboard, every time.)

The creature: Devil, demon, Hellspawn, fire itself; a young Jonathan Crane isn't entirely sure. Nor would his grasp on the situation extend to his own bearings — whatever part of his brain is responsible for memory recall (the hippocampus, he would later remember) has about sputtered and. Died, perhaps. As dead as the cogs in his little lungs. But as twist of luck or chance of fate would have it, he is rendered a stickly, sickly slice of a boy beneath what might simply be a god. He has to tilt his chin very far, scale the polished shoes, the fine-pressed suit, the carmine landscapes like wax painted on in the likeness of flesh, to meet the . . . 'face.'

One especially peculiar hallmark of Jonathan Crane's appearance — superfluous in the bone, meager in the fat, it would seem, as he's growing into himself; there's a gauntness that suggests some underlying peril — the gaze. Eyes that are nothing more than glass set too deep. So he feels an uncomfortable twist alike kinship, looking up into those. Bright. Like suns.

Jonathan's transpare-pale skin burns quicker than most.

“Hello,” is where his voice at last settles, wisp of a thing. Always too feather-fine to crack. “I'm. Jonathan. I'm Jonathan . . . Crane.” He's even close to sticking his hand out. (Doesn't.)

Of what he is sure: This could be the wisest decision he's ever made.

[storiumemporium]

I was wondering if you could maybe do something with viktor where she's his assistant and has a crush on him but she is really shy so she leaves notes and his favorite flower on his desk every day but he thinks she is just toying with him so he confronts her and ends really fluffy

I love this!! Here, it's not super long but I hope you like it anyways!

Another flower.

It's something he notes idly, almost bitterly, as it sits on his desk alongside the soft pink stationery. It's a florally paper, likely bought from one of the wax boutiques by Cog's End, wedged between the residentials and the markets, it's a thicker stock with a scratchy texture that feels pleasant when he drags his calloused fingertips along the surface, noting that the paper seemed to have been dyed in some traditional manner, tracing fingers where the dyes caught in the grooves and turned it darker than intended.

The note is written in red this time, a bloody crimson in wobbling, looping script. Your handwriting, he knows it too well to be anyone else. You'd written in several of his journals, on his notes, on his chalkboard. Things for him to remember and things that needed to be restocked- things you thought he'd be interested in, even.

"I passed by the gardens today, there was this beautiful little bird with a golden leg- apparently the species is known for being frailer than usual, and a patron had paid a hefty coin to give it a prosthetic so it could continue to live.

I thought it was beautiful, just like you."

The flower smells wonderful, just like every one before it.

He thinks with exasperation that you must be stealing them from someone's garden, for them to all be so large and so lovely compared to the wilted little things that would grow on the edges of rocks around his childhood playground. He loves these flowers, yet it makes his heart ache.

You make his heart ache.

What was the plan, to simply tease him until he finally lost his mind? Were you playing games? What was the point of- of this? To say things that varied from heartbreaking to sweet to downright lewd, but to avoid his gaze when you were in his presence, to shy away from any chance he had to return your affections?

He crumples the flower in his hand until his knuckles turn white, and he casts a soft apology to the plant as it tumbles from his palm into the trash. He cannot bring himself to do the same with the note, so he saves it in his drawer along with all the rest.

He's still thinking about this when you walk into the room.

"O-Oh! Viktor! Hi..." you scratch at your neck as you turn red simply by being under his gaze, "w-where's Jayce..?"

"Is my presence truly too awful for you to stand me alone?" It meant to be teasing, it came out bitter.

"W-what?"

Viktor knows he should calm down, approach this more professionally. But you stare at him, all sweet and wide eyed, and all he can think of is the few dozen notes hiding in his desk, a rainbow of confessions that have kept him awake even when his exhaustion has peaked.

He stands, and the force with which his cane meets the stone beneath you both sounds like a gunshot in the vast space, resulting in the sharp flinch that travels through your body as you begin to fidget and and shrink under his approach, the fire in his eyes is too intense for you to stare at for long.

"Do you mean to mock me? Hm?"

"Vik-"

"Is this some game, are you having fun with my emotions? Just somebody to pass the time while you wait for a better person to come along?"

"N-no-"

"Then why?" His voice cuts raw at the end, gravelly with the force of weeks of frustration and confusion spilling out to you at once.

"Because I like you..." your voice is so tiny in that moment, and your eyes are watering- though he doesn't get to see that for long, the way your eyes burn into his shoes as if afraid to meet his eye.

His hands grip your arms, not harsh, and his voice softens considerably the next time he speaks. "Then why not tell me..? Why leave me wondering- yearning- why run from me when I try to prove to you I feel the same?"

You're only half focused on the conversation now, burning up under the feeling of his firm grip. "Because- Because I was scared.

What if I wasn't good enough or- or you weren't interested- what if you laughed at me..?"

He exhales, and it feels like all the weight in his body expels with it. For a moment, he considers what to say- what to do-

He cups your face, and he kisses you.

You taste sweet, and he notes with amusement that he knows exactly what garden you passed by, because he's had the exact drink you did at the cafe across from it.

You whimper, and it pulls at something carnal in him, so Viktor wrestles some amount of common sense and pulls away.

Your eyes stay closed for a moment longer than his, swaying on the spot in a way that makes Viktor concerned you might fall over. Your eyes blink open blearily to gaze up at Viktor with open adoration.

"I would never laugh at you," he brushes a thumb across your cheek. "My sweet Mouse..."

You don't have words, and he feels himself melting away when you rest your warm face into his hand.

"Would you like to get lunch with me, Mouse? Perhaps you could tell me about this prosthetic for birds?" His voice twinges with amusement, still wispy, as if any louder would shatter the moment.

"I'd like that."

[lemonmangosorbet]

Continuing the Arcane rewatch with episode 3 today. Watching this episode is so hard - they give us the sweetest interactions between Jayce & Viktor, but the Undercity storyline happening at the exact same time is PAIN :’)

Anyway, here’s my thoughts on Jayvik this episode:

* God, they stayed up late into the night together doing science on the chalkboard in Jayce’s destroyed apartment. I love these nerds

* “Um, I know we’ve only known each other for a day, but do you want to break into Councillor Heimendinger’s lab together to get your Hextech back? uwu” - God, I love Viktor so much. Let him be gay and do crimes

* They went from “your Hextech dream” to “our Hextech dream” so quickly ;3;

*uuuuuh, it is gay to shoulder touch another man while you say “our Hextech dream”?

* “Wait a minute - this isn’t my bedroom???” - damn Viktor, do you really make it a habit of bringing big, handsome men to your BEDROOM in the middle of the night??? sdghkjfshj- Honestly, this line amazes me and I don’t know how I never noticed it on my first watch and I had to see a million memes about it on twitter lol

* “you’re the Professor’s assistant?” “no, he’s my new partner” - omg Jayce, this man has offered to help you with your work, and was there for you in your most vulnerable moment, and your admiration for him is showing!!!

* Viktor saying “trust me” to Jayce when (and I need to emphasise this again) they’ve only known each other for one day!!! Neither of them have any chill!!!!

* Viktor saying “I told you it would work” to Jayce in the softest voice ever aaaaarrrrrgh!!!!!

* Also, in ep.2, Jayce told Viktor he had no idea how beautiful magic was, but Jayce knew because he’d seen it with his own eyes. And then they get the Hextech working, and here’s Viktor admiring that ‘beauty’ for himself

* Viktor using his cane to barricade the door is just so amusing to me lol

* God, when the Hextech works and Jayce taps the cog and it floats through the air towards Viktor until it reaches him and he grabs it ; o ; I dare you to find an OTP who have a better moment than this!!!

[centenaryobjectgathering]

Chapter 2 Page 28

[theiconfair]

Free web design & development vector fill icons pack 8

15 web design & development fill icons pack include Browsing, globe, seo, seo keyword, gps, location pin, Launch, missile, Business, cog, seo, seo keyword, seo label, Analysis, chalkboard, Bullhorn, mobile, Locked, network security, Concept, creative mind, Bar chart, diagram, Line chart, line graph, Approved, checklist, Internet speed, free vector icons in SVG, PSD, EPS and AI format file available for commercial use. Read the full article

[ddarker-dreams]

Malaise. Yan Fugo x Reader [Implied x Giorno]

word count: 6.3k warnings: implied sexual relations, angst later on notes: i wouldn’t say there’s super heavy yandereness going on here, but given the context i figured yandere would play out a bit differently. it’s more like slight yandere if anything ...

i.

Interacting with someone so close to your own age shouldn’t be this miserable. Bucciarati is far easier to converse with, it’s not even a close competition. He’s a pleasant conversationalist, humoring your ideas and offering valuable input. If you had it your way, you’d only be speaking to him and not… this bratty teenager who turned his nose up whenever you were around. As if your mere existence is the highest insult to his own. You’ll never forget how he looked from you to Bucciarati with a quirked eyebrow when you were introduced, the awkward encounter forever burned into your mind. 

You blow a strand of hair out of your face, nose scrunching up at the current dilemma. Bucciarati had asked, more like softly nudged you, to get along better with Fugo. You’ve been trying, ever since he introduced you two that fateful day. In the back of your head, you wonder if the same task was assigned to Fugo in private. Though seeing as he’s remaining nose deep into his book, sitting as far as humanly possible from you on this couch, you doubt it. The phrase “avoid like the plague”, doesn’t even scratch the surface of Fugo’s attitude towards you. He’d sooner embrace the Bubonic Plague than you, should prior encounters be recalled.

“Was there something you needed?” 

Speak of the devil. He must’ve seen fit to grace your presence with his most sacred articulation, filling the tense air with some much-needed conversation. The words aren’t malicious on a surface level, seemingly a reasonable inquiry considering you’ve been staring at him for a solid ten minutes. It’s how his voice is strained, knuckles whitening as he grips the book tighter, which gives him away. Fugo’s too easy to read at times, the same can’t be said when it comes to dealing with him. This might be the most difficult task Bucciarati ever assigned to you. 

“Need isn’t the word I’d use,” you decide to ignore the not-so-subtle irritation on his features, pushing your strained luck as far as it can go. Linguistics aside, you put your cards on the table. “But, I was hoping to get to know you better.” 

With the ball now on his side of the court, all you can do is wait, for whatever rebuttal Fugo decides to dish out. When Bucciarati isn’t around, Fugo’s preference is to act like you’re no more than a fly on the wall. Buzzing around his head and making it impossible to focus on anything that he does in his rare downtime. Honestly, he can’t comprehend why Bucciarati felt so desperate as to pluck you from whatever hole he found you in. You don’t even hold a candle to his own intellect, taking a naive, happy-go-lucky approach to life. Sure you’re a Stand user, and while it’s not a useless Stand, Fugo couldn’t picture you making the choices necessary in a fight to stay alive. The fact you haven’t been reduced to a bloodstain on the pavement is the only thing he finds impressive about you so far.

His eyebrow twitches at your pesky insistence, face settling into a grimace. “Am I right in assuming that if I don’t humor this pitiful attempt, you’ll continue to stare at me and disrupt my otherwise peaceful evening?” 

You place a finger to your cheek, considering the proposition, before nodding your head. “It looks like you’ve got a better understanding of things than I expected.” 

Fugo lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. So be it. He’ll wait until you fall asleep to finish his book, mentally noting the page number and setting it by his side. The act of surrender takes you off guard. You were fully anticipating a snarky one-liner, or for him to disregard you in some other way. Instead, he looks at you with disinterest, arms crossed over his weird swiss cheese shirt. You learned never to mention your inner critiques of his fashion sense, as it once earned a plate of parmesan being narrowly dodged at Libecco. Scary stuff.

“Now that I have your undivided attention,” Fugo winces at this like he heard nails on a chalkboard, “What do you like to do? Y’know, hobbies and stuff.” 

It’s as good a start as any. Finding out a person’s interests unravels the essence of who they are, what they believe is worth their time and effort. Fugo gives your question an unexpected amount of thought, probably sensing you’ll call him out for a lackluster answer. Which you would, of course. For all his stubbornness, he’s gotten good at reading you. Maybe you should try shaking things up a bit to rattle him, keep him on the edge of his seat… 

“Honestly, you couldn’t pick something more original…? I don’t know. I read, and I can appreciate a good movie.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment, considering his words. A very safe, Fugo-like answer. It didn’t take a seasoned detective to assume Fugo liked to read, but the movie detail is a new bit of information that you will take full advantage of. He strikes you as the type to be snobby about his tastes in movies. Most likely only watching them if they’re popular with critics and saying the general population has no appreciation for the fine arts, too busy consuming braindead action flicks instead of true cinema. Not that you have any intention of voicing this conclusion to him, seeing as you’re trying to worm your way into a friendship.

Fugo snaps his fingers in front of your face, bringing you back into unfortunate reality. Maybe that statement earlier this morning about you zoning out too much holds some merit. Before he can berate you as he’s taken an apparent liking to, you speak up. “That’s good and all, but I need specifics.” 

“Care to elaborate?” 

“With pleasure,” you lean forward, waving your hands enthusiastically to emphasize your point. You get the sense that Fugo regrets asking for clarification, but neither of you are willing to back down now. “How about this. If you could only watch one movie for the rest of your life, which would you pick?” 

“Is this some kind of job interview?” Fugo murmurs to himself, massaging his temples. You shrug your shoulders and offer a bright smile, and he knows sarcasm isn’t gonna cut it. “It’d need to be something interesting… maybe The Silence of the Lambs.” 

He somewhat defied your expectations, not listing some obscure black and white flick filmed on a Blackberry. Maybe you jumped the gun on your initial assessment of Fugo Pannacotta, and he isn’t as grandiloquent after all. This confrontation is going better than you ever anticipated, and you almost feel guilty for selling him too short.

That is, until he sees fit to present an unnecessary addition to his previous statement. “Was that bit of English too much for you?” 

So much for that. Once an asshole, always as an asshole. Shakespeare may have said something similar, but your reimagining is far more of a pinnacle in literary achievement. You deflate back into the couch, huffing at his indignant comment. Well, might as well burst his bubble now. It may be the only bubble Fugo has that you’re capable of the aforementioned bursting, so you’re going to savor every second of it. The entire reason you’ve never mentioned this facet of yourself is that you never viewed it as imperative. Bucciarati knew, you knew, that’s all that mattered. Until Fugo decided to dig under your skin and rub salt on the wound in one fell swoop. Figures he’d do that.

“Fugo.” 

“[First].”

“You know English is my first language, right?” Your voice is more of a deadpan than anything, tilting your head to the side as if it is the most logical conclusion. The hypothetical cogs in Fugo’s head begin turning. There was that time you stumbled over a Naples exclusive dish, sfogliatella, Bucciarati kindly offering the proper pronunciation after you stumbled on it. Or how you have the slightest of accents, sometimes referencing pop culture that goes beyond him. He always wondered why muttering “cazzimma” to you only earned a light reprimanding from Bucciarati, and never offended you as more common insults would. He just thought you were some type of misfortune idiot. Whoops. 

Not willing to throw in the towel yet, Fugo takes a posture of defense. This is a hill he’s willing to die on, you have to be playing some kind of cheap trick. “I don’t buy it.” 

“Should I start reciting the entire Star-Spangled Banner by heart, or talk about how much I love fast food and baseball? Did you think my Stand would be a bald eagle that shot out apple pie? If that’s the case, you’re fresh outta luck. I’m living in Naples for a reason.” you respond in fluent English, flexing your hypothetical muscles. Fugo recalls his English classes from years prior to roughly translate some of your words, scowling at the realization you’ve proven him wrong. By god do you wish you had your phone with you to snap a picture, print it out, frame it in every room of this apartment, make it your lock screen, and send it to Bucciarati. 

You’ll settle for drinking in the moment instead, Fugo muttering curses underneath his breath. Much to your surprise, from this moment forward, Fugo earned just an ounce of respect for you. Not that it says a lot, seeing as the cup of [First] respect was drier than the Sahara desert until recent times. 

It’s still a step in the right direction.

ii.

Neither of you says a word.

Coming down from your individual highs, you feel how your hair sticks to the sides of your perspiring face. Your bare chest heaving with every labored breath, Fugo in a similar state of disarray next to you. Now that it’s all said and done, you’re unable to look at him out of embarrassment. Instead, you seek solace in staring at your ceiling, thoughts scrambling to rationalize the previous events. 

It all started innocent enough. The two of you had been growing closer, becoming more comfortable in each other's presence. Even Narancia, who could be notoriously poor at picking up on subtleties, could sense your connection and even pointed it out. Until Fugo told him to knock it off (in far more vulgar language), saving you the shame of saying it yourself. You felt content with the state of things with Fugo, after months of getting him to come out of his shell with you. His words were still pointed, but not full of ill will. Even when three more additions were brought to your little group, Fugo remained the person you prefer the most. It might be wishful thinking, but you think he feels the same towards you. 

Tonight had been like all the ones that came before. The two of you sitting on the couch, talking about pointless endeavors. Mista and Narancia were out at the time, leaving you all on your lonesome. For such a sizable couch, you didn’t realize how close Fugo was sitting next to you. Your thighs practically touching, occasionally brushing over one another. To combat the summer heat and mediocre air conditioning in your apartment, you were wearing short shorts and a tank top. Seeing as everyone else could walk around shirtless at their discretion, no one ever made a point to call you out on the less than modest choice. Even if they felt the itching, you’d shut them up without a second thought.

Fugo found himself focusing less on the words coming out of your mouth, and more on your glossy lips. He could smell your strawberry chapstick, the choice so tempting he found it offensive. Mixed with the chocolate gelato that you stole from Mista’s “hidden” stash, Fugo was bewitched on a level that shouldn’t be possible. Your skin, slightly glistening from the summer heat, eyes full of passion as you explained why you hated pretentious movies. At a certain point, you must’ve noticed how Fugo stopped responding to your impassioned rant. All he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss you, to feel every inch of your body.

So he did. 

It was far from suave, an amateurish clashing of teeth and tongue. You let out a surprised noise at the unexpected events but melted into it. While the kiss didn’t go as smoothly as he pictured in his head, you seemed to savor every second of it. He still remembers how eagerly you responded to his every desperate touch, how you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him even closer. The scent of your floral perfume and the sweet noises that left your lips almost made him drool, prompting him to go even further. Fugo’s brain almost shut down when you lowly whispered into his ear to come to your room, bodies soon falling onto your bed in a heated embrace. 

You feel sore, but it’s not so bad. 

Fugo’s the first to speak up after some painstaking thought, breaking the silence that’s resonated ever since he climbed off of you. “Are you… are you okay?” 

It’s so unlike him to be this unsure, not knowing what to do or say. His heart still pounds in his chest, cheeks flushed and lips bruised. Suppressed emotions came crashing down over him like a tidal wave, drowning him before he could make sense of it all. You didn’t push him away or seem offended by his advances as he’d feared you’d be. Instead, you accepted all of him. Allowing him to carry out his pent-up yearning for you, in a state of bliss by how you called his name out. 

Shameful as it may be, Fugo had envisioned this scenario in his head numerous times. He’d always hated himself for it, thinking he’s no better than a common pervert for the way he thought of you. All the ways he pictured you, in all the lascivious situations, only to see you bright and early for breakfast the next day. When you smiled and told him good morning, all he could do is look away in disgrace. Not that you ever knew about this, or that you ever needed to find out. 

You let out a carefree, light giggle at his serious inquiry. Fugo’s eyebrows scrunch together into a scowl at your sudden laughter, finally working up the courage to look at you again. Any frustration melts away like winter snow in the spring at how breathtaking you look, your skin iridescent and eyes softening. They aren’t softening just for anyone, it’s for him and him alone. Does he deserve to be the one you look at with all this adoration? And should he even bother with the self-deprecating thoughts, when losing himself with you is so much better?

“S-sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just,” you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, the skin underneath your eyes tightening from the wide smile. “I never took you for the sappy, pillow talk type.” 

Fugo’s nostrils flare, huffing without any malice at your teasing. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s doing, improvising as he goes. Everything that happened, every shared touched you shared, felt so surreal. Cheesy as it may sound, it was like a dream come true. What is there to say after a passionate encounter like that? He’s still rushing to get his bearings, hating the sensation of being this out of control. How you make his stomach erupt into a swarm of butterflies with every action, from the simple fluttering of your eyelashes to the cute way your nose scrunches up when you’re concentrating on a task. Fugo knows what this could be, in the back of his head. A quiet, hard to push down voice tells him what he’s been dreading to hear. That he’s a fool, deep in the throes of love. 

It takes a few minutes for you to calm yourself down. Fugo’s observant, much to your chagrin, having picked up on your nervous tick of laughing when you’re unsure of what to do. It’d make sense, seeing how you just slept with your teammate who frequently called you an idiot a few months ago. You prop yourself up, bedsheets covering your bare chest. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He looks away, despising how your revealed skin makes his face flush a bright red. Even without looking at you, he can picture the knowing smile on your angelic face at his embarrassment. It’s the same smile you have when Narancia tells a particularly funny joke, when Mista goes on a silly tangent about his latest concerns, when Bucciarati says you’ve done a good job, or when Abbacchio chooses to sit down next to you when everyone else is being too annoying. Most importantly, it’s how you always look at Fugo, even when he didn’t think he deserved it. 

You poke his cheek, murmuring his name. Fugo’s violet hues flicker back to you at the unprecedented action, perplexed countenance betraying his inner thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this. That the occupation you two are involved in is too dangerous to sustain a relationship, and that death is a possibility every day. It’s too late for him to nip these feelings in the bud -- that opportunity passed long ago, as he let it -- but he can’t allow it go past the point it already has.

Fugo lets out an inaudible gasp when you make yourself comfortable against his bare chest. Here he is, being torn on the inside between desire and duty, and you’re snuggling up without a care in the world. It’s the stark contrast that separates you, the same one that has him so hopelessly enamored. You have no intentions on making this easy for him, do you? He knows the answer when he sees your eyelids closing, threatening to fall asleep. 

All is comfortably quiet until he hears your muffled voice speak up. “You didn’t push me away.” 

“Huh?” 

Fugo’s own response isn't the schooled, thought-out string of words you’ve come to expect. It’s a kneejerk reaction to a confusing observation, that he’s having trouble rationalizing in his head. While never the most forthcoming with his emotions, he was essentially ravishing you like a man possessed a few minutes prior. You can’t be that dense, can you? Scratch that, the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Even if not many got to see that side of you, there are still insecurities that weigh heavily on your heart. In the same way he struggles with self-worth, you fight a similar battle. The thought tugs on his heart, lips set into a deep frown. Everyone’s got something to deal with.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Fugo responds in a harsher tone than he intended. When he feels you tense against his chest, he curses himself, intentionally softening his next set of words. “But, uh, do you really want me to stay? The others might be back soon.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment at his concerns, promptly waving them off. It’s not like Narancia and Mista are capable of sneaking into your shared residence, it’s ridiculously loud when they come home. “Just a few more minutes.” 

He expected an answer like that and still has trouble relaxing. Truth be told, Fugo would prefer to lay here with you forever. To see what you look like when you sleep, to feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest in sync with his own, to kiss your forehead and whisper goodnight. In an ideal world, that’s how it would be. Reality is a lot less forgiving, and there’s too much on the line. Being this close to someone else is vulnerable, painfully so. To hurt and be hurt, the opportunity now having the room to manifest. He knows all this, and he still can’t bring himself to mention the full force of his anxieties. Would you hate him? Think he was using you and then ditching you? 

Fugo decides to be selfish, more so than usual. While there’s no way to push down all of these emotions, looking at you puts him at ease. His fingers ghost over an area on your neck he learned was sensitive, almost smiling when you lean into the touch. The way he feels with you is addicting. From your quick wit that matches his own, never being afraid to challenge his positions, it’s like he found his match. While he’s always found you begrudgingly cute, even when he was colder to you, it’s evolved into something greater. More serious and heartfelt. It’s horrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“Does this mean we’re dating?” you ask what’s been troubling you, hearing how Fugo’s heartbeat ramps up in speed. It’s a rational conclusion, seeing how comfortable you two are with one another. You don’t know if what you feel is love, not just yet, but you want to give whatever this is a shot. Fugo’s hesitation says all you need to know, though you wish it isn’t like this. 

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.” Fugo answers honestly, the words so quiet you struggle to pick them up. It’d be a lie to say you’re not disappointed, though you don’t want to push him into anything he’s not ready for. Fugo has his own emotions to work through, and the last thing you need to do is jump into a relationship and ruin everything. So you lift yourself up, looking him deep in the eyes, Fugo blinking at the abrupt movement. 

“Then I’ll wait.” 

He doesn’t notice how close to crying he’s been this entire time. The world through his view goes blurry, a lump forming in the back of his throat. Fugo takes deep breaths to steady himself, and instead of berating him, you wipe away his tears with the pad of your thumb. Whispering reassurances into his ear, combing through his tousled hair with your fingers. Fugo wipes at his eyes furiously, cursing himself for breaking down in front of you of all people. He’s overwhelmed with gratitude when you decide not to comment on it further, to save him the embarrassment. Your words echo within his head like a holy mantra, a promise that he’ll hold onto. 

If there were ever a reality where you looked down at him with disdainful eyes, he’d hate himself. 

iii.

Wandering aimlessly isn’t the worst part.

No, that’d be letting himself off too easy. It’s not the sleepless nights, tossing and turning while his stomach churns, or even the tear-stained pillowcases. When walking around Naples, all he can do is submerge himself to the shadows. There’s shame in the act of hiding, and it’s all he’s come to know. Seeing the light of day feels too good for someone like him, someone who had been abandoned by everyone he cared about and was too cowardly to prevent it. It’s a suitable punishment to wallow in his own self-pity and loneliness, cursing his entire existence for the mistakes that haunt him every day. 

It’s always a mistake to come to this café. This is your favorite café, and on days like this, all he can do is watch from afar. There are times he stares at the spot you frequent for hours, waiting to see if you decide to stop by that day or not. In a way, it’s almost better when you don’t. He doesn’t get a taste of what he’s missing out on, a forbidden fruit that he’s too ashamed to reach for. Most of the time you come here alone, with your favorite pastry and coffee, scrolling on your phone or laptop before leaving. He’s seen you meet with Mista a few times, even Trish once, but it’s mostly Giorno who accompanies you. 

Today you’re on your lonesome, speaking to someone over the phone and then hanging it up with a smile. Fugo can’t help but wonder, who is it that makes you smile like that? As he sits from afar, drowning in his anguish, it’s what plagues him the most. That used to be the smile he saw on a daily basis, the one that made him fall head over heels in love. Now he’s too afraid to approach you, in fear of what you may say, or do. Even what you wouldn’t do would hurt. Would you look at him in pity, or curse him for his cowardly actions? Condemn him for not joining you on that boat, or ignore him all together?

Is it possible… that you’ve simply forgotten all about him? It has been almost two years since the worst day of his life. While he’s caught up in the past, you’ve moved into a brighter future. He doesn’t know how he feels anymore. Surely you deserve any happiness you can get after all the suffering you went through, but the thought of you being happy without him stings. It digs talons into Fugo’s heart, ripping it out of his chest. One of these days, he tells himself, he’ll work up the strength to speak to you. Even if it’s but a moment. 

Though some part of him knows he’ll never be able to face you. Not anymore.

v.

It’s early in the afternoon. Chatter from other patrons reverberates off the tastefully decorated walls, in a restaurant that Fugo’s been to numerous times. This particular visit is different than the ones years ago. Instead of the bustling atmosphere he’d grown used to, there are only two people at the table. Where laughter and lighthearted conversations before work used to occur, there’s nothing but silence save for some polite discussion. Fugo’s throat feels persistently dry, no matter how much water he gulps down. 

Giorno sits across from him, legs folded and nursing a glass of iced tea the waiter brought seconds prior. Maintaining eye contact with the revered Don of Passione is no simple task. It’s a daunting experience, regardless of Giorno’s insistence on no formalities being necessary when interacting with one another. Fugo holds immense respect for him, otherwise, he wouldn’t be willingly sitting here right now. Still, his mouth is set in a straight line, leg bouncing underneath the table. Respect isn’t enough to snuff out the uncomfortable memories that appear up in this room, suffocating him from the inside out. 

“Is there a reason I’m here?” The words come out more forcefully than he intended, Fugo’s eyes darting around his familiar surroundings, looking for something he won’t find. Someone he won’t find. He’s grateful to Giorno for his benevolence, as speaking this way to someone who’s technically his boss isn’t advisable. Someone as sharp as Fugo knows this better than most, but he also knows Giorno. While not understanding him entirely, his actions make logical sense in the grand scheme of things. 

Being in Giorno’s position means being busy. Every second of the day has to be taken advantage of, whether it be discussing with other mafioso about recent happenings or plans, making multiple phone calls, and plenty of other headache-inducing tasks. So it doesn’t make much sense to Fugo why Giorno called him this morning, asking to meet him in person for lunch. While the two aren’t on bad terms, he doesn’t feel deserving of the specially allotted time. And in his gut, he feels there’s a hidden justification for the meeting that he’s yet to uncover. A few unpleasant theories come to mind, but they only serve to unnerve Fugo further, so he stuffs them down. 

“I wasn’t sure of the best way to deal with Purple Haze. Your Stand… you’re already aware of the potential consequences it could’ve posed, so I won’t rehash it more than necessary,” Giorno begins to offer his insight into the matter, finally revealing the true reason Fugo was called out here today. “There were a variety of methods that could’ve been used, with varying degrees of success, but I took a gamble. Ultimately, she didn’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Fugo feels his heart drop, jaw slackening despite his best efforts. “Who… who do you mean?” 

At this, Giorno quirks an eyebrow up. As if to wordlessly say, you know who. 

“It might not be my place to delve into your past,” Giorno continues with a serious air, contrasted by his closed-mouth smile. Fugo never knows for certain what Giorno’s plotting behind that smile, and a part of him wants to remain oblivious. “But for you to overcome it, and in turn gain total control over Purple Haze, it must be addressed.”

He can guess where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Giorno gives him a moment to consider the words, briefly glancing at his buzzing phone and then returning his attention back to Fugo. It’s a subtle change in body language, how Giorno’s shoulders stiffen just slightly as if he’s anticipating something. Fugo loosens the tie around his neck, the pair returning to tense silence. While the Don made valiant attempts in loosening him up, it only served to make Fugo more suspicious. All of his fears are confirmed when he overhears two voices from the room over, one of them sending his heart racing.

That’s… that you and Mista speaking to one another. He knows your voice better than he knows any other sound on the planet, even if it’s been years since he’s heard it up this close. Fugo still dreams of you, the way you used to stumble over certain Neapolitan lingo, or how wonderful it sounded when you graced his ears with a laugh. Now, he’s unsure of what to feel when hearing the muffled conversation between you and Mista. The sound grows closer, and with it, his dread. After rejoining Passione at Giorno’s behest, Fugo knew this reunion couldn’t be avoided. Nothing could prepare him for it. 

There’s a telltale gasp when you turn the corner, spotting the back of someone you haven’t seen since you were a teenager. Someone who you used to hold in high esteem, who practically fell off the face of the earth after betraying the old boss. While Mista had hastily given you the details on the car ride over, it still felt too surreal, like a cruel joke. There’s a lot that weighs down on your heart, like stones wrapped around your ankles, dragging you into the depths. The details Giorno gave you about Fugo’s whereabouts were purposefully vague, most likely in consideration of your past feelings. 

“Fugo…?” 

You’re by his side before he can even process it, bending down and wrapping his stiff shoulders into a warm embrace. He doesn’t reciprocate it or stop you, his thoughts not capable of rationalizing what’s going on. Fugo can’t bring himself to look up at your countenance, in fear of what he’ll see staring back at him. That you’re even hugging him means you must pity him, viewing him as a scared little boy who was too weak to do what was necessary. It’s the only explanation that makes sense to him, and why he can’t return your affections. While it’s no longer his place to desire anything from you, not after all his shortcomings, he silently prays. That there may be some part of you that still cares for him, in the same way he has loved you from afar. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come back.” you sniffle, emotions swirling and enveloping you. You lift your hand, using your finger to swipe away forming tears. That’s when Fugo sees it. It doesn’t hit him at first as one would expect. No, it’s a prickling sensation that starts from his chest and spreads throughout his body like a virus. His body feels ice cold, like a corpse clinging onto shreds of life, consumed from the inside out by sorrow. Nausea comes in waves, tempting him to flee from this heart-wrenching scene and never look back. Your hand falls back to your side, and Fugo’s eyes follow it with precision, unable to look away.

There’s a rose gold band on your ring finger. 

Of course. Looking at you here, it makes sense why this would happen. Your body has filled out, beauty like that of an angel. The ability to draw people in and befriend them like a glowing aura has always been your strong suit, it was warm enough to thaw the ice around Fugo’s heart. It’d be a fool’s prayer to beg God to keep you for himself, and still, he had tried. Now that leaves the burning question, who? Who was the person that erased himself from your mind, taking the place that was carved out specifically for him? He looks at your beaming face, searching for answers he won’t find outright. 

Your perfume is the same as it was before. Light and floral, but mixed with a hint of something new. Of someone new. It sickens him, the scent dizzying as it taunts him. Where has he smelled this before? It’s on the tip of his tongue, fizzling out before coming into fruition. The words you speak next are drowned out by Fugo’s throbbing head, too absorbed with dark thoughts to process them. He needs to know. He has to know. Fugo looks over your shoulder to Mista in search of answers, the gunslinger holding an uncharacteristically grim expression. They hold eye contact, Fugo staring at him with potent intensity. 

Give me a hint. Anything, please.

Not everyone gives Mista the credit he deserves for being observant. Fugo must’ve looked like he’d seen a ghost, Mista swallowing at the pale complexion and vacant eyes. Believing that his intentions weren’t clear enough, Fugo almost looks away. Before he gets the opportunity, Mista offers a slight inclination of the head. Fugo closes his eyes, all his strength going into holding himself together. Picking up the shards of glass that maintain his emotions, hands growing bloody in the process. It’s a subtle movement, though there’s no denying in what direction it went, as much as Fugo wished otherwise.

Towards Giorno. 

You move towards your seat, realizing Fugo must be going through a lot of emotions of his own. The last thing you need to do is suffocate him when it’s clear he’s processing the unfolding events. “I don’t know the last time you came here, but they recently added more desserts. I’m partial to the zeppole… it’s so light and fluffy.” 

Mista walks over, taking a seat next to the befuddled Fugo, and speaking up to ease the uncomfortable silence that resonates in the room. “I’m starving, haven’t had anything to eat all day. Let’s get the waiter over here.”

While he flags down a passing employee, Fugo’s eyes follow your form. The table is different than how it used to be. Abbacchio would be sipping on wine, no matter the time of day. Bucciarati wouldn’t always be sitting down for long, seeing as he had lots of work to do, but he always made time for a good meal. Narancia loved conversing with you, seeing as you had lots of knowledge of the English music he was so partial to. You always sat next to Fugo, who’d lightly reprimand Narancia for being more passionate about rap than his studies, or telling Mista to knock it off with the unappetizing conversations he loved to start. 

Now, you take the chair next to Giorno, who had pulled it out in kind when you walked over.

You said you’d wait for him, and Fugo fooled himself into believing that statement would last a lifetime. He always had regrets about not joining his team on the boat that day, too many to count. A new one has sprouted up like a weed, strangling his heart. If he had joined you, would it have been him you’d have married? Would it be him that you’d look at with that dazzling expression instead, the one that he had grown used to seeing? Now that he knows the full extent of the truth, Fugo wonders how he could have ever been so blind. Even Giorno -- who often smiled just for show -- had unmistakably lightened up as soon as you entered the room. 

This… This is Fugo’s despair.

The rest of lunch goes as smoothly as it can. He forces himself to speak when spoken to, Mista kindly filling the room with conversation to prevent any awkwardness. This can’t end fast enough. He needs to get out of here, to excuse him before he does something truly stupid. A serpent whispers temptations of evil into his ear, and he doesn’t want to tune them out. Not anymore. Now isn’t the time to pull any idiotic stunts, so he remains still as a statue. When all is said and done, Fugo can’t get up from the table to dismiss himself any faster. He pays the necessary respects to his Don, swiftly offering his goodbyes. With his back turned, he hears your voice call out to him in the darkness.

“I’ll see you later, right?” you ask in between bites of your dessert, the words meaning more for him than you. He doesn’t know. He’s not certain of anything anymore, even after making up his mind on returning to Passione. The situation has taken a turn for the worst, in a way he couldn’t stomach any longer. So for now, he’ll offer up an unconvincing response, not capable of looking back at you. 

At the reminder of all his failures.

“... Of course.” 

[jamiesfootball]

word: hat

Sorry friend, having trouble finding this one in a thing I haven't already shared. Here's one that I have shared already though:

"They didn't break my contract or anything, they just stopped all my campaigns. Went quiet for months." Jamie snorted. It was a dry and humorless sound, one that grated against Roy's earliest memories of him like nails on a chalkboard. "Didn't hear a word from them until well after Zava left us to hang out to dry. Then after that I'm on a hot streak, getting the call up for England, and suddenly they're stumbling over themselves to get me seen in their new line. Even made me a custom hat--the one that Isaac hates, you know, with the letters?"

"The I-COG one?"

"Yeah, the one that Isaac hates."

"It does make you sound like a fucking Apple phone."

[kindofcashton]

𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕕  •  chapter 4  (Calum Hood AU)

I WORKED THE very next day, and to say Mack threw me right into the thick of things would be a massive understatement.  Roger was working again, and Mack tasked him with teaching me how to make the most basic of coffees before setting me loose.  They really were swamped; the morning rush lasted well into lunchtime.  I knew how to use a cash register fairly well, so for a while Roger and I divided the duties.  Once things died down for a brief period, he showed me the more complex drinks, each one more confusing than the next.

“You’ll get it,” he told me encouragingly when I’d added too much foam to an espresso.  I put my hands on my hips and blew out a sigh.

“I’ve always been told I brew some killer coffee,” I explained.  “This should be natural.”

Roger chuckled, swiping a rag through some mugs.  I liked him; he was easy-going even under pressure, but knew when to be firm with the difficult customers.  He said that all their best baristas had quit recently to go back to school, and that Mack was left swamped.  

“You’re not in school?” I asked, getting someone’s chai latte ready.  This was one drink I was fairly good at concocting.

He scoffed.  “Are you kidding?  I could never do that college shit.  I’d much rather work at a place like this and do my art on the side.”  Roger did art commissions for people that were actually pretty amazing; he was like Picasso with spray paint.  I admired his confidence in his work, even though any parent would be terrified if their kid wanted to be a freelance artist.  But Roger believed in his talent, and didn’t let anyone convince him otherwise.

There were only two people left in the shop and they’d both been served, so Roger decided to take a quick break.  He said it would be my first “test run” to see how well I did on my own.  I rolled my eyes at his mock salute, but inside I was a nervous wreck.  I wanted to do well--no, needed to.  I needed something to go right for me.

Five minutes passed with no new customers, and I smiled at the thought of not serving anyone while Roger was gone.  Unfortunately, my prayers weren’t answered as the little bell tingled, signaling someone’s arrival.

A tall, chestnut-haired guy approached the register, rubbing the slight stubble on his chin as he examined the chalkboard menu above my head.  I fought the flush that wanted to rise to my cheeks; he was cute, with dark jeans and a casual blazer that probably meant he had a complex coffee order ready to go.

He sent me a shining smile.  “Hey, could I get a cappuccino?”

I huffed, and his expression turned quizzical.  “Sorry,” I answered quickly.  “This is my first day, and the last cappuccino I made...wasn’t great.”

“Should I order something else?  How ‘bout a french roast with cream?”  I appreciated his sense of humor at my inexperience.

I narrowed my eyes playfully.  “Oh no, I’m gonna make you that cappuccino.  Whether it will be edible is still up in the air.”

He laughed, and I noted the way his hazel eyes crinkled when he did this.  

“Can I have a name for the order?”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy,” I repeated, and he grinned before taking a seat at the window bar.  Inhaling deeply, I turned to start making the cappuccino.  Espresso, steamed milk, foam.  How hard could it be?

Harder than I thought, apparently.  The drink I ended up concocting was way too milky and overflowing with foam.  I felt my face redden as I presented it to Jeremy, who examined it carefully.

“I know, it’s terrible.  But I did warn you.”

He went to pick up the mug, the crinkles by his eyes returning.  “Are you kidding?  This is absolutely exceptional.  I think I’ll have to come back tomorrow if you keep up this fine work.”

My face hurt from smiling so wide.  “Well, I’ll be here, probably burning some coffee beans or spilling milk.”

I was disappointed to see Jeremy leave once he’d finished his coffee, and Roger materialized behind me when the front door finally shut.

“How do you already have cute guys hitting on you?  And I got a glimpse of that cappuccino, it was awful.”

“He must have had to choke it down,” I joked, giddy at the thought of seeing Jeremy again.  “

Roger rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, I’m guessing it wasn’t that hard to pretend to like it.  Cute baristas have that effect; you’re great for business, you know.”

I pushed his arm playfully, and Roger flipped me off.  

My first day and I already loved this new job.  The rest of my shift took up the majority of the day, until the sun had started to sink below the horizon.  I hung up my apron on the hook in the back room and said goodbye to Mack before walking out into the cool city air.

The grin on my face refused to cease throughout the whole bus ride back home, and I practically sprinted to the house.  Maybe things were finally looking up for me.  If I channeled all of my energy into work and school my life might finally get back on track, the way it was meant to be.

I wanted to burst right through the front door, but even before I reached the porch I could hear yelling from inside.  Muffled shouts were coming from the kitchen, and as I slowly stepped into the foyer the voices became clearer.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”  This was Ashton, and his voice was raised in obvious frustration.

“I was thinking about myself and what was best for me.  College was way fucking harder than I thought it would be.”  My blood ran cold at Hannah’s response.  What did Ashton find out?  Who told him about Hannah’s secret, and did he know about mine?

Quickly joining them in the kitchen, I noticed Luke and Michael in the living room, looking like they wanted to melt into the sofa.  I sent them a confused glance, and the subtle shake of Luke’s head told me how serious this was.

Upon seeing me, Ashton turned his attention away from Hannah, scowl deepening.  “Did you know about this?”

I swallowed roughly, trying to read the message behind Hannah’s pleading eyes.  “Um, know about what?”  It was a stupid attempt at a bluff, and Ashton saw right through it.

“That Hannah isn’t home from school on a break, she’s home permanently.”

My mouth opened slightly in an attempt to respond, but Ashton cut me off.

“I mean, why would you leave a university like that?  With everything you could have achieved there?”

This caused my brow to furrow.  So he thought she left on her own, when in reality she was kicked out.  I slid my gaze over to Hannah’s, and she communicated through a silent expression of desperation.

Don’t say anything, she seemed to be begging.  Go with it.

I gave the smallest, most imperceptible I could.  It was Hannah’s secret to reveal, and I wasn’t going to drive a deeper wedge between her and Ashton.

All of a sudden I felt someone come up behind me, and knew without looking it was Calum.  I glanced over, and his dark eyes met mine briefly.  He was much closer than I thought he needed to be, his chest practically touching my shoulder.  Biting my lip, I faced forward again and tried to ignore his soft exhales on my neck.

Pressing a hand to her forehead, Hannah said in a clipped tone, “Ashton, with all due fucking respect, you never went to college.  You have no idea what it’s like, so I don’t understand why you think you get an opinion.”

Ashton looked ready to punch a hole through the drywall.  “For fuck’s sake, Hannah, because I care about you!  College was supposed to help your future, so what the hell are you supposed to do now?”

This silenced her.  I felt so bad for Hannah; knowing it was all her fault, that she failed so abysmally in her classes and was forced to come home.  She was smart, just not in the typical bookish sense that a university demanded.  I wished I could give her some of mine, because I certainly couldn’t use it right now.

Inhaling shakily, she bawled her fists.  “Ashton.”  Her voice was so weak I thought she was about to cry.  “My future is going to be just fine without you freaking out over it, okay?”

Ashton scoffed, hands on his hips and eyes blazing.  I prayed he just let go of his anger at being lied to, and went over to comfort Hannah.  Yes, she was still lying to him now, which would certainly blow up later, but she needed support.  

My prayers were answered when Ashton let out a defeated exhale and wrapped his arms around Hannah’s smaller frame.  The two of them practically dissolved into each other, breathing together as one.

After a minute they separated, and Ashton cleared his throat.  “We’re gonna go back to my place, spend the night.”

Michael and Luke just nodded, and Calum walked out from behind me to join them in the living room.  As Hannah passed by me, she grabbed my hand and gave it a quick squeeze.  “Thank you,” she murmured.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process everything.  I felt Calum’s eyes on me, and instantly my heart stopped.  He’d seen Hannah say something, which meant he knew our answers were bullshit.

I felt trapped by his deep brown gaze, completely immobile and at his disposal.  The cogs in his brain were so clearly turning, and I was terrified he would say something.

But then the moment ended, and he looked away, releasing me from his clutches.  

After getting myself a glass of water and grabbing my school bag I collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table.  Michael grabbed a soda from the fridge and leaned against the stainless steel door.

“Crazy,” he commented, head shaking in disbelief.

“It was like my parents were arguing,” Luke said, shuddering.  “But those two could get through anything, seriously.”

Calum remained quiet, of course, but his expression was thoughtful as ever.

“Hey, how’d your first day go?" Luke asked.  “Did you show them your killer coffee skills?”

I chuckled, flipping a pencil between my fingers to relieve some of my pent up anxiety.  “Turns out my skills are less than killer.  I can brew some great black coffee, but no one really orders that.  I think it’ll be really good, though.  The people are great, and the customers were actually nice.”  My thoughts drifted to Jeremy, and a small smile danced across my lips.  “I have an early shift tomorrow though, 7am.”

“Rough,” Michael replied.  “Godspeed, I won’t be awake till noon.”

I chuckled, and was surprised when Calum finally spoke up.  “The customers are nice until you screw up someone’s triple shot macchiato and they flip their shit on you.”

I bit my lip, dreading that scenario.  “I’ll, uh, try to avoid that.”

Calum nodded, and with that he disappeared from the kitchen.

Pulling books out of my bag, started mentally organizing the work I had to do.  Luke and Michael went off to bed, Michael opting for the futon downstairs since Ashton and Hannah had left.

I was alone in the kitchen, trying desperately to focus on the study of neurological activity in the sleeping brain, but I just couldn’t get my mind off of Hannah.  We were both lying to everyone we cared about, and sooner or later the truth would come out.  I wasn’t prepared to face the music about my parents, though, and the last thing I wanted was people finding out I was destitute.  If I could just hold on a little longer, work for a while and keep studying, everything would be fine.

The hardest part would be putting up with Calum.  He was so cold and brooding, and clearly had no respect for personal space as I learned tonight by how close he stood to me.  I could still feel the tickle of his breath on my neck, and raised a hand to gently rub the skin.

- - - - -

I had no idea I’d fallen asleep at the table until someone was shaking me awake.  My eyes blinked open, blurry from sleep and disorientation.  It was still dark out, and I wondered who would be up at this hour.

“What’s happening?” I asked, my voice gravelly.  I rubbed my eyes and made out Calum’s figure standing next to me, arms folded with a frown.

“Would you rather I let you sleep through your shift?  It’s 5:30, and I know you’ve got a bus to catch.  And, you know, take like an hour just getting ready.”  Before I could process what he said he turned away from me to fiddle with something in the cupboard.

I was slightly shocked.  Calum remembered when my shift was?  And cared enough to wake me up?  I had no idea what to make of this, and was too tired to work it through.

“Thanks.”  I yawned and began to load my books back into my bag, moving slowly as my body was weighed down with exhaustion.

“I think the point is to read the books, not use them as pillows,” Calum criticized.

Scowling at his attitude, I ripped the zipper a little harshly, causing him to actually look over.  

“I was reading them,” I rebutted.  “I just...got tired I guess.”

“Aren’t college kids supposed to be responsible and organized?”

“Are you saying I’m not?”

He crossed his arms, body language defensive.  “I’m just saying, you’re the one who fell asleep and almost missed your shift.  I’d say that’s pretty irresponsible.”

Sighing loudly, I rubbed my temples to try and banish the slight ache in my brain.  “It is way too early for this stupid argument,” I muttered.

“We’re not arguing, I’m just telling you.” 

“Yeah, well, thanks for telling me I’m disorganized and irresponsible.  Got anything else to say, or can I get ready for work now?”

I stood up and started towards the stairs, glaring his way.  Calum just shrugged, smug expression painted across his stupid face. 

“Nope, wouldn’t want to make you late.”  I was tempted to slap the sardonic smirk right off his face, but opted instead to leave him alone in the kitchen.

I took a quick shower and made myself look presentable as possible, changing into work clothes and grabbing my bag before quickly escaping out the front door.  I didn’t feel like running into Calum again after his wonderful wake up call.

Work was busy in the beginning, and Roger and I struggled to keep up for a while.  But our rhythm from yesterday finally kicked in, and with each drink I served I felt more and more confident.  When the rush ended, the two of us high-fived and let out triumphant exhales of relief.

“You know, Scarlett, you and I make a good team.”

I grinned at Roger, overjoyed at how quickly I was picking up new skills.  I just hoped Mack was impressed enough to give me the job in two weeks.

Before I could answer him, the bell jingled.  I recognized Jeremy’s chestnut hair immediately, and suppressed a squeal of excitement.  Just what I need, I thought giddily.

When Jeremy approached the counter I made sure to look calm and collected.  He smiled that winning smile, and I felt my knees go weak.

“Told you I’d be back,” he said.

“What can I mess up for you today?  A latte maybe?  I’m getting good at screwing those up,” I informed him with a laugh, and I was glad to see the crinkles by his eyes return.

“Actually,” he began, making my heart somersault with worry.  “I’m not here for coffee.  I’m here for you.”

My eyebrows shot up, and I hoped my face didn’t betray my secret exhilaration.

“Really?” I responded, pressing my lips together.  “And why is that?”

“Normally, I take girls out to places like this on a first date,” he said, and I was hanging on to every word.  “But seeing as you’re probably sick of it, how ‘bout we skip that part and go straight to dinner?”

My face broke into a wide smile, and I was almost too excited to reply.  “That’s really considerate of you,” I joked.  “Dinner sounds amazing.”

Jeremy actually looked relieved, like he was nervous I’d say no.  As if anyone could say no to that face.

“Great, that’s great.  How about tonight?  I’ll pick you up at 8.”

“Sure, give me your phone and I’ll add my number.”  He passed it over, and I fought to keep my fingers steady.  Handing it back, we smiled at each other like idiots.

“See you tonight, Scarlett,” he said, and I watched him disappear out of the cafe all the way down the street.

I turned to see Roger gaping at me like I had three heads.

“What?”

“How come no one hits on me like that?” he pouted.  

I tapped my cheek in contemplation.  “Maybe it’s those spike earrings?  They’re wildly intimidating.”

Roger snorted, and waved his hand at me dismissively.  “Oh shut up.  You’re about to bounce of the walls you’re so happy.”

“Hell yeah I am.”

[joaquinbumblebee24]

Onslaught 2/11

It was a beautiful June day, House was riding his motorcycle around the university.  He was thinking through everything that would probably go wrong in the Philippines, what if there was a typhoon?  During his time in the country, there have been three significant storms, one of which was called Monang. He had recalled the thunder;  lightning and the wind.

House hated the wind most; he hated the electric fans at home. Wilson had a fan in the study that he hated. The sound of it and how the fan felt was greeting on his nerves.

He parked the motorcycle at a park near PPTH. The team had no case. It was a frustrating day After Cuddy had browbeaten him into working the clinic.  House was sent plenty of mothers and their kids. The crying got to his nerves; he told a parent that his son wasn’t dying rather unkindly.  Cuddy was called;  she had reprimanded him for being callus in front of the father. As he stormed out of the exam room, Cuddy’s words echoed. “He can’t control himself.”

“Control yourself, Rory.” His mother’s voice played in his ears. House slammed that thought out of his mind. The fact was he couldn't change the fact that he was autistic, even if he wanted to.

“Penny for your thoughts?” House was startled by Wilson’s words. He turned around. “I heard about the incident in the clinic; You alright?” Wilson’s voice resonated in House’s ear.

He sometimes hated that he and Wilson had been best friends before turning their relationship romantic. Wilson knew him very well. House nodded. “It wasn’t fair.” He knew he sounded childish, however, he didn’t care.

“I know.” Wilson just smiled. “So you ran from the hospital to the apartment,  got your bike, rode it.”

“Yes, did Cuddy called you?”

Wilson shook his head.  "No, I heard it from Brenda the clinic nurse.”

“Am I a bad person to say that I want something to go wrong in the Philippines so that I could help?” House asked.

The constant pressure on House to be somewhat normal was taking a toll on him. “We could do Doctors without Borders if you want.”

“You're missing my point, Jimmy.” Said House as he faced Wilson now. “I wished for a distraction, not to create one.”

“Well, yeah. I know what you mean.” Wilson said. “Back to the hospital, or you want to go eat out?”

“Eat out, definitely.”

They loaded the bike to their SUV, It was a Volvo bought by Wilson for its safety features. House thought that it was a boring car.

They headed to dinner at a small pub outside of Princeton. It was an LGBT bar, which was own and operated by Dylan Crandall, House’s friend. They ordered the usual, House loved their Rubin sandwiches, for he could order it dry without pickles. He’d been a picky eater all his life.

“Where’s Dylan?” House asked a waiter.

The waiter sighed. “Crandall is out picking Leona from NYU.”  

House resumed eating his sandwich. Meanwhile, Wilson ordered BLT. He was aware that Wilson was watching him. “What?”

“Is it just me or you looked handsome today; In your gray jeans and a rolling stones shirt? ” Wilson said, as he looked House over.

House rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know, you like objectifying your spouse.” They ate the rest of their meal in comfortable silence. After dinner, they shared coffee crumble cake.

House wondered outside; while Wilson paid the bill. The diagnostician was deep in thought;  as the parking lot of Crandall’s.

Wilson halted his pace. “Greg? You alright?” Wilson knew not to worry about the pacing, it’s just stimming. House nodded, Wilson led him in their car.

Once in the comfort of the car, Wilson asked. What’s on your mind, You know you’re a bit distracted?”

House wanted to lie, but Wilson would deduce it out of him. “I overheard Cameron and Hadley talking about my birthday. Wilson could certainly guest the meaning of that statement. “Don’t talk to them. it’s my business, not yours.” Wilson nodded.

They drove back, while they were in the car headed home Wilson asked, “So, what do you want to do on your birthday?”

House sighed, “Monster jam. Then dinner and drinks with you.”

“Of course, your wish is my command,” Wilson said sardonically. He called. ‘Siri’ the car's assistant. “Are there any monster jam shows near Princeton on the eleventh?” House smiled. Siri answered with an affirmative. In Trenton, five o’clock. Wilson booked two tickets.

House didn’t like surprises because he knew needed for what to expect. Wilson always asked him what he wanted to do on his birthday or what he wanted for Christmas.

They arrived home. As soon as House was inside, he kicked his Nike’s AirMax 90’s and went to his piano. While Wilson went to the study to work on House’s infectious disease speech.

***

The next morning while Wilson was working on paperwork, n there was a knock on the door. It was Cameron and Hadley. Wilson had the urge to roll his eyes.

“Dr. Wilson?” Cameron said.

“What can I do for you, lovely ladies?” Wilson said sardonically.

Cameron looked at Hadley, urging her to speak.  “Its House’s birthday next week,” Hadley said. “And we want to surprise him.”

The woman looked at him strangely. “Why?” Hadley asked.

Wilson sighed again. “He doesn’t like surprises.” Cameron quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t go behind his back,” Wilson warned.

Wilson quirked a brow. “Who are ‘we’?”

It was Cameron who said. “Just the two of us, Foreman doesn’t want to be bothered, and Chase said no right away.”

Wilson sighed. Chase knew that House was autistic; House had informed him because he had a meltdown in front of Chase that first year. He told Chase that House hated birthdays. “Please, don’t bother him, girls.”

The women looked at him strangely. “Why?” Hadley asked.

Wilson sighed again. “He doesn’t like surprises.” Cameron quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t go behind his back,” Wilson warned.

“I don’t understand, Dr. Wilson; House hated surprises?” Cameron asked, fishing now.

Wilson peered the outside his office into House’s. “Cameron—“ He halted when he saw House. Cameron and Hadley peaked at the balcony door. House was pacing and muttering on his side of the balcony. “Cameron, Please, don’t surprise him, now shoo.”

The moment Cameron and Hadley left, Wilson went outside to speak with his partner. “Greg? Everything alright?” Wilson asked, preventing House’s pace. House halted; he fished out a paper from his pocket. “Clinic schedule?”

House nodded. “Yeah, Cuddy came earlier, telling me since I would be leaving in a week and a half, I should just work in the clinic. Yeah, that would work.” The last part was said with his bitter sarcasm.

Wilson knew how much House hated the clinic, and his apprehension wasn’t because it was boring. His spouse was reminded of how inadequate he was when dealing with people. “Well, what do you want to do?”

House sighed. “You know, I hate clinic duty, help me with it, Jimmy.”

Wilson smiled. “Yeah, I’ll talk with Cuddy. You have a case?” House nodded.

*** On the eleventh, Wilson woke House up with his guitar, “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday, dear Greg. Happy birthday to you.” He sang and played the familiar song of greeting.

This was not a surprise for House, who the past 10 years of being together, and six years of marriage;  Wilson always did that for him. “Thank you.” He said automatically.

“I got you something,” Wilson said, handing House a package wrap in blue wrapping paper. “Well, I brought you that cause you might want to play;  while we were on the road.”

House opened the present with gusto. As soon as the gift was opened, he smiled. It was a Martin LX1 travel-size acoustic guitar. “Thank you, Jimmy. I love it, really.” His smile touched his blue eyes.

For someone who hated surprises, the genuine smile was huge. “I made you, your favorite food macadamia nut pancake, go to the breakfast bar before you play your new toy.”

House nodded and left their bedroom with his guitar on his left hand. He sat opposite Wilson on the breakfast bar, they ate in contented silence. After the meal, they went shower.

Wilson had an appointment today in another hospital. Afterward, he and House would be going to Trenton to watch a monster truck rally and dinner at Rafael’s; House’s favorite sit down place.

Wilson drove House to work.

*** House went to his office; after Wilson drop him off at the main entryway to the hospital. He stood near the edge of Wilson and his office’s. Cameron and Hadley were discussing inside; There was a medium-sized box, on top was a chocolate cake.  He finally entered his office.

As soon as he was inside, the two ladies got to their feet and began singing the birthday song. House nearly put his hand in his ear.  The sound greeted on his nerves, like nails in a chalkboard. Unlike Wilson’s tone,  gentle and soothing,  theirs was a little high pitch.

He didn’t saw Chase entered. “Stop it, guys!” He heard Chase yelled, “Look at him. You’re overwhelming him.”

Cameron and Hadley looked at Chase and at House. “What do you know?” Cameron asked, looking at House.

Chase started to speak, however, House had beaten him to it. “I have a sensory processing disorder.” “SPD?” Cameron asked. “That condition is associated with Autism.” House practically saw as the cogs turned in her head.

House ran from his office to the clinic to accomplish his duties, four hours in hell. He texted Wilson. ‘Cameron’s brilliant idea pushed through; I thought you  informed them.’

Then his phone rang,  It was his father. He should turn off his phone. The patient a four-year-old kid with pink eye asked, “Dr. Greg, what’s wrong?”

He loved working with children when the parent wasn’t being insufferable idiots; thinking that their child had ebola if they have simple flu. He answered matter of factly. “My father is bugging me.” His tone invited no questions.

After spending his time in the clinic House went up to his office. A package was laying on his desk. “To House, from Robert Chase,’ it read. House opened it. It was a yoyo, fidget cube and a weighted blanket. He smiled a bit. He won’t thank Chase,  not his style, but he could buy him a lollipop.

At five Wilson entered House’s office. “Hi,” Wilson said shyly.

“Oh, hi,” House said putting his things in his blue backpack; and changing from his lab coat into his jean jacket. “Let’s go!” He said walking to Wilson and giving his spouse a kiss on the lips. “How was your day?” House asked while they walked to their car.

“Boring.”

They headed to watch the monster truck show. While there, Wilson watched House; he looked happy, peaceful even. When his favorite truck came, Gravedigger; House almost squealed in glee. Wilson smiled; He was happy to see Greg happy.

After the show, House and Wilson ate at Rafael’s.

End of Chapter 2