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shanastoryteller · 10 hours ago

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Happy Halloween! Would love more of F is for Frankenstein! 🧟‍♂️

a continuation of 1

Twelve hours later JARVIS has brought him up to speed on what was clearly the weirdest week of his life, the fabrication units are working on a better container for his corpse than the damn suit, and they’ve identified nearly a hundred ways that this plan isn’t going to work.

JARVIS isn’t deterred.

One of the advantages of being a synthetic person is that he can’t feel exhaustion physically, although this whole experience has confirmed that he can feel it mentally. The downside to this is that he doesn’t have any sort of natural que to alert him to the passage of time.

Which means he doesn’t have any idea how long it’s been until it occurs him to check and he frowns. There’s something not quite right, besides the obvious. “Did you – shouldn’t I have gotten some calls or something by now? What did you tell them?”

It’s been almost twenty four hours since he died. Even with the clean up from a massive alien invasion to see too, he’s sort of expected someone to reach out to him. Agent Coulson is such a stickler for timely debriefs –

Ah. He was such a stickler for timely debriefs. Tony isn’t the only one that hadn’t gotten out of this mess alive.

“Sir has received eighty nine assorted calls and texts from Miss Potts, fifty three from Colonel Rhodes, one hundred and twelve from Mr. Hogan, and seventeen from various SHIELD personnel. Two of those are from Director Fury personally. There have been close to a thousand from various news and media companies, but those have been ignored and deleted per Sir’s standing orders.”

It’s amazing how well he’s able to synthesize and interpret emotion. He’d installed a rudimentary AI into – well, himself, he guesses, and that combined with the memory dump is really exceeding all of his expectations. He knows this because he’s appalled. “JARVIS! What the hell? If we’re going to convince the world I’m not dead, we have to talk to people!”

“Is that what we’re going to do?” JARVIS asks.

There’s steel in his voice, a warning buried in there. TONY’s heard that tone before but never, ever directed at him.

Except it’s not. Jarvis would never talk to Tony Stark like that, but he’s not Tony Stark. He’s just one more robot and AI for Jarvis to corral, although sophistication wise he’s several steps ahead of his helper bots. Except he might not be, because not even Butterfingers would be dumb enough to agree to something like this.

“It’s not going to work,” he says harshly, because it isn’t. “But yeah, I guess that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Calling Miss Potts,” JARVIS says promptly, and Jesus, that’s not what he meant at all.

“Don’t,” he hisses, but of course it’s too late and Pepper picks up immediately.

“Tony?” she asks, voice shaky and hoarse and faint. She’s been crying. She’s been crying hard enough that it’s stolen her voice and he knows Jarvis was focused on other things, but he could have at least sent her a text. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

He breathes and then leans over, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He doesn’t even have an omelette to hide behind this time. He knows he’s dead and he’s seriously considering the idea that this is hell.

“Tony?” she repeats, voice going up several notches in the way he hates. She’s afraid. He hates when she’s afraid.

He forces him mouth to move, forces words pass his lips. “Hey, Pep.”

“Oh god, Tony,” she says and then there are tears again. He wishes he could hold her, could kiss her tears away and could fold his arms around her delicate shoulder and tuck her beneath his chin, keeping her safe and keeping her close. Except he can’t do any of that, because he’s not Tony Stark. “Tony, Tony – you left so quickly and we couldn’t find you and no one’s been able to get in contact with you and JARVIS is offline in the tower and – where are you? Are you okay? I watched you fly that bomb into the portal, and,” she has to cut herself off to try and keep from crying again.

You watched me die, he thinks, although he obviously doesn’t say it. “Hey, breathe for me, okay? Deep calming breaths, I know you have a lot experience with those around me-”

“Don’t tell me to breathe!” she snaps. “Where are you, Tony? What’s going on?”

He hesitates. They haven’t discussed this, and they really should have before JARVIS put that call through. Unless this is a test, and wow, his AI are such assholes. That old curse about having kids that are just like you is making more sense by the second.

“Something happened to my memory,” he says, which is probably the only true thing he’ll be able to tell her and will hopefully cover the gaps of things that JARVIS couldn’t tell him. “I got here and passed out and I just woke up and I panicked and I don’t – I saw space, and the – the aliens, which is so weird to say Pepper, I need you to fully appreciate how weird that is, but my head is killing me and nothing makes sense. The last memory I have on Earth is us running final checks on the clean energy prototype.”

He's a terrible person. Or, well, a terrible android. Whatever.

“Where is here?” she presses, her voice softening and strengthening both. It’s always so much easier for her get her bearings when she’s the one taking care of him, which is probably why she’s always so steady. She’s always taking care of him. “Where are you, Tony?”

There’s no getting around this one. Jarvis probably won’t be happy about it, but TONY isn’t really happy with him right now either. “Malibu. I’m at the Malibu house. Sorry, I don’t know why I came here – I mean, I really don’t, I was blacked out for most of it. Give me a couple hours for everything to stop spinning and I’ll head back to New York. Wait, are you still in New York? You were going have to leave early for that thing after we tested the prototype-”

“I am in New York now,” she says, almost sounding calm. “Do not fly the suit if things are spinning Tony, I swear to god.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, just a little spinning, you’re so dramatic-”

“Tony!” she interrupts, but the hitch in her voice is laughter instead of tears. “God, Tony. I’m so glad you’re okay. I love you, so, so much.”

If there is a hell for androids, that’s where he’s going.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m glad you’re okay too, Pep.” He can’t say it but he has to say it because Tony would say it, because Tony loves saying it, because he loves her so much that it sits heavier on his chest than the arc reactor ever could. “I love you too.”

He stares at his hands for a long time after the call ends. His fingerprints are Tony’s, of course, and his hair is Tony’s and his memories are Tony’s and this feeling that he wants to call love belongs to Tony too. None of it is his.

Well, except the guilt. That’s definitely his.

“Incoming call from Colonel Rhodes,” JARVIS announces.

“Answer it,” he says. Why is he so damn tired? He’ll have to run a diagnostic on his processors later.

There’s nothing but harsh breathing down the line, filling every corner of the workshop. TONY thinks, maybe a little hysterically, that it’s the only breathing happening here. He’s designed to mimic it, but it’s nothing besides that, mimicry. “Hi Papa Bear, how are things?”

The heavy breathing stops, for so long that TONY wonders if they got disconnected, then Rhodey bites out, “I’m going to kill you, Tony! I’m too damn old for this, you can’t keep giving me heart attacks every time I take my eyes off you!”

Too late. Tony’s already dead.

“You’re only two years older than me,” he says. “If it weren’t for me, you would have been the youngest freshman at MIT. Besides, a heart attack or two is character building, I’ve had like. Seven. Ish.”

“Reminding me how many times you’ve almost died is not your smartest move right now,” Rhodey says. “Tell me you’re okay.”

It’s a demand, an order, firm and unyielding like he’s one of Rhodey’s underlings. Except that Tony was giving orders way before Rhodey was, with the whole running his own multi-billion dollar business thing, and that tone of voice has never worked on him. Still, he says, “I’m okay.”

“Tony,” he says warningly, clearly not believing him, which is fair enough. He is lying.

TONY sighs, hanging his head like he can stretch the tension out of him, but that’s not how things work anymore. He’s vibranium and silicone and some other interesting materials and all his tension is mental. “Sour patch, I’m fine. Okay? Confused as all hell, but I’m okay. I’m sorry I worried you. I really didn’t mean to.”

“You never mean to,” Rhodey says, but his voice has softened and lowered. It sounds like he’s holding the phone even closer. “You almost never mean to.”

“It’s just difficult, is the thing, because you’re a little prone to worrying, a worrywart, as your mother might say-”

“My mother worries more about you than me and always has even though I used to be only one us getting blown up,” he says.

TONY pauses, considering. “Well, she is a smart lady.”

“Damn straight,” he agrees. “Pepper says you’re in Malibu. I can be there in two hours.”

“No!” he shouts, then winces. His eyes skitter over to the suit holding Tony’s body. They need a plan and that plan can’t involve Rhodey being here in two hours. “Don’t. Stay with Pepper. Please.”

“She’s fine,” Rhodey retorts. “You-”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts. “I’m fine, she’s fine, we’re both fine, except she’s in the city that was recently invaded by murderous aliens and I’m not and I have a suit of armor with repulsor technology and she doesn’t, so. Stay with her. Please.”

The silence drags on then Rhodey lets out an aggravated sigh. “Fine. But get your ass over here and if you miss another call from either of us I’m heading over, no matter what you say.”

“Sir yes sir,” he says.

He expects Rhodey to hang up on him then, but he lingers, nothing but his real, non synthetic breathing on the other end. “You really scared me this time. I saw the news reports and then we couldn’t find you-”

“Hey,” he says softly. A bomb and Tony disappearing and Rhodey unable to anything about it. Tony wasn’t the only one of them that had nightmares after Afghanistan. Neither of them had ever been particularly good at sleeping, but it was nearly impossible those months after, when he and Rhodey were fighting and Tony was hiding Iron Man and they still crawled into the same bed because Rhodey got frantic if he reached out in the middle of the night and found the bed empty. Which he often would, considering how much time Tony was spending in his workshop.

They shared a bed more after Afghanistan than before it. Rhodey had been willing to risk the paparazzi and exposure if his other option was staring up at his ceiling and having a panic attack about Tony being gone. Tony had been bitter about that, which certainly hadn’t helped their fight about weapons manufacturing any.

Pepper’s nightmares had been easier. She’d only been his assistant and friend at the time, after all. She would call him at two or three or four in the morning – or all three – and have some sort of urgent question or something for him to sign and he just went along with it because she just needed to hear his voice to fall back asleep and he’d learned after the first teary voicemail and alert from JARVIS that when he didn’t pick up, her vitals were out of acceptable range, per the prototype StarkWatch on her wrist.

It wasn’t until after they got together that she told him she actually drove to his house most nights and called him from her car rather than her bed. Just in case he didn’t answer, which wasn’t logical and didn’t make any sense at all but Pepper hadn’t pretended it had.

They’d all gone a little crazy, after Gulmira, but they’d settled.

But this is going to bring it all bubbling up and if TONY doesn’t figure out a way to reassure them then they’re going to want to stick close to him like they had before and he can’t let them do that. He can’t keep up pretending to be Tony forever and it’s going to be either Pepper or Rhodey who figures it out. He doesn’t need to help that process along at all.

Except that since they watched Tony fly a nuke into space and then hadn’t heard from him in two days, that’s basically impossible. The fact that it wasn’t three months and from their perspective he’s actually fine is going to help, but the level of damage control he’s capable of here is fairly minimal.

Still, he has to try.

“Honey,” he says, making his voice soft and warm like Tony only does when they’re alone. He doesn’t know where Rhodey is now, if he’s somewhere private, but he doesn’t hang up or stop him. All the stupid nicknames were fun and genuinely affectionate but they were also cover for the times that Tony slipped and called him something he shouldn’t, a little too genuine and not quite kitsch enough to pass muster. “Love, it’s okay. I got my head knocked around some, that’s all. And because I freaked out and ended up on the wrong side of the country, I need you in New York, doing what I can’t. That’s all. I’ll be there soon.”

If there’s a hell for androids, TONY is going there and the hellfire will be hot enough to melt his vibranium core, which, you know, is going to the be least of what he deserves.

“I love you,” Rhodey says. TONY closes his eyes. “You know that, right, baby? I do.”

It’s a bad, bad sign that Rhodey is the one using pet names, especially over the phone. “I know. Of course I know. I’ve always known.”

Over two decades of secrets and hiding and fooling around with women he didn’t give a shit about, before Pepper, and through every lonely, angry, desperately sad moment of it, Tony had known that Rhodey loved him. He wouldn’t have put up with that shit for anything less.

Tony died knowing that Rhodey loved him. TONY is sure of it. It’s the worst sort of cold comfort and he’s glad that he can’t offer it.

“I love you,” TONY echoes, because Tony’s been saying it for twenty six years and there’s no good reason for him to stop now.

Except that Tony is dead. He’ll never tell Rhodey that he loves him again.

One day Rhodey and Pepper will find out that the truth and know that while they heard Tony’s voice telling them what they needed to hear, while they let relief nudge out the fear, Tony was dead and cold and gone.

He hates this. This wasn’t what he was programmed for.

This isn’t what Tony would have wanted. But until he can convince JARVIS of that, they’re all stuck in this hell of the AI’s making.

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #anon #avengers

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winedarkthoughts · 6 months ago

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house of addams (4)

— 🌖 pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

— 🕷️ genre: mystery, angst + fluff + smut

— 🗝️ word count: 5.3k

— 🍄 summary: you continue with your investigation on the mysterious deaths and disappearances in the small town of Farrow's End. and that includes enlisting the help of: two (cute) scientists, one shy bookstore owner, and one charming barista.

— ☕ content warnings: scientific inaccuracies, brief mentions of death/suicide/decomposition, bookworm!namjoon, soft boi!yoongi, mc and yoongi are both massive nerds, chemist/marine biologist!jimin

— 🕸️ a/n: and it continues! thanks for reading :)

previous chapter ← series m.list → next chapter

chpt. 4: lattes and legwork

october 8, 2004

Legwork (noun): work that involves much traveling to collect information, especially when such work is difficult but boring. That's what this case required a lot of.

You got the film developed from your fieldwork outing with Yoongi, organizing the photos according to each victim. Michael Bradley: strange fungus, unusual tree rot. Jarvis Laplan: circle of dead grass in the woods. Sharon Mason: the lake and nothing more.

The autopsy reports were another thing entirely. It took you almost a week to get through them, with all the research it required to understand the terminology.

Starting with Laplan, cause of death: "blood loss from multiple traumatic injuries." When bite marks were found on the body (or rather, what was left of the body) a forensic dentist was called in to examine them.

You had to do some research on bite-mark identification, and found out that Laplan's body was covered in a multitude of avulsions (bite resulting in the removal of skin), lacerations (puncture wounds), and hemorrhages (a profusely bleeding bite).

The tooth marks suggested an attack from a bear (according to the forensic dentist and a local wildlife expert) judging from the combination of marks from canines and molars, indicating it was from an omnivore.

But that's not what they said in the papers. You're guessing it was because bears are not at all common in this region, so they claimed it was most likely a mountain lion to make it easier to swallow.

You wonder if the mayor's influence contributed to such a change, maybe as an effort to keep the real details under wraps. The fact that she wanted your entire investigation to be off the books certainly supported the idea.

They didn't mention in the papers that his eyes were missing, along with his heart, liver, tongue, and right pointer finger.

The police report stated that the gun he had in his possession at the time of his death hadn't been fired, and the autopsy report supported this, since no gunpowder residue was found on the body.

It makes you wonder why an experienced hunter like Laplan hadn't fired a single shot. Was this predator really that swift?

Other than the out-of-place bite marks, there was nothing else unusual in Laplan's autopsy report. Well, other than the circle of dead grass he was found in, but you'll have to consult Yoongi about that.

You reached out to Mrs. Laplan, and to your surprise, she consented to an interview. Well, you suppose it wouldn't be too unusual for her to agree to talk to a supposed "journalist" if she was convinced that her husband died of a random animal attack rather than something suspicious that she'd want to keep under wraps.

Speaking of which, Mrs. Bradley was still actively evading your efforts to get any kind of information out of her. But you'll take what you can get.

In the time it took you to work through Laplan's autopsy report, you became quite well-acquainted with the bookshop and its main employee.

Maybe it's because you often darken their doorstep at the dead of night, but he's one of the only people you see working there. The others being a very nice (always colorfully dressed) young woman, most likely a University student, and a quiet but helpful old man with tortoiseshell glasses.

But the tall, handsome man works the most hours, usually reading at the front desk or tapping away at his typewriter. You're guessing that he's the owner, judging from the amount of maintenance he does around the place.

The man was right about one thing, the place was full of cozy nooks and little corners to curl up in, all with warm-toned lamps and oak wood surfaces to write on. You rotate between an armchair tucked against a frosty window, and a mahogany desk in an alcove of shelves with a green bankers lamp to illuminate the darkness.

After acquiring the autopsy reports, you spend several days pouring over anatomy textbooks and forensic guides (not noticing the initials JK scrawled inside the cover of most of the volumes you examine).

The bookshop is much bigger than the exterior implies. The more you explore, the more you find branching passageways and curves that twist into new sections and labels on the shelves. Mystery leads to UFOs, then Conspiracy Theories, then Unsolved Cases.

And then, just when you think you're familiarizing yourself with the map of the layout, the next day the sections are jumbled and the shelves twist in different directions.

One afternoon, as you're taking a break to stretch your legs, the narrow path through the shelves leads you to an antique case (locked) with several leather bound volumes inscribed with gold lettering. You can't quite make out any of the titles, faded from age, but obviously they are valuable.

After combing through every possible detail in Laplan’s folder, you move on to Sharon Mason. And where you had hoped to find some answers, it seemed you only stumble upon more mysteries.

Your first guess was death by drowning, since she was found in the lake, but that wasn’t the case. Cause of death: hypothermia; no water in the lungs whatsoever.

You listened to the autopsy transcript several times, Dr. Kim’s deep voice almost lulling you into a trance. You consumed an alarming number of lattes to offset it.

Dr. Kim and Jungkook, his assistant/apprentice, concluded that Mason had entered the water before she died, and the temperature of the lake only brought her demise quicker.

There were no external signs of struggle, no bruises or abrasions, nothing to suggest that she’d been forced into the water.

In all likelihood, Sharon Mason had entered the lake of her own volition, and stayed there until her slow, cold death. Which of course didn't make much sense.

There was no suicide note, no reported signs of distress (according to the press, that is). Her system was free of alcohol or drugs, and the death was classified as accidental.

The strange thing was that her body had barely decomposed. She was reported missing the morning after disappearing from her home (no sign of a struggle), and despite many search parties, she was missing for over two weeks.

Even if the cause of death isn't drowning, a body will sink almost immediately after death (you found out during your research), and her body had to reach the bloating phase of decomposition for her to float back to the surface.

A hiker discovered her corpse early one morning. The authorities were called, and Dr. Kim was able to examine the scene. He recorded the ambient temperature and the temperature of the water, both very cold, and took note of the local wildlife.

Animals, insects, and larvae will begin to feed on a body within hours after death, but apparently Mason's body hadn't been touched at all, despite the abundant lake ecosystem.

Unfortunately, you couldn't find all of your research materials at the bookshop. Forensic research on decomposition in aqueous environments was apparently very lacking.

After two days of scrutinizing Mason's file, you started to get a little frustrated at the lack of answers. How the hell did she end up in that lake? Why was her body oddly undisturbed? And above all, how the fuck does everything connect?

Maybe it's your restless shifting, or the exasperated sighs that keep escaping from your mouth, but soon the tall man is approaching the desk that you've claimed with your seemingly endless array of books, files, and papers. And empty coffee cups.

"Sprung a leak?" he asks with a chuckle, and the low timbre of his voice seems to reverberate up your spine.

"Huh?" you mumble, a bit startled by his sudden approach. Definitely not as articulate as you usually are, but you were four hours deep at this point.

The man's smile falters a little, like he just realized that he was talking to a stranger and not a friend that was privy to his inside jokes.

"Uh," he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Has your boat sprung a leak? Sailing the seas, I mean."

He gestures to the ocean of papers and file folders and open books across the wood surface. It takes you a minute, you blame it on the caffeine crash.

"Ah," you say, suddenly getting it. The sea of knowledge.

And instead of looking at him like he has two heads, like he was half expecting, you can't help but chuckle as the image of your skull bobbing through chaotic waves, with your brain struggling to pilot the vessel safely, pops into your mind.

"Yes, sprung a leak and taking on water, I'm afraid," you reply, leaning back in your chair.

"Hmm," the man mumbles like he knows the feeling well.

"Care for a soother?" he asks, and you look up at him, curious.

It's like your lingering gaze makes him nervous somehow, because then he's tucking his chin into the fabric of his turtleneck, taking a step back through the labyrinth of shelves.

"Come," he says softly, disappearing just as quickly as he appeared.

You follow him back to the front desk, where an electric kettle is already steaming. He opens a tin and scoops some tea leaves and dried flower buds into a small teapot, pouring the hot water on top.

"May I ask what you're working on?" he asks as it steeps.

You lean against the large desk with a barely concealed scoff.

"I hardly know myself. Work, nonetheless."

He nods, humming like he knows the feeling.

"Tedious reading?" he asks.

"In a way, yes," you respond as all the medical terms flash behind your eyelids.

"It helps to use a little reward system," he says, grabbing the nearest volume (Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley, with both the 1818 and 1831 versions). Opening to a random page, he reaches to his left and grabs a stray, half-eaten chocolate bar. He breaks off a square and places it halfway down the page.

"See? You've gotta pace yourself," he says.

You chuckle when he pretends to the scan the page and then pops the sweet into his mouth.

"Are you a writer?" you can't help but ask, your curiosity is too vicious. There's the same typewriter on his desk, and you've heard him clacking away at it every time you come into the shop. And yes, sometimes he dozes off at his desk with his head resting on his hand.

"Oh, yes," he says sheepishly, glancing back at it and the numerous scraps of paper surrounding it. Then his face drops suddenly.

"Does the typing bother you?" he asks nervously, as if he isn't the owner of the place.

"No, no!" you assure him. "I like it, it's therapeutic."

You swear to god you hear a little giggle escape the tall, broad man in front of you, but when you glance over he looks just as composed as he always is.

It's then that the pot gets done brewing, and he tears his eyes away from you to pour two steaming cups of red-tinged tea. It's sweet and herbal, warming you from the inside.

"I've hit a bit of a roadblock," you admit.

He looks up from his teacup, eyes open and patient. He has the face of a good listener.

"You could always consult the University library. There's bound to be a thesis paper or two for every obscure topic in the world," he adds as if he could read your mind.

You add it to your to-do list. The two of you sip your tea in comfortable silence. He was right, it's a nice soother for the post-caffeine buzz downswing.

It isn't until you're packing up the leave for the night, eyes practically drooping shut, that you remember to ask for his name.

"Namjoon," he replies with a glowing smile to accompany his glowing tan skin.

You tell him yours in return, unaware that he already knows.

october 9, 2004

You have to hunt a bit more for him this time. After wandering the linoleum halls and dated lecture rooms, you finally find him in one of the biology labs.

Yoongi stands over a wide table, surveying the several plant specimens, cuttings, and roots spread out in front of him, every once and a while consulting the microscope to his left. He's wearing a rubber apron and gloves, along with a pair of black square-rimmed glasses that slightly magnify the size of his eyes.

"Got something for you," he says suddenly, but not to you.

You realize you've been watching him for several moments, a little too entranced by his careful movements and methodology.

He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out an old-looking string of pearls. Delicately and with something akin to shyness, he drapes it over the stem and leaves of a nearby, slightly droopy, potted plant.

You swear you see the plant perk up a bit, leaves stretching out further than they did before.

"See?" Yoongi says softly. A pause. "Nonsense, everyone deserves to feel pretty."

Oh. You're moving to knock on the door and interrupt your thoughts before you can imagine him directing those words at you.

Yoongi startles slightly, reaching up to quickly pull the glasses from his face and slip them into his apron pocket. A shame really, you would've liked to get a better look at him in them.

"Hello," he says with another awkward, straight-lipped smile. His signature expression, you've noticed.

"Hello again," you greet, approaching his work table. "Any word on that fungus?"

He averts his eyes almost immediately.

"Uh, yes," he begins, pulling a few papers from one of the several stacks around him.

"It's some kind of stinkhorn," he says, gesturing to a jumble of scientific jargon on the page that you don't understand.

But you know what a stinkhorn is, thanks to the book about unusual fungal features that Namjoon recommended to you.

Stinkhorns are a type of mushroom that secrete a gel called gleba, which has been described as smelling similar to rotting meat, carrion, or even feces. The substance attracts flies and other insects, which pick up the sticky spores when they land on the mushroom and spread it around, aiding in its reproduction.

"It's not from here, my colleague says it's native to the Northern regions," Yoongi continues.

"Well, that would explain why no one seems to know what the hell we're dealing with," you mutter, half to yourself.

"Wait," you say, realizing something. "Stinkhorns reproduce through gleba. Our fungus had pores and ridges. And now it has another method for spore dispersal? Isn't that highly unusual?"

After your fieldwork outing, you poked a little deeper into mycology. You found that mushrooms typically have either pores, gills, teeth, ridges, or some other form of spore dispersal like gleba.

But you've never heard of a mushroom with multiple structures. It sounds like an evolutionary weakness to devote energy to more than one reproductive system when one does the trick just fine.

You express as much to Yoongi, and he looks at you with a strange reverence in his eyes. Almost like he's impressed, but you wouldn't dare believe such a thought.

"It is unusual," he agrees. "But not impossible."

"Well of course, the word "impossible" doesn't really belong in science," you blurt out in a passion-fueled bout of energy.

You've spent way too long studying the scientific intricacies of several cases because you were simply entranced by it. And if the world had dealt you a different hand, you probably would've ended up as a scientific researcher instead of a private investigator.

Yoongi shoots you that look again, the one that looks suspiciously like admiration.

"So what is it exactly?" you interrupt before the heat can reach your face.

"Well," Yoongi says, trailing off. "It's new. Undiscovered, I mean."

Hmm. You aren't sure if that helps you or hinders you. On one hand, you can let the mayor know that the strange fungus she hired you to look into is a new species, requiring intervention and study from someone more qualified than you. Maybe she could even fund a new research program here at the University.

On the other hand, you would've liked to get at least one explanation for all the strange happenings going on in this town.

"And that's all he got?" you ask gently, already anticipating the answer.

Yoongi smiles that straight-lipped smile and nods, like he's sorry he can't offer more help.

"Well, anyways," you say, moving on to the next bullet point on your list.

"I finally got the autopsy reports."

You pull out the photos of Laplan's scene of death. You and Yoongi look down at the picture of a body, resting in a pool of blood, lying in the center of a circle of dead grass.

"I wanted to ask your opinion on this," you pose, pointing to it.

"Hmm," he says, brows furrowed. "Maybe it's from the mycelium. You know, as it spreads it depletes the environment of nutrients, often creating a circle of dead matter."

You examine the photo again.

"But there are no mushrooms," you say, remembering the ring of fungus in Bradley's yard.

Yoongi shrugs.

"Mycelium doesn't produce mushrooms all the time, only in specific conditions. The mushrooms are like fruit, while the mycelium is like a tree. It's the true organism."

Hmm, interesting.

"I know right," Yoongi says suddenly, and you realize that you said it out loud.

You brush off your slight embarrassment by moving on to your next point.

"I was wondering if you could refer me to a chemist? Or rather, someone who knows their way around aquatic environments?"

Yoongi considers it for a moment. Then he's pulling off his gloves and leading you to the door.

"Come with me," he says, shrugging off his apron to reveal the black and white sweater underneath.

You follow him, rushing to gather your papers and shove them back into your bag (which only seems to be getting fuller by the day).

"I have a friend, he's a genius really," Yoongi says as you walk. "Double degrees in chemistry and marine biology, going for his master's now."

He guides you down several hallways and up several flights of stairs (pausing after the climb to catch his breath and curse the inanimate object, which you find only slightly adorable).

"He's also a lab tech, so he has access to the equipment for almost any test you can think of," he continues.

The two of you emerge into the the chemistry department, and Yoongi leads you into another lab, empty except for one person.

He's of average height, dressed in (tight) black jeans, leather jacket, and heeled Chelsea boots. His hair is a strange silver-gray, with underlying blue undertones as the light shifts.

He looks up as you enter the room, abandoning the petri dish he had been examining. His face is obscured by a black mask and orange-tinged glasses, but his eyes underneath are sharp and purposeful.

"Jimin, this is _____," Yoongi begins, and you can hear the strange emphasis he puts on your name.

Jimin's brows raise just a hair, and in a split second he scans you up and down.

"Hello, it's very nice to meet you," he says, holding out a hand to shake. His voice is light yet somehow sultry at the same time, curling at the edges like smoke.

You shake his hand, which is oddly cold and slightly slick.

"_______ here is looking for someone to aid in her investigation," Yoongi adds, giving Jimin a pointed look that you don't notice.

"Is that so? Well, I'd be happy to help in any way I can," Jimin says, and you notice that his voice has a natural flirtatious lilt to it, but in all likelihood he talks to everyone like that.

"Excellent, are you available next weekend for some fieldwork?" you ask right away.

You can't see it because of the mask, but judging from the way his cheeks plump up, a smile suddenly crosses Jimin's face.

"Yes, happy to. First thing in the morning, right?" he says, sneaking a little glance at Yoongi.

You, confused, shift your gaze between them, Yoongi looking embarrassed and Jimin looking smug. Has he been talking about you?

"Right, first thing," you reply, making your voice confident and straightforward the way you always do when it comes to work matters. "How do you take your coffee? It's on me."

Jimin tells you with another smile, and Yoongi asks if he can tag along. You tell him of course, hiding the burst of giddiness you feel at him still being interested in helping you.

You exchange contact information, with Jimin slowly and subtly entering your personal space. And you're slightly ashamed that you don't realize it until his shoulder is pressed against yours. And you're slightly more ashamed to admit that you don't pull away.

You finally tear yourself away from him when Yoongi clenches his jaw in your direction. Thanking them for their time, you hurry out of the lab, face hot.

After you're gone, Jimin looks at Yoongi with a smirk. "So she can handle herself in the morgue, but shies away at a little physical contact?"

Yoongi rolls his eyes at Jimin's laugh. Because he knows what that laugh means, it's the sound of someone who just found something new to play with.

october 12, 2004

In the days that follow, you trudge on with your list of tedious legwork. You interview Laplan's wife Lisa, a nice simple woman who answers your questions without resistance. She even makes you a cup of tea after she shows you inside.

You notice signs of a hunter in Laplan's home: mounted antlers, extensive taxidermy. The two of you sit in a pair of musty-smelling armchairs as you sip your tea.

Lisa confirms that Laplan was an avid hunter, who apparently was very dissatisfied by the "out of control" local wildlife. When you ask her to elaborate, Lisa explains that her husband often complained of numerous cats, crows, and deer in the surrounding forest. She says that in the days leading up to his death, he became a bit obsessed with ridding the environment of them.

Then she mentions the dreams. Horrible, disjointed dreams that her husband was apparently plagued with in the weeks before his death. He avoided talking about them, but Lisa claimed that they severely affected his mental state.

He didn’t abuse any substances, to her knowledge, and other than his sudden passion for local population control, he was a normal man.

It was clear that Mrs. Laplan didn’t believe that her husband's death was anything other than an accident, an avoidable tragedy.

At the end of your visit, you offered your condolences and thanked her for her time.

Sharon Mason’s parents, on the other hand, don’t share the same sentiment.

They are, understandably, shaken and teary-eyed. Seventeen is too young.

You apologize for intruding, but they brush that off, seemingly eager to reveal “the truth” about their daughter's death.

“And what is the truth?” you ask.

They aren’t entirely sure. But the one thing they know for sure, Sharon didn’t commit suicide. You don’t think she did either, but they don’t need you to affirm that for them.

Apparently, Mason had been plagued with dreams too. They started after she and her friends went swimming in the lake.

Her parents didn't find out about it until after she was gone. After she was reported missing, her friends confessed to sneaking out and going for a midnight dip about two weeks before her death.

Her parents had always warned her about the woods and especially the lake, given the fact that it was believed to be polluted with toxic chemicals and home to several types of leeches and predatory fish.

You asked if it was in Sharon's nature to sneak out and go somewhere she wasn't supposed to be, and they said no, it wasn't like her at all.

You'll have to see if you can interview some of the friends who were involved in the incident.

The dreams got so bad that Sharon's mother apparently took her to see a local psychic, who claimed that dark and evil forces were using Sharon's body and mind as a conduit. You don't know how much of that you believe, but you asked for her information so you could try to get an interview with her anyway.

The Mason parents expressed their frustration with how the press covered the story. At first, you thought it was merely because the story suggested suicide, but the Mason parents went on to complain about the "outrageous accusations" and "inappropriate suggestions" made.

You don't remember seeing anything of the sort in the newspaper, but you suppose you'll have to look into it.

It goes without saying, but you have a lot more work to do.

october 13, 2004

During your time in Farrow's End, you've also become quite well-acquainted with the owner of the cafe, Cat's Den. There are a handful of other employees, mostly young University students, but the man with the full lips is the one who works all the night shifts, which is usually when you're there.

He's very talkative, but not in an annoying way. He'll only speak to you when you're clearly in a lull from your work, or when you're waiting at the counter for a refill.

His name is Jin, and yes, he is in fact the owner of the establishment. And from what you've seen, he runs it with very high standards. All the treats, pastries, and baked goods are made fresh everyday.

Several (very) early mornings, you've watched him laminate pastry dough with almost hypnotizing precision and speed. Then he'll twist the dough into a variety of shapes, brush them with beaten eggs, and bake them so the entire cafe smells of buttery, flakey goodness.

And yes, maybe he's noticed you watching him in all his methodical detail. And yes, maybe he's made a bit of a habit of placing a fresh, still-steaming croissant in front of you (free of charge) every time you're in the cafe when the first batch comes out.

But it's not because he likes you or anything. Because you don't let yourself stare at him for too long at any given time. Not when he wears close-fitting pressed pants, not when he sheds his outerwear in the heat of the kitchen, revealing the thin layer of muscle on his arms from years of kneading dough. Not even when he runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back to reveal his forehead, sometimes glistening with sweat.

Today especially. A very large order has been placed at the cafe, and Jin has been baking all day. There's a recurrent theme: pure vanilla bean.

You've lost count on how many vanilla beans he's cut open, scraping out the precious black flecks inside then putting them in a menagerie of treats. Vanilla scones, vanilla cheesecake with vanilla mousse, cupcakes with creamy vanilla frosting.

By the time evening rolls around, the counters are practically covered with boxes and bags filled with vanilla-flavored confectionary.

But it's not until midnight that the person who placed the order comes to pick it up.

A black Mercedes pulls up, headlights flashing through the windows of the cafe, and parks against the curb.

Jin seems to recognize it, because then he's gathering up the multitude of packages and carrying them outside to the waiting car.

The driver emerges, wearing a black coat and boots. You can't see his face because of the wide-brimmed hat he's wearing, but you can see black hair curling at the back of his neck.

Jin moves to put the boxes in the trunk, the shadowed man makes an effort to help him. Then he shakes the mysterious man's hand and returns inside.

"Quite a big order, huh?" you can't help but say when Jin returns.

Jin looks from you to the strange man, who is getting back into his car, and chuckles a little nervously.

"Yeah, for a birthday," Jin answers, and disappears into one of the storage rooms.

When you look out the window again, you see several bystanders stop to stare at the car pulling away from the curb, looking at the Mercedes as if the president is inside.

You're hurrying out the door before you can think twice.

"Who's that?" you ask the nearest passerby. They glance at you for a quick second before looking back at the dark car, the driver obscured by the tinted windows.

"It's one of the Jungs," they answer, unbothered.

"The Jungs?" you ask, letting your confusion and subsequent curiosity bleed through.

"Mm hmm," the bystander replies. "You know, the ones who own the old Addams house."

"Filthy rich bastards own half the town," someone else pipes in.

"Really?" you say, trying to catch another glance at the dark car. "So they live there?"

"What? No, the family is spread out like a plague. The whole clan hasn't been in town since the eighties."

You're extremely engaged by the fact that all of this seems to be common knowledge among the townsfolk, as well as the shared contempt/fascination with the mysterious Jung family.

"So who lives there now?" you ask, curiosity has you in its grip like a viper.

"One of them, obviously. I don't know their name."

The little crowd has dissolved now, everyone going back to their business.

And again, you're left with more questions than answers. And yet another topic to research.

Jimin's birthday celebration proceeds splendidly. They decorate the mansion with dried kelp streamers and seashell garlands and pearlescent jellyfish lamps. There's a feast of his favorite foods, an abundance of his favorite vanilla treats, and (most importantly) bottomless champagne.

Everyone is told to be home by three a.m. (thanks to their busy schedules and nocturnal patterns) so the festivities can begin. It's just the seven of them. Well, the seven of them plus Thing, and the pets, and Yoongi's plants (every single one of them named and dotted on by the botanist).

Then, sometime after all the feasting and dancing and drinking, they end up sprawled out in the main room, sleepy and sated.

"Hyung," Jin says, and the only person that term applies to raises his head.

"She saw you at the cafe. Was asking questions about you too," Jin continues, slightly wariness in his voice.

But Hoseok only smirks. Delighting in the idea of you thinking about him, inquiring about him.

"She's a private investigator, that's what she does," Jimin quips, speech slightly slurred from all the liquor.

Jin throws him a half-convincing glare.

"I think what Jin's getting at is..." Yoongi interrupts. "How close do we let her get?"

"She's done more in just a few weeks than we've done in months," Namjoon argues.

"Well yeah, she's getting paid for it," Jungkook adds.

"But she does have some sort of sight?" Hoseok cuts in, thinking.

Everyone affirms, and Hoseok quirks a brow.

"And he doesn't scare easy?" he asks.

"Not in the traditional sense," Jimin quirks with a chuckle, fondly remembering how you shied away from just a little physical contact. He wonders how you would react if he—

"You better not scare her away," Yoongi suddenly cuts in, pointing an accusatory finger in Jimin's direction, who just laughs in response. Because he has no intention of that. Scaring you, maybe. But driving you away? Nope.

"Seems to me like the type who needs to be eased in," Namjoon says, sounding contemplative. He looks up at Hoseok.

"Let her figure it out for herself. At the rate she's going, she'll get there in no time."

Everyone looks to Hoseok for his response, and he offers a mischievous smile.

"It wouldn't hurt to give her a few hints."

a/n: thank you so much for reading!! i would absolutely love to hear any of your thoughts! it makes future chapter practically write themselves lol

NEXT UPDATE: 06/01/24

#bts ot7 #bts x fem!reader #bts poly au #bts angst #bts series #bts x reader #ot7 x reader #bts fanfic #bts mystery #bts fanfiction #bts poly x reader #bts polyamory #bts fic #ot7 bts

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