#like my priority was making sure there were no broken printers or a back up of photo orders

[unamused-kookaburra]

I overheard a beloved co-worker complaining to a manger about the state of the service desk after the weekend and I closed on sunday so I was worried she was mad at me and I messed something up and when I checked the online orders I saw someone had bought the book 'the courage to be disliked' and it was just so perfect it really annoyed me.

[imagineteamfreewill]

A Good Kind of Not Okay

Title: A Good Kind of Not Okay

Pairing: Nanny!Reader x Director!Sam

Word Count: 4,414

Warnings: A little bit of pining

Square Filled: Director!Sam

Summary: Sam is a single dad who also happens to be one of the world’s most famous movie directors. When he struggles to care for his daughter like he wants, he hires the reader to help care for his pride and joy.

A/N: This is a submission for the 2020-2021 SPN AU Bingo (@spnaubingo​). Please let me know what you think. Enjoy!

X

_______________

Sam was running late. Again. Filming was behind schedule for the third time that week, and as the director, he had to stay until everything was finished. Of course, he was part of the reason why the filming was behind schedule. He couldn’t help it. Sam was a perfectionist, and he always had been. That’s what got him hired.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Sam said. He glanced down the street and then turned. “I’m on my way, I should be there in ten minutes.”

“Mr. Winchester, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be there soon.” He ended the call before the center director could chew him out any further. He felt bad enough as it was, he didn’t need more reminders and warnings about being late. He really did try to keep a normal schedule, and he always made arrangements if the filming was scheduled to go late into the night or early in the morning, but there were some things that were out of his control.

The roads were blessedly empty and Sam pulled into the parking lot in just over five minutes. He wasn’t normally one to speed, especially if Elsie was in the car with him, but it was times like these when he was thankful for the extra horsepower. The Charger was the last big thing he’d bought for himself before his daughter was born and he rarely took advantage of its capabilities. Dean constantly nagged him about it.

Climbing out of the car, he grabbed his phone from the cupholder and rushed inside where he knew Elsie was waiting. The day care was completely deserted except for her and the director, who was sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, alternating between watching the front doors and the small child perched at the plastic drawing table beside her. Even the lights in the back playrooms and the office were off.

“Mr. Winchester, I’m glad you made it here okay.”

“Daddy!” Elsie bolted from her chair, abandoning her backpack and leaving the crayons to roll off the table and onto the floor. Sam crouched to scoop her up as soon as she was in arm’s reach, and his daughter immediately wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his shoulder. 

“Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmured, and he cradled the back of her tiny head in his hand. He still couldn’t get over how tiny she was, even at four years old.

The director stood from her seat, clipboard and radio in hand. She gave him a scolding look. “Mr. Winchester—”

“Please, call me Sam,” he interrupted. “And I know, you can’t keep waiting with her. It won’t happen again.”

Her expression turned withering. “That’s becoming a catchphrase for you. I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, but Elsie can’t keep coming to Gilded Hearts after the end of this week. We have very strict policies about parent pick-up and you signed a contract agreeing to uphold them. You’ve broken that contract multiple times this week alone, and I can’t count the number of times you’ve broken it otherwise.”

Sam frowned, shifting Elsie in his arms so he could pick up her backpack with one hand. “You’re kicking her out? Please, don’t kick her out just because I messed up a few—”

“It’s been more than a few times,” the director pointed out. “If it had been an emergency, it would be a different story, but we can’t keep staying late with her because you can’t seem to be able to pick her at the time you agreed upon when Elsie first started coming here.”

Lifting her head, Elsie looked up at Sam with big, hazel eyes. She’d perfected his own puppy dog expression solely to use on Sam and her Uncle Dean, and Sam’s heart sunk. The guilt settled in and suddenly all he could think about was how selfish he’d been. He’d been putting work in front of his daughter, something he promised he’d never do, and now he had to face the consequences.

“Okay. You said the end of this week?” Sam asked, sighing. The director nodded and gave him a polite, albeit tight, smile. “Alright. Thanks for staying with her. Have a good night.”

The director waved goodbye to Elsie, then watched in silence as Sam carried her out to the car. It was still sunny out and Elsie squinted, whining a little when he stepped out of the shade provided by the enormous oak trees that guarded the day care’s entrance.

“I know. Your sunglasses are in the car, honey.” Sam dug his keys back out of his pocket and unlocked the backseat, then carefully situated Elsie in her carseat. The tiny pair of Minnie Mouse sunglasses were right where they always were, and once his daughter was buckled in, he handed them to her so she could slip them on. She did so immediately.

“Are you sad, Daddy?” she asked. Elsie reached out a hand, grabbing onto Sam’s coat before he could back out of the doorway and go around to the driver’s side.

“I’m not sad, babygirl. Daddy’s just tired from work. Are you hungry? You ready to go home and eat?”

After a moment, Elsie nodded and let go of his coat. Sam shut the door and let out a long sigh as he went around the back of the car. His head was pounding and he was exhausted from shooting in the heat all day, but getting food in his little girl’s stomach and making sure that she got everything else she needed before bedtime had to be his priority right now. Then he would have to figure out where she was going to spend her days after the week was over. She couldn’t exactly come to work with him on an R-rated movie set. The impending migraine would have to wait.

_______________

“What’s your name?” the little girl asked, and you raised your eyebrows at her for a brief moment, then crouched down to her level.

“I’m Y/N. What’s yours?”

She held onto the door handle with both hands, swinging her weight on it as she stared at you. “I’m not supposed to tell strangers my name.”

“That’s very smart,” you replied, smiling. “Is your daddy home?”

“Who’s asking?”

A laugh almost slipped out at the cliché response, but you carefully held it back. You started to answer when a very tall, very handsome man in a suit stepped up behind the little girl in the tutu.

Nodding, you stood and held out your hand for him to shake. “I’m Y/N, from the nanny agency. Are you Mr. Winchester?”

The man smiled politely and shook your hand before reaching down to scoop up Elsie. He held her on one hip and stepped aside, gesturing for you to come in. He didn’t even seem to be bothered that his shirt and jacket were now rumpled from being squashed by the little girl and her very fluffy tutu, nor did he seem phased when she reached out to hold onto the tie around his neck.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. Please, call me Sam. I’m glad you could come on such short notice.”

“It’s not a problem,” you replied. You glanced around the entryway of Sam’s enormous house, a little surprised. It was grand, but compared to some of the others in the neighborhood, this house seemed more… lived in. Turning around, you smiled politely. “Is there anything you wanted to ask me that wasn’t in my file? I know that they already sent over my resume, references, and bio, but there’s always something that people want to know.”

Sam gave you a once-over before closing the door. “You’re a live-in nanny, right?” he asked. You nodded. “I don’t have any questions, but how about you check out the guest room before you decide if you want to stay? The last nanny we tried had some issues with it.”

“Issues?” you repeated, suddenly a bit more hesitant, and Sam gestured for you to follow him up the stairs. You did, glad that you’d left your suitcase in the car. The staircase was immense and it would’ve been a pain to drag it up all the way.

As you walked, Elsie chattered to Sam, who glanced at her and replied when necessary. You couldn’t hear everything they said, but it was clear that he cared deeply for her. Every nod, every thoughtful reply, every second of eye contact he offered her reassured you that this would be a good family to work with for your next position. It would certainly be better than your last one, that was for sure.

When you finally arrived at the opposite end of the hallway, Sam pushed open a door and gestured for you to enter first. You did, taking a look around. The “guest room” was more like a deluxe suite and you had to remind yourself not to let your mouth hang open as you took it all in. It made you wonder if there was some sort of housekeeper or maid that cleaned Sam’s house, because there was no way he kept the room as beautiful as it was, worked, and took care of his gorgeous little girl.

“It’s got an attached bathroom with a shower and a tub, and you’ll have your own private balcony. It overlooks the backyard and the pool, which you’re welcome to use at any time. There’s a walk-in closet through that door,” Sam pointed to a closed door off to the right of the bathroom, “And there’s an office across the hall you can use if you want. There’s a printer and internet hookups in case you’re having problems with the WiFi. You shouldn’t, but it never hurts to be prepared. Of course, if you don’t like the furniture I’ve got in here we can move it and you can put your own things in. I hired a decorator for the whole house when I first moved in and I haven’t done anything with the room since then.

You nodded, a bit overwhelmed. “Right. Can I ask what the issue was? That the last nanny had?”

“She didn’t like the view from the balcony, apparently, and she complained that she was too close to Elsie’s room.” You frowned and Sam shrugged. The distaste was clear in his voice as he continued, “She said she preferred to have a room near the other adults in the household instead of the child that she cares for. My room is on the other side of the stairs we came up.”

Elsie started to wiggle in his arms and he set her down, not looking away from you. She instantly ran over to the bed and climbed on top to sprawl out over the plush white comforter.

“The room is great, Sam,” you replied, nodding. “It’s amazing, actually.” You glanced back at Elsie and sat on the edge of the mattress. “How’s the bed? Comfy?”

Elsie giggled and nodded before rolling onto her stomach to look at Sam. “Is this my new nanny?”

“I think so,” Sam replied. He looked over at you and you nodded. “Looks like it, Elsie girl! You can show her your room and your playroom in a few minutes, okay? First we gotta do the grown-up stuff.”

Grinning, the little girl scrambled off the bed to run off to another part of the house. She shouted a quick “Okay!” on her way out of the room.

“So, you think you’d be okay being her nanny? Obviously I’ll let you look over the contract and you can take it to a lawyer if you need—”

“That’s not really necessary,” you told him, holding up your hand to stop Sam from going any further. “I’ll look it over downstairs if you wouldn’t mind getting me something to drink while I read.”

“Water okay?”

You nodded, and you and Sam headed downstairs where the contract was waiting.

_______________

Working for Sam was one of the best things that had ever happened to you. Not only was Elsie adorable and one of the smartest, funniest kids you’d ever nannied, but her dad was amazing, too. He never failed to make you laugh and though he was constantly overworking himself during the day, you admired the way that his focus was entirely on Elsie and his homelife as soon as he parked in the garage. Even if he finished work at three in the morning, he came looking for his daughter the minute he was home. If she was awake, she was always more than happy to cuddle up and watch a movie, go swimming in their pool, or just show him the pictures she’d worked on for him during the day. Then, as soon as the little princess was in bed, Sam’s attention turned to you. That was one of the best parts of your job, though it was becoming a problem. No matter what Sam did and despite your best efforts, your crush kept growing. He was just too great, and you worried that someday you’d be heartbroken when he brought home some gorgeous movie star. Then you’d have to quit, and not only would you be out of a job, but the best two people in your life would immediately become a part of your past. That was the last thing you wanted.

It wasn’t until you’d been the nanny for eight months that Sam asked you to bring Elsie to set. The request caught you off guard—usually he avoided involving Elsie in anything that had to do with his work because of the nature of his films—but you knew that he was a smart guy, so you loaded up the almost-five-year-old into your car and drove to the address he’d texted.

“Daddy!” Elsie squealed. Sam’s head turned towards you and he smiled wide when he saw Elsie dragging you by the hand across the packed dirt of the filming site. She had insisted on wearing her princess dress, and the sight of her in the poofy, sparkly dress and Minnie Mouse sunglasses was enough to make anyone laugh. You were thankful you’d put your own sunglasses on before you’d climbed out of the car, otherwise the sun’s glare would have been too bright for you to even see Sam. He had his glasses on as well, and you briefly wondered if he’d take them off at some point so you could see his eyes in the sunlight.

“Hi, Bug!” As soon as she was within his reach, Sam picked her up and swung her up onto his shoulders. The move was almost one fluid motion and though he did it all the time, you still marveled and Elsie still giggled.

The man Sam had been talking to—you vaguely recognized his face from a magazine in the grocery store checkout—was dressed in an elaborate suit of leather armor. He glanced over at you as you approached, but he quickly turned his attention back to Sam.

“So what are you going to do about her?” the man asked.

Sam glanced at him before looking up at Elsie, smiling wide. “We’ll have a talk. Don’t worry about it, Erick.”

Ah, so he’s the action hero, you thought, and you looked the actor up and down. He looks shorter in person.

Erick turned and caught you staring at him, and his lip curled up in disgust. “Who are you?”

“She’s my best friend!” Elsie replied before anyone else could. You smiled on instinct.

“Right...” Erick drawled. He looked up at Elsie and the disgusted look on his face didn’t fade even as he walked away to a u-shaped cluster of chairs and makeup vanities. He was immediately swarmed by women fussing over his hair, makeup, and costume.

Once he was fair enough away, you turned towards Sam with raised eyebrows. “So. This is the movie business,” you retorted.

He laughed and adjusted his grip on Elsie’s little legs. “Something like it, yeah. Don’t worry about him, he’s always like that. It’s not one of his redeeming features, but he was the favorite for this role. Do you guys want a tour of the set?”

Elsie cheered and wiggled a little on Sam’s shoulders, and he tightened his grip accordingly. You nodded in agreement.

“A tour would be great, Sam, but aren’t you on your lunch break?”

Sam shrugged and started walking. You followed close behind as he began to explain the set in terms that Elsie could understand. She was smart, and she loved big words, but she was still just a kid. After a while, he managed to commandeer a golf cart for the three of you, and you ended up riding around not only just the set, but in between all the trailers and the service roads that surrounded the site. You had to admit that the area was beautiful, even if it was hot and dusty.

Eventually, you, Sam, and Elsie ended up outside his trailer. It was smaller than the actors’, but he explained as you followed him up the steps that he really didn’t use it much, and he only had one for this part of production because they were filming in a more remote location than usual. Food was waiting for you on the small dining table inside, and all three of you breathed a sigh of relief at the air conditioning.

“Can I come to set tomorrow?” Elsie asked as she climbed up onto the couch.

Sam handed her the hot dog from the container marked with her name and smiled a little. “Not tomorrow, Ells. Maybe another day,” he said. He picked up the two remaining containers and held out the one with your name scrawled across the top.

After murmuring your thanks, you settled down on the opposite side of Elsie from him and opened the styrofoam box. Your favorite sandwich was inside and you smiled over at Sam, a little bit surprised that he’d remembered. He didn’t make or order you food often, since you normally ate with Elsie during the day and on your own at night so that Elsie’s attention wasn’t divided between the two of you.

“You mentioned that it was your favorite that one time we went to the boardwalk,” Sam said, noticing your surprise. “It just kinda stuck in my brain, and I saw it on the menu when I was ordering our lunches before you got here.”

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” you replied, honestly shocked. No one had ever remembered your usual order. “Thank you.”

Sam nodded in reply and the three of you dug into your meals in relative silence. Elsie finished first, like usual, and she was starting to dig through the things in Sam’s trailer when there was a knock at the door.

Elated, the little girl ran over and tugged it open, the force of which pushed her down to sit on the top step of the entry. “Hi!” she cried, and you sat up on the couch to see who she was talking to.

“Hi!” a woman chuckled. After a second, Elsie popped back up and led the short-haired woman into the trailer by the hand. “Is this your daughter, Sam?”

“No, this is a monster!” Sam grabbed Elsie around the waist and pulled her into his lap, growling playfully. Elsie squealed and squirmed as he tickled her, and the woman laughed. You smiled too, but you reached over to move Sam’s half-eaten meal out of the way. You’d seen this play out too many times to think that he and Elsie would be able to avoid knocking it onto the rug.

Elsie finally freed herself from Sam’s grasp and scrambled into yours. You wrapped them around her, hugging her tightly, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Sam caught your eye and grinned wide before looking back at the woman still standing in his trailer.

“What’s going on, Jody? Are we having a wardrobe problem again?” he asked, getting to his feet.

She shook her head. “No, but I heard a certain someone in here really likes princesses, and I thought I could give her a little tour of the wardrobe trailer,” Jody replied with a slow smile.

“Right, the wardrobe trailer with all the princess dresses…” Sam looked back at Elsie, who was watching him and Jody with wide eyes. She’d cued in on the key words in their conversation and was practically vibrating with excitement in your arms. “What do you say, Elsie? Would you like to go with Miss Jody to see the princess dresses for daddy’s movie?”

Elsie nodded vigorously and you let her down off your lap. She grabbed Jody’s outstretched hand with a wide smile and waved at Sam as she was led down the steps that led out of his trailer. The door slammed behind her and Jody, and after a second, you stood and gathered up two of the discarded lunch containers. 

Sam stared at you as you carried them over to the trash, and finally you looked up at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he quickly replied, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me, Sam. There’s not something on the back of my pants, right? Or shirt?” You twisted, trying to get a look at your back just in case, and your face grew hot at the idea that you’d been walking around with Sam-freaking-Winchester, the super hot, award-winning director, all the while looking like a slob.

“No, no. I just…” Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He watched through the window as some of the crew members walked by outside, then dropped his hand back down and looked back at you. “We need to talk about something.”

Oh no.

“Sure, is everything okay?”

Sam sat back down on the couch and gestured for you to return to your own seat. You did, and you purposefully folded your hands in your lap so that you wouldn’t fidget and give away how nervous you felt. Your stomach was twisted up in knots.

“Yes. I mean, no, but… It’s a good kind of not okay.”

“Oh…Okay.”

“That didn’t make sense,” Sam said after a second.

“No, it didn’t,” you agreed, smiling a little. “Is this about Elsie? Is there something different you maybe want me to do with her? Or do you think it’s time for her to go back to a daycare, or even a preschool? She’s almost in Kindergarten anyway. I really don’t mind just watching her in the mornings and afternoons, if that’s what you need.”

“Do you not want to work with Elsie anymore?” His eyebrows furrowed and you quickly backtracked. “Because if you don’t—”

“No! No, I love Elsie. She’s an amazing kid, Sam. I just… I’m trying to figure out what you mean. A good kind of not okay?”

Sam sighed and nodded. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees for a few moments as he thought, then leaned back and relaxed against the couch cushions. You watched in silence, and with each passing second, the feeling that you might puke just from the suspense of the whole thing grew.

“I like you, Y/N. I like you a lot,” Sam finally said.

“I like you and Elsie too, Sam, but what’s that got to do with this?”

“No.” He shook his head, reaching over to put one large hand over your folded ones. You froze, absolutely stunned. Sam had never touched you except for handshakes, or maybe in passing when he took Elsie from you.

“Y/N, I really like you. I like you in the non-professional sense.”

Oh.

“I like you in the romantic sense,” Sam continued. “And I’d really like to see you romantically, but you’re my employee. I don’t want to cross any boundaries, and the only reason I’m telling you this is because I think that you might want the same thing.”

You swallowed, looking down. Slowly, you relaxed your grip on your hands and let him take one of them in his. After a second, his thumb began to rub over your skin and the feeling was hypnotizing. “I do. Want the same,” you added. “I’ve liked you a long time, Sam.”

“I don’t want you to feel pressured, Y/N.”

Looking up at him, you shook your head and squeezed his hand. “I don’t. I don’t feel pressured, Sam. I really do like you, and I was honestly worried I’d have to quit if you ever brought home some famous movie star or something. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

Sam smiled wide, his eyes lighting up. “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to hear you say that?” You shook your head. “A really long time, Y/N. Almost the whole time you’ve been Elsie’s nanny,” he admitted, and you grinned back at him.

Any nerves you’d had were completely gone now. Sam’s touch—even though it was just his thumb on the back of your hand—was more soothing than you could’ve ever imagined, and though the butterflies in your stomach were alive and well, you’d hoped for a while that you and Sam would have this conversation.

“Really?”

He nodded and brought your hand up to his lips to kiss it. The butterflies leaped for joy.

“That’s a long time. I didn’t even catch on,” you told him.

“I had to be careful. And to be honest, the only reason I suspected you liked me back is because Elsie started talking about how you and I act like one of her friend’s parents whenever we’re together. She started asking questions and it made me think.”

You laughed. “That little girl has got a brain bigger than yours. She’s gonna grow up amazing.”

Sam hadn’t stopped grinning at you and you felt your face grow warm under all the attention. If this was an old black and white movie, you would’ve swooned by now, but now his smile was beginning to fade. You sensed that the other shoe was about to drop and your own smile wilted.

“I’ve got you to thank for a lot of that,” Sam said, his voice softer. “We can’t be together if you're my employee, Y/N.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you murmured. After a second, you gave him a sly smile. “You and Elsie just need to put your big brains together.”

_______________

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[zara2148]

Fethsteel: “Real Names”

So here’s my first one-shot in my proposed “Fethry accidentally joins FOWL” verse, set sometime after the boys have gotten to know each other. May rework this later, but for now I’m tired and I want the people to have this.

Warning for a lot of dark implications regarding Steelbeak’s past. The child abuse and such is vaguely touched upon, though there is a strong mention of gun violence.

EDIT: Now on AO3!

It had started with what should have been an innocent question. “So what’s your name?”

The lab lights around them were dim. The last time Fethry looked at a clock it had been 3 a.m. It had been a while since he looked at a clock.

He was running through various 3-D printed coral reef designs, trying to get the texture and shape just right. The other scientists had not so slowly filed out as the usual workday ended, a few of them giving him a quick “Good night,” that Fethry would cheerfully echo back.

Steelbeak had walked in with Heron mid-afternoon, but stayed behind as she left. He wasn’t due for another mission for a few days, so sleep wasn’t an immediate priority.

And he had learned that if left alone in a maniac state like this, Fethry would eventually pass out on the lab floor. Most of the other scientists would at least step around Fethry when that happened, albeit with pitying shakes of their heads.

Most.

(They should all know better now, of course, given the last one to walk over Fethry was still recovering in the medical ward. Although, Heron might pretend she was going to step on Fethry, just to watch him grind his beak.)

It was better that he stay here to make sure that one way or another, Fethry made it back to bed.

He blinked at Fethry’s question. “Steelbeak.” Were it anyone else who asked, he would have added a “Duh!” 

Fethry shook his head, struggling with getting the coral’s material to be resilient yet biodegradable. “No, no. I mean… did your parents name you Steelbeak?” It was possible if he had been born needing a prosthesis. Maybe they wanted to make it clear to him it wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but something he could take pride in.

Still, it would be like Cousin Della wanting to be called Steelleg. Fethry would if that's want she wanted, but it seemed awfully reductive.

“I never knew my parents.” 

The soft answer made Fethry pause in fiddling with the 3-D printer’s settings. He turned away to look at the rooster sitting at a lab table behind him.

“I never had a name before Steelbeak.”

Fethry wasn’t going to ask more. Already what he heard was causing a lump in his throat. His eyes were going blurry from tears ready to escape. He could feel an ache in his arms as he resisted the urge to hug Steelbeak, who still tensed up if Fethry’s hand so much as brushed against his.

Fethry swallowed. He racked his head for something to say that would let Steelbeak know he didn’t have to say more, without dismissing what he had already said.

But Steelbeak couldn’t take the sudden silence. It was somehow worse than the time he accidentally called Heron, “Mom.” And he had thought nothing could be worse than that.

Yet it was all too similar to that time as well, full of unspoken things he had missed out on in his life. The silence then had been damning, until he laughed it off and said “Joking!” Heron had winced at his sudden boisterousness but had been more than willing to let it drop there.

Fethry wouldn’t buy this as just a joke. Already, Fethry looked as if he was a second away from a crying fit. When it came to most people, he couldn’t care if they literally cried their eyes out.

But Fethry wasn’t most people.

Steelbeak didn’t pause to take a deep breath, didn’t need it to brace himself. If he stopped to breathe, he might never get this out. “I was hatched in the pens of an underground fighting ring. And I mean underground. I didn’t see anything outside until… well, until I looked more like this.”

Fethry could hardly bear to breathe either. The moment between them was glass, transparent but all too easy to shatter.

“I had no fancy schooling. It was just the school of hard knocks for me. And some punches. A few kicks, here and there. Just beating up some other kids like me.”

The tears were running down Fethry’s face now. He barely noticed.

“They called me Number 4, in the ring and out. That’s all they called me.”

The feel of the tag around his ankle still crept up on Steelbeak sometimes. He’d scratch at it without thinking, only to feel nothing underneath his foot.

“Then one day, the ring was busted by some cops. I tried to peck a few of them as they came close, and that got them antsy. One of them pulled out a gun, and… ka-pow!”

He mimed shooting his beak off. Fethry grabbed at his own beak in sudden, painful sympathy.

“Then in prison, I got another number. This time, 101891.” He leaned his head back, almost looking relaxed at this point. “More people to beat up, more guards to hustle us all back into line. Not much different.”

“Then, I was busted out of prison. Well, I say busted, but there was a lot more papers then broken walls.” He gestured at the walls around him. “They got me out.”

Fethry felt a surge of pride within him even as the tears continued. Such kind, caring people they worked for, to give the two of them chances for a better life.

“They wanted to call me Agent 30-something or other... but I wasn’t going to be a number anymore. I wanted a name.”

He tapped his beak.

“Heron gave me this. It seemed as good a name as any.”

Steelbeak stopped, feeling strange. He had never said any of that aloud before. He dropped his hand against the table, feeling like a carton of ice cream that had just been entirely scooped out.

Fethry was swallowing hard, backed up snot clogging his throat. Tears of sympathy were still leaking from his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what to say.” An ‘I’m sorry’ would not fix anything. He was so, so sorry, but it would not change anything.

Then, perhaps not the right words but some better words to say came to him.

“It’s a nice name, y’know. Steelbeak.” His hand hovered over Steelbeak’s, going no farther. He met Steelbeak’s eyes. “May I?”

Steelbeak shrugged, one shoulder moving awkwardly out of sync with the other. Exposing vulnerability in any way was alien enough. This attempt at comfort was… well, it would feel entirely wrong if it wasn’t for the warmth from Fethry’s hand.

Fethry placed his hand over Steelbeak’s, squeezing softly. “I really like it.”

That’s what his voice said. What his eyes said was, “I really like you.” 

Fethry watched Steelbeak, who didn’t tense up under his grip. Didn’t watch him for an attack or look as if he was debating pecking him for getting too close.

It still was a bit much for Steelbeak, though. So after he was sure Fethry was no longer at risk of crying, he pulled away slightly. Fethry let him reclaim his hand, giving him a small smile the entire time.

Steelbeak cleared his throat for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of. After all, the only thing he had to dislodge was everything that had gone unsaid.

“What about you?” Steelbeak cocked an eye ridge. “Honestly, who names their kid Fethry? Not that’s not a nice name, it’s just… well, the only worse name I can think of for a kid is calling them ‘Duck.’ I’m glad that’s not your full name, what kind of cruel monsters would name their kid ‘Duck Duck?’”

(At that very moment elsewhere, Drake Mallard let out a sneeze.)

Fethry’s laugh quickly turned into a yawn. He’d have to go to bed soon, but they had time for another, lighter tale.

“Heh, it’s actually kind of a funny story...”

[smoakmonster]

C is for Complications

Prompt: Sent to the Wrong Printer A/N: I originally aimed for this to be funny, but the muse had other ideas. Set in between 2x06 and 2x07. Enjoy! Word Count: 2.7k Tagging: @thebookjumper, @olicityhiatusficathon, @scu11y22, @mel-loves-all, @dust2dust34,  @releaseurinhibitions Also available: on AO3.

xxx

I love you.

The words had been rattling around inside her all morning, really ever since they had gotten back from Russia, ever since she’d told him. You deserve better than her. You deserve better. You deserve...to be with me?

Felicity shook her head, as she attempted to focus on the swarm of emails currently cluttering her inbox.

Mr. Queen needs to read the updated proposal. I have attached a copy to this email...

Since Mr. Queen could not be bothered to attend our last three meetings...

Please inform Mr. Queen that as CEO he is responsible for…

Felicity puffed out her cheeks in attempt to relax herself, as she swiftly typed a response to all the emails labeled “URGENT.” And she’d thought hacking into the FBI had been stressful.

She did glean a small amount of pride, though, in being the sort of gatekeeper to the CEO. She was protecting him, just like she protected him every night that he was on the streets, sending warnings about what lay ahead, deterring unwelcome complications, like street cameras recording him taking his hood off in a well-lit alley or the timestamp similarities between Oliver Queen leaving a scene and The Arrow arriving.

If only she could deter other, emotional complications so easily.

As degrading as it still was, playing secretary by day, never before had she been so grateful for boring office work as she was today. Answering trivial complaints and scheduling an unnecessary amount of meetings that Oliver was “required” to attend kept her busy, kept her mind distracted from the way her heart pinched strangely every time she paused long enough to remember standing outside Oliver’s hotel room...and watching Isabel Rochev saunter out of it.

Felicity wasn’t blind. She knew Oliver’s reputation. She’d seen it firsthand with Helena and Laurel and...and now with Isabel.

But that was before. Before she started working with him. Before he became her friend. Before he became...something more.

When exactly had she let herself care about Oliver Queen so much? When had he become so important?

And yet, somehow, she was pretty sure she’d known for a long time that what she felt for Oliver was too much, so far beyond too much. And that weird, nervous thrill that fluttered inside her chest whenever she remained in Oliver’s presence was specific to Oliver himself. He’d tried all his usual playboy antics on her at the beginning; and even though she’d seen right through them, they’d still sort of...worked?

Because the man she’d gotten to know over the past year was different than anyone she’d ever met. He was better than he pretended to be. He was real. There was so much depth and goodness and honor in his soul that he kept hidden from the world, from his family...even from himself.

And she didn’t understand why.

Oliver Queen was the biggest mystery of her life, and she both loved and hated him for it.

Love.

Oh, that dreaded word again.

Did she really...love him though? She couldn’t afford to. After all, he’d said so himself, caring about someone given what they do every night...it could only bring more pain. She’d already lost so much, her father and Cooper and now….

Felicity swallowed.

Now it was too late.

She cared about him too much to let go now.

That was why she’d stayed, even after they’d found Walter, wasn’t it? The mission was important, but so was he. He was important, but so was the mission. Over and over, every night, she wrestled with her priorities, with his stubborn and reckless behavior, with her inapt and unreturned feelings for him. Sometimes, it was like her mind and heart were at war with one another, like she was the one living a double life. And yet other times, when he’d pause and rest his hand on her shoulder like that, so gently and still so surely, and he’d look at her with such a softness, like his eyes were calling out to her to save him from...something. Himself? She wanted to know the secrets he only told her in stares.

His gaze often left her jarred...and left her craving more.

Her shoulder always felt so cold when he finally had to pull his hand away.

Since the day she’d found him bleeding in the backseat of her car, Felicity knew that what she felt for Oliver Queen--what she continued to torture herself by feeling for him--went so far beyond admiration or friendship.

Oliver was never just the cute, rich castaway who pestered her occasionally with petty, life-changing requests and lied to her face with a charming smile plastered to his own. Somewhere along the way, she’d started needing him, too.

I love you.

Those words rushed through her when The Glades came crumbling down around them.

I love you.

Those words ricocheted inside her chest as Oliver’s warm body smacked against hers, pressing her deeper into the Lian Yu grass, after so many months of not seeing him, of not knowing if he was okay.

I love you.

Those words gutted her to the core as she turned and walked away from him at a hotel in Russia, bitterly muttering “even when it makes no sense whatsoever.”

It still didn’t make sense. And she was still bitter.

And she still loved him.

There. She’d finally indulged herself in not only thinking the words but in allowing herself to linger in them, to let them fill her, to let them hurt her.

Since last year, Felicity had been trying to avoid, deny, or explain away her feelings for Oliver. And now, finally putting a name to it was alarming and yet...soothing in a way she couldn’t explain. It was terrifying and freeing. It was exhilarating and exhausting.

Because he would never feel the same way.

Too bad she couldn’t just write a code to undo everything.

Like getting zapped with a spark of electricity, an idea suddenly came to Felicity. And since she was indulging her thoughts...she might as well go all in.

Pulling up a new blank document, Felicity stared at the empty white page, watching the vertical cursor blink at her over and over, nagging her, taunting her.

Finally, she gave in.

She had to do it. Just once. Just to tell someone, even if that someone was her computer.

Before she could stop herself, Felicity hit eleven keys, typing out three words.

I love him.

There. That wasn’t so hard.

Felicity jumped when the phone at her desk suddenly rang, and she answered it promptly. While speaking with the head of HR department, Felicity quickly minimized the document on her screen and ignored it for the rest of the morning.

Shortly after lunch, while Oliver was still out of the office with Thea visiting his mother, Felicity dared to open up that document once again and stare at those three aching words.

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t personal enough.

Felicity hit the backspace key three times and tried again.

I love you.

Gnawing on the inside of her cheek, still unsatisfied, Felicity typed out the final five and most important letters, the letters that, for better or worse, remained etched on her heart.

Oliver.

With a little nod to herself for a job well done, Felicity hit “print” and started making her way over to the sleek and overpriced printer in the corner--

“Felicity!”

She froze at the sound of his voice. Feeling guilty and caught off guard and flustered beyond measure, Felicity took a moment to try to compose herself before turning around and staring the source of her current emotional dilemma right in the face.

“What!” Her voice sounded more like cry for help than a question, so she tried again, clearing her throat. “What?”

Oliver frowned, clearly picking up that something was not quite right with her today. He didn’t know, right? He couldn’t know. How could he know?

Ridiculous man, why did he always have be so observant at the worst times?

“Meeting. Conference room.”

Right.

She sighed once with relief as she followed him directly into the conference, like the obedient assistant that she was.

Well, if Oliver remembering a meeting time on his own didn’t show her how off her game she was today, then she didn’t know what would. Thankfully, he was too busy to ask what was actually bothering her. Still, Felicity’s heart decided to badger her for the next two hours. She could barely pay attention to her notes in the beginning. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. She chanted the words like a mantra, keeping rhythm with her pen tapping against her notepad.

But by the time their meeting ended, it was nearly sunset, and the first wave of crime in the city had already begun. Felicity never made it back to check her printer until the next day, and by then The Count had broken out of prison.

xxx

“Oliver, what are we doing here?”

“I just need to grab something.”

Oliver led Felicity through the long aisles of the evidence warehouse, stacked to the brim with boxes and old files. He’d been here before, though under less pleasant circumstances.  

“Are you sure we’re even allowed to be in here?” Felicity whispered. “I mean, as us...not, you know, the other us.”

“Well, Lance was able to pull few strings and said that it would be alright,” said Oliver. “We just can’t touch anything other than what I came here for.”

Felicity stopped in her tracks and pouted her lips in that adorably alluring way of hers. “I think you might be abusing your power there, Mr. Mayor.”

“Promise not to tell my secret?” He winked at her, taking a moment to run his thumb once more over the new ring on her finger, nestled against the one with the diamond. He still hadn’t gotten used to that cool, smooth, perfect texture against her skin. He doubted he ever would get used to it...to them.

“Only if you promise to finally clue me in on why we’re hanging out in a dusty evidence warehouse in the first place. Not that I don’t appreciate the lighting aesthetic, but I think if we stay here too long my allergies are going to start flaring up.”

“Well, I can’t tell you. I have to show you.”

Oliver smiled as he pulled her along a little further, down a few more rows, following the path Lance had instructed, until finally they came to the item he’d been seeking. He could tell when she spotted it, because she let out a small “oh” at the sight.

His old trunk.

Releasing her hand, Oliver quickly worked to undo the lock and lifted the lid. His hand stumbled against various items inside until it finally rested on another small box tucked into the corner of the trunk, exactly where he’d left it years ago.

As he pulled out the small box, Felicity gave him a skeptical look. “Please don’t tell me we came here just so you can grab some magical island herbs.”

He chuckled, opening the little container and finding a folded piece of paper inside.  

She frowned in amusement as she watched him begin unfolding the paper before her eyes.

“A secret message from your family?”

“Something like that,” he answered.

Taking a deep breath and keeping his gaze fixed on her, Oliver slowly turned the paper around and waited...waited until Felicity spotted the familiar words on the page.

I love you, Oliver.

She stilled when she saw them.

“You know what this is.” It wasn’t a question.

“Where did you…? Oliver, I can explain--” She reached to snatch the paper from his grasp, but he quickly moved it out of her reach and patiently folded the note back up like it was the most precious thing to him--and in some, small way it was--before safely tucking the note into his shirt pocket.

“I don't want you to explain.”

Felicity licked her lips, seemingly flustered in a way he hadn’t seen her in a long time, as though this was four years ago and they weren’t married and he hadn’t told her he loved her yet.

“I-I don’t understand. How did you get that?”

“I um…” Now came the tricky part. He needed her to know why he brought her here tonight, why this one piece of paper had been a lifeline for him in the midst of chaos and darkness and...having to walk away from this woman standing before him so many times.

“I found this in the printer in my office, the night The Count almost…” he paused, swallowing heavily, avoiding her eyes. “The night I killed him.” The night I almost lost you.

“Wait, you said you found it in your printer?”

That was not what he was expecting.

Oliver looked up, frowning, confused by her tone.

“All these years, and I sent it to the wrong printer? Granted, I hadn’t exactly been thinking straight at the time, but still. How could you find this and not tell me? Why not just throw it away and put me out of her misery and...ugh, this is embarrassing--”

“What? Why?” He rushed close to her, his hands coming up on their own accord to grab her upper arms near her shoulders, his thumbs running in circles to try to soothe her.

She visibly relaxed under his touch. “I just…I never meant for you to see that. It was supposed to be for me, for my eyes only. It was just something I did to…”

“To what?” he asked.

“To try to let you go. Because I had all these inappropriate feelings--not inappropriate inappropriate, just feelings about my boss that were not returned--”

“That you knew of. That either of us knew of.” Oliver sighed, drawing warmth from her presence as he so often did, drawing strength from the familiar trust he saw plainly on her face. “I suspected that the note was from you, but after just telling you I couldn't be with someone that I could really care about, I just...I didn't know how to tell you I'd found it. And then The Count tried to hurt you, and then Barry Allen showed up and you went away and things got…”

“Complicated?”

“Yeah.”

Felicity offered him a tender smile. “Welcome to my world.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to know or not. And for a while, I didn't...I didn't want it to be you. Every instinct inside me told me not to let you in...not to let myself care about you. Everything I learned on the island, that you can’t trust anyone but yourself, that caring about people gets them killed.... Russia showed me that. The Count showed me that. Slade showed me that.”

“But you still kept it?” she asked softly.

Oliver shook his head, barely understanding why he did it himself. “I guess there was a part of me...a bigger part than I wanted to admit...that wanted this, wanted to be with you, even if I thought that could never happen.”

“Oliver…” Felicity breathed, reaching up to caress his cheek and hold his head in place, keeping him grounded, keeping him whole.

“I just wanted you to know that I knew. And I’m sorry I wasn’t ready...before.”

“Oliver, it’s okay. That’s all in the past. And we made it here, didn’t we?”

He sighed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess we did.”

“And I’m sorry, too.”

Oliver started. “For what?”

“For writing you basically the shortest love letter that ever existed.”

He laughed, his chest feeling suddenly lighter and fuller, as only Felicity could ever seem to bring him. And as he leaned down, she met him halfway, and he kissed his wife deeply, right there in the middle of the abandoned corner of the evidence warehouse, the note that she’d written him ages ago pressed between them, right against his heart, where it belonged.

When they finally broke apart for air, Felicity was smiling as she wrapped both her arms around one of his. But when he started moving, she paused. “You’re just gonna leave it?” She nodded to the trunk.

With one final glance at his past, Oliver nodded firmly, sure of his chosen future, sure of one half of his life standing beside him and the other half hopefully sound asleep by now back home.

“I don’t need it anymore,” he replied. “I have you.”

[pomrania]

Blank

((part of the Little by Little AU))

Sabine stood nervously at the door. She knew she was in the right place. She recognized it, vaguely, from when she had taken Kanan there months ago; and more importantly, there was a sign. N0151-A... that could be both Kanan's "Enno-fifteen" and Ezra's "Noisi".

There were also the dots, under the letters. As Ezra had described, they were indeed raised. She was in the right place, probably.

She looked at the writing, and traced it with her fingers. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine reading based off of just that touch. It was possible, she knew that... she just couldn't understand being able to read that way, and only being able to read that way. She never wanted to have to understand that. (She didn’t want anyone to have to understand that.)

She checked for a buzzer. If there was one, she couldn't see it. She raised a hand to knock, then hesitated. Turn back, a part of herself whispered, there's nothing you can do. You'll just make a fool of yourself.

No.

She squared her shoulders, and resolutely knocked on the door. Assuming the droid wasn't busy, or standing directly by the door, the time from knock to response would be anywhere between --

The door slid open, and her first impression was white.

"Welcome, how can I be of assistance?"

She had thought of things to say -- she knew that, she remembered coming up with lines on the way there -- but she couldn't remember a single one of them. She stared blankly at the droid's face.

White, definitely; polished, not dull and dust-coloured like the other droids on base who had originally been white, presumably. Square optics, resembling some lenses she had seen worn by old pictures of scholars. Standard speech grille, and lines meant to evoke a face, yet it still looked blank and empty. Small flashes of colour, deep within, below and beside the optics. Torso... arms... didn't appear to have individual legs, but something on wheels.

She had seen the droid before, she realized. Even aside from when she had led Kanan to his appointment there, an event which she had done her level best to erase from her memory, she remembered seeing that bright white here and there, sticking out among the motley assortment of droids populating the area. Motley assortment of non-droids, too; for items to match was the exception rather than the rule, and most of the people likely never would have met if it weren't for their shared fight against the Empire.

She had something to do, something to ask the droid.... What was that one's name again? She'd heard at least three different versions... and did the droid go by "he", "it", "they", or what? It wasn't what she'd been planning on asking, but it would do until the stuff came to mind again.

"What's actually your name, and are you gendered?" she ended up saying.

Her question didn't appear to elicit any reaction out of the ordinary; for all she knew, people went up to the droid every day and asked dumb stuff like that.

"My designation is N-zero-one-five-one-dash-A. I am aware of a multitude of nicknames used to refer to me, and I will respond to any of them, or others given context to know that I am being addressed. I had not been programmed to have an inherent gender, but many organics feel that my voice is masculine."

No definite answer on that front then, but at least she felt more confident thinking of the droid as "Noisy" as opposed to the proper name.

The droid inclined the head towards her. "Was that the sole reason for your visit?"

No, it hadn't been. She looked around....

"The letters on your door," she said. "The raised ones. What are they?" She was almost certain it was what she thought it was, but she had to know for sure.

"That is the tactile alphabet, an alternate form of writing which does not require visual recognition. In my previous practice it was beneficial, as many clients were unable to sight-read any signs or direction. It is not in common use here, but I have not felt a need to use a different nameplate, without that writing on it, when this one is still quite functional."

She briefly wondered about that "previous practice", then shook the thought away. It wasn't important at the moment. "I'm... interested in that. Do you have any resources?" She needed to say something more. "I don't need... I have stuff that says what letter is what, but nothing to actually feel."

That was horrible. She almost cringed, both at her own words, and in anticipation of how the droid would react.

"Yes, there are resources available here, from my personal supplies. The main priorities of the Rebellion unfortunately do not include visual health and coping with poor or lacking vision, nor do I have a sufficient budget to acquire everything I consider necessary, but they have expressed no issues with me keeping already-acquired supplies. Come in."

Sabine had never actually been inside the medbay. She had been injured before, of course, and even after Chopper Base was established, but it had always been something they could take care of on the ship. The time with Kanan, which she still didn't want to think about, she had stayed outside, and any view she might have had of the interior had been blocked by both him and the droid. If she had been asked earlier to describe what she thought it would look like, she would have said "the same as every other building there", going by its outward appearance.

That was not entirely accurate.

The room was white. Very white. It took her a moment to realize that the lights actually were on a brighter setting, and it wasn't just the unrelieved white which was making her eyes hurt. She idly wondered if the droid would blend right in when not in motion.

Everything was familiar, in the vague sense of one med centre looking a lot like another, if only because of the necessary functions. She saw equipment and machines she recognized but couldn't identify, a desk and terminal, some beds.... The droid moved, no longer blocking her view, and her eye was instantly drawn to the black examination chair, such a visual contrast. The glass-doored cabinet looked like it contained some interesting chemicals, and she noted it out of habit, even if she wasn't going to steal supplies from an ally. Aside from the door she'd just entered, there were three potential exits; but since she didn't know where those other doors might lead, better not to count on them.

All in all, it was incredibly boring, and practically begged Sabine to add some colour to the place; liven it up a bit, or a lot, as she had literally seen cell blocks with more character and colour to them than this room. Her fingers twitched, but she didn't have any paint with her. And also the droid might get upset at that.

Speaking of the droid, Noisy had bent at the waist-equivalent and was going through a drawer, then straightened and wheeled closer, carrying something in the manipulators. The sound told her when the movement started and ended. Maybe that had been the intention and purpose of it; nobody who could hear that noise would ever be surprised by the droid's position.

"You may take the pamphlets, I have others. These are my most easily-accessed examples of the tactile alphabet. The other resources have been put in storage, but I can retrieve them if you would like."

"Can I... just have a moment to look at this first?"

It was the wrong word, "look". At first glance, the pamphlets appeared empty, with a little bit of writing at the top of each. There was no reason for text to be visible.

She was doing it wrong. She closed her eyes, and felt it instead.

It was stiffer than normal flimsi, not as -- ha -- flimsy. She could barely feel anything, was this... no, she was going at it from the wrong angle, literally. Raising something up meant pushing the other side down, after all. She flipped the sheet around, and felt the bumps she had been expecting.

It was... disorienting. She couldn't tell where one symbol ended and another began. Was she holding it right way up? She drew her fingers along what she thought was a line of text, only to find when she reached the other end that she had gone on a diagonal. This was going to be difficult. But she could manage it. Eventually.

She opened her eyes. "Okay. What else do you have?"

"Please wait here."

She watched Noisy open one of the doors she had noted earlier; it was not in fact an exit, unless there was one hidden behind all the boxes. She wondered what was in them. Medical supplies, probably, ones that weren't often called upon; maybe spare parts for the droid.

She looked down, at the brochures. She picked out one titled "nutrition and health" and traced the dots, this time looking at it while she did so. She could visually recognize one symbol off the top of her head, it was the letter A -- or maybe the number 1, depending on context -- but it was difficult to feel that single dot. She would learn, though. She didn't know how, but she would learn. She just needed to pra--

Clattering sound. Her head shot up, and turned in the direction the droid had gone. There was still boxes... just now, more of them were unstacked. Nothing looked broken, and she was vaguely jealous.

"Assuming everything was correctly inventoried, this box should contain what you requested," Noisy said. "Please excuse me while I return the other boxes to their places."

"What is it?" she asked. "I mean, what's in the box?"

The droid didn't pause. "Items related to the tactile alphabet, both in reading and production. Aside from additional copies of the pamphlets, and incomplete or spare components, there is also a printer, and an introductory primer for learners of the tactile alphabet. Unfortunately, my tactile display was lost in the move.”

"To here?" She hadn't thought there had been that much of a rush for Kanan --

Noisy's head shook. "No, the move from my former practice, to the Rebellion. I cannot properly blame them, though, as they were being fired upon at the time, and at least all of the most important equipment arrived safely."

She blinked. Huh. She really shouldn't have been surprised; everyone had a story, even the droids, or at least the more intelligent ones. Yet there was still the obvious question....

"What's a tactile display?" she asked.

“Exactly what it sounds like! It plugs into a terminal or datapad or the like, and displays text in the tactile alphabet by raising dots in the appropriate pattern. Once acquired, it is tremendously freeing to individuals who have difficulties sight-reading, as they don't have to wait for any given text to be transcribed, and listening to audio is not always desirable, for a variety of reasons.”

She would have to look into that, later. Once -- she pushed the thought back. Tactile display, potentially useful, that was all. "How about the 'printer', what's that?”

  How was a droid able to "frown" when the face was completely immobile? One of life's great mysteries, she supposed. "Due to past errors in judgment on my part, the printer is the only method currently at my disposal for an organic to produce the tactile alphabet with the appropriate size and regularity. It is possible to do so by hand, yet I had failed to acquire the tools for that at my previous practice, so they are not available here."

  She'd heard about writing the tactile alphabet by hand; in a tactile way, and not just drawing it out, that would be useless for someone who couldn't see it. Someone like -- no, she wasn't thinking about that right now stop it. She remembered something about having to do it backwards, with a stencil. It didn't matter if it wasn't available, though.

"This printer takes text input, and -- "

Later, that was the last thing that Sabine could clearly recall, about what exactly the printer did. She tried to pay attention, she really did; but she got bogged down in all the details. Noisy was enthusiastic, that was for sure. There was something about settings and contractions and reading levels -- she remembered being even more confused about that, wasn't it all the same for literate adults? -- and something about automatic spacing. It almost certainly did not mean pushing someone out the airlock, but she couldn't understand what was actually being talked about, so the image stuck with her.

  "I am unwilling to loan out the printer, but it may be used, under supervision."

She blinked. The flood of words was over now, apparently.

"...thanks," she said, and hoped that her inattention hadn't been noticed. "That just leaves the... primer, I think?"

"Yes, the primer." Noisy held up a binder. It opened to reveal sheets of that same thicker paper with the raised dots she could feel, and flimsi with both normal writing and dot writing printed on it. The sheets were held together by three metallic rings in the centre, and the pages turned freely. "Many different texts exist, for the purpose of instruction. The one I have was originally composed by my predecessor's predecessor."

On the base? No, she thought, that had to refer to the droid's "previous practice".

"It has been described as incredibly useful for learning the tactile alphabet, both by touch and by sight." Noisy handed it to her. "You may borrow it."

"Are you sure?" she said, feeling the weight in her arms; she could easily carry it, but it was hefty enough to be a viable weapon if needed. "If it's that useful, wouldn't you need to keep it, in case there's someone else who wants it?"

“The text is fully contained in my databanks and I am capable of printing out another copy if necessary. In addition, you are the first person to ask me about the tactile alphabet, in any form, ever since I left my former practice."

The droid seemed somewhat pleased. At least she was good for something. She set the binder down, placing the brochures inside it; she didn't want them to bend.

“May I just say, that it is good to have someone take an interest in the tactile alphabet. Many of my former clients had complained that there was very little available for them because, I quote second-hand, 'nobody else knew it', and every sighted person who learns to read in that manner makes the galaxy a more hospitable place."

Noisy paused. “Did I assume correctly that you are fully sighted? Have you been experiencing vision loss?”

No. She hadn’t even thought to consider -- what if she -- she couldn’t bear to think about that possibility. No.

“Please give me an eye exam,” she hurriedly said.

The droid made a pleased-sounding noise. “Excellent. Please sit down, and I will begin momentarily.”

She settled into the black examination chair, and tried to look relaxed. Noisy wouldn’t care, but she did. She didn’t need to worry yet. There had been no signs of problems. But Ezra -- was not her, and they weren’t genetically related in any sense more than both being human. She clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting, and waited.

The droid wheeled back to her in probably less than a minute -- she couldn’t trust her sense of time -- with something attached to the arms. “When was your most recent eye examination?”

Good question. “A few years ago, but I’m not sure exactly,” she thought aloud. “Probably when I was still at the academy… it really hasn’t been a priority.”

There was an undeniable sound of disapproval. “A sentiment shared by too many, and not just those fighting in the Rebellion. Focus your gaze on the area beside my left optic, where a light is currently flashing as a guide, and try not to blink.”

She followed Noisy’s instructions without question or hesitation; without thought, when she could manage it. She kept her eyes open despite a painfully bright light, looked up or down or left or right, followed that one’s manipulator with her gaze, identified shapes and letters at various distances. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears all the while. What if. What if.

The droid gave her no feedback, only directions. Was that a good sign, that there was nothing she needed to hear, or a bad sign, waiting for proof before giving her the news?

“Your visual field and acuity is within the optimal range for humans, with no apparent signs of damage or disorder. If you notice any changes, please inform me immediately, but at the moment, rest assured that everything seems to be in good condition.”

Good. Good. Good! She didn’t know what she would have done if she'd been told that she was going blind too. Probably try to go out guns blazing before it got any worse, she thought; then immediately felt horrible. Kanan was not “better off dead”, and Ezra wouldn’t be either, so why would it even be a thing that she would half-consider to possibly be an option for anybody else --

“Are you otherwise well? You appear to be experiencing distress.”

She realized she was shaking. She took a deep breath and clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms. “I’m just… relieved,” she managed. “Very relieved.”

The droid seemed to accept that at face value. “Regular appointments would serve to prevent any unpleasant surprises with regards to one’s health, visual or otherwise. Once a baseline has been established, any deviations from that can be investigated, monitored, and corrected if necessary and possible.”

Yeah, she was definitely doing that. She never wanted to go through that worry again. “Okay,” she said, “where do I sign up?”

A humming sound came from Noisy, but different than before, not from that one’s wheels. The lights below the optics began to blink rapidly, in a regular pattern. She realized it was probably the equivalent of an uncontrollable wide grin. “Excellent! Given your age and the lack of anything interesting on your test results, I would normally say to come back in a year; however, given your high-risk occupation and potential exposure to any number of harmful elements, I will instead recommend six months. Would you like me to send a reminder at that time?”

A lot could happen in six months. She didn’t know where she would be, or what she’d be dealing with, or if she’d be in any state of mind to remember. “Yeah, that’d be better.”

“Acknowledged. Records indicate that you are a member of the Ghost crew. Assuming you are still alive in six months, and have not suffered a major injury in the intervening time, I shall schedule an appointment for you at that time."

She felt vaguely uncomfortable at that phrasing, but shrugged it off. It wasn't like the droid was telling her anything she didn't already know; and she'd seen too many crews coming back with empty spaces, or not at all, to harbour any illusions of invulnerability. Even before Kanan.

The droid didn't notice her reactions. "It is gratifying to be able to fulfill my primary purpose. For so long I was relegated to mostly dealing with non-ocular trauma or preventable injuries, which any medical droid would be capable of. Now, I am being used again for my specialty, even multiple instances in short succession."

Once she untangled what the droid meant by that, Sabine realized she often felt the same. She was more than just an explosives or weapons expert, and she felt so much more her when she could do her art, and be useful in doing it. But, then, she remembered. The droid was happy to deal with eye injuries or conditions; and even her own exam was only because she had been worried.

Why did everything keep coming around to stuff she didn't want to think about?! But she had to think about it, at least somewhat, if she wanted to be able to do something.

Tactile alphabet: dealt with, for the moment. Her own visual health: hadn't been on the list, but she knew she was okay with it for now. She was okay, in that regard; were the others? Kanan... didn't really have anything left to lose, and Ezra was being dealt with; Chopper didn't have organic parts, and she more or less knew how to repair his optics anyways; that still left Hera and Zeb. Hera needed her eyes to pilot, and Sabine wasn't going to let Zeb be hurt in any way if she could help it.

"Is it okay if I can get some others to come in as well?" she said, trying to sound casual. She was already planning how she would convince, trick, drag, and/or bribe Zeb to attend an appointment. (Just because he was important to her, that didn't mean she'd let him do what he wanted. Especially if it was for his own good.)

"Please do! Regular examinations are vital for optic health, and catching any conditions early." Noisy paused. "Is that all?"

No. She remembered now; she'd had two reasons for coming there. One was complete. The other... she still had to do. It was a thing that maybe nobody else remembered about, but she did, and it meant something to her. This could be incredibly awkward, but it was her best possible option.

“No, there's one more thing,” she said, and made sure to not fiddle with her sleeve. “Are you okay with drawing blood? Like, and filling a vial with it? That I could have, and take with me?”

The optics weren't designed for giving a Stare, but she felt it anyways. “Yes, I have the knowledge and equipment to take blood samples. Why would you want me to, if not for running tests on it?”

Her mind blanked. She hadn't actually considered having to justify that request; which just went to show how distracted she was lately. She ran through all the excuses she'd used recently. "Ask Hera about it", her general go-to, wouldn't work there, and "It's your fault for not checking if it was explosive", the excuse she had most recently given, was completely the wrong context.

"It's a Mandalorian thing." Hopefully the droid would leave it at that....

She got the impression of a sniff. "Unlikely. Although I have not been programmed with a comprehensive knowledge of Mandalorian customs, your statement bears marked similarities to some very common excuses. Unless I am given a truthful and valid reason, I will refuse to carry out the procedure."

How was she going to -- what could she say that -- no, she had to stop and consider. There was no real reason not to tell Noisy what she had planned; it wasn't a surprise intended for the droid after all, and patient confidentiality was probably an important part of the programming. If she couldn't even say what she wanted to do, why would she think that she'd be able to actually do it?

She wasn't going to give up. She especially wouldn't be defeated by her own hesitancy and shame. She was better than that.

(Besides, she knew the type of people on the base, and there was absolutely zero chance that the droid had never been asked something by them for an even weirder reason. If she thought about it, she'd probably instigated some of them; Atollon could get boring very quickly, and when you brushed against death on a near-daily basis, it was easily to develop a skewed sense of what was dangerous or a bad idea.)

“It's….” She licked her lips and started again. “It's for a blood oath, okay, and if I can't get it here I'll have to get it some other way, and I don't want to freak out Ez-- I don't want to disturb people any more than would happen regardless.”

She crossed her arms. "I'm going to do it anyways," she said. "I need my blood for this. And the last time I...." It was impossible for unaltered humans to both facepalm in embarrassment, and cross arms in defiance, at the same time; her muscles twitched before she realized that. "The last time I tried," she forced out, "I didn't get enough blood on what I wanted, Ketsu thought I was trying to kill myself, and I couldn't grip anything with that hand for ages because it was too sore. It was all around a bad idea. Very bad idea. I thought it would be...."

She uncrossed her arms and looked directly at Noisy. She needed to present her request as reasonable. Which it was, after all. "I thought it would be better if an actual medical professional took the blood. That would avoid any potential issues of infection or unintended injury, and minimize the care needed."

The droid appeared to be considering her statement. "I acknowledge your points," Noisy said. "I do not approve, yet I will tentatively agree to assist. How much blood would you require, and when would you need it?”

"Enough to fill... I don't have anything exact, but roughly this much?" she said, and indicated the size of the container.

"That amount can be safely removed from a human of your body mass, with minimal-to-no ill effects from blood loss. It should be safe, barring unforeseen factors."

Was that it?

"Additionally, have you accounted for the storage and preservation requirements, and what is the immediacy?"

Of course it wasn't that simple. Nothing ever was.

She tried to figure out what the droid was asking. She hadn't yet answered when she needed it, so maybe that was...? "Why are you asking me?" she said, just to fill in space while thinking. "You’re the professional, what do you think?"

She wasn't able to pick out any motion or vocalization, but something about Noisy made her think of someone shrugging their shoulders.

"Normally any blood extraction would be carried out for very specific purposes, with defined quantities and duration of storage. I shall restate my inquiry. You do not appear to have understood. Firstly, do you intend to use the blood for your 'oath' as soon as it has been acquired and you are at the appropriate setting?"

No. She knew that without thinking, but hadn't even realized she knew it, had already made that decision. That would mean doing everything right away: finding witnesses, facing Ezra (she still hadn't seen him yet that day and she hated that she was glad of it), gathering symbolic objects, thinking about symbolic objects and what they meant and why she needed to make an oath anyways, verbally acknowledging that there was a problem something was wrong and she wasn't going to make fun of him in any art he couldn't see and it was going to be an issue because he wouldn't be able to see and no matter what she swore it wouldn't make a difference and why had she even --

"I will not be using it today," she calmly said. "It might be in a few days, or a few weeks. I do not know at the moment."

She didn't know anything. All the information she'd gone over with Zeb was just that, information, and she didn't know how to best apply it, or how to apply it at all.

"Given that," the droid continued, "are you able to store and prepare your sample until it is used?"

She had a brief but vivid mental image of Hera accidentally using it as a condiment, and was torn between wanting to laugh and gag. "Can I keep it here?" she asked. "Is that possible?"

"It is possible, as there is currently adequate storage available. The situation may yet change; if so, I would contact you so you can make arrangements for alternate storage."

"Okay then. Let's do this." That sounded horrible. But what else could she say?

"Acknowledged. Are you able to expose the inner aspect of your elbow in your current attire, or will you require some privacy to change clothing?"

"No, I can roll up my sleeve." It wasn't obvious, with her armour, but she could. "Which arm?"

Noisy moved away again, she assumed to gather supplies. "Either would suffice, unless you are aware of any injuries or implants in the region that would interfere."

"Nothing like that," she confirmed.

"I shall be there momentarily."

She had no idea what she was doing. She'd had blood taken before, she was familiar with the process; but just, life in general, at the moment. To start with, Mandalorian culture did not have a tradition of blood oaths, as far as she knew. It was just something she had heard about that seemed meaningful to her, so she'd come up with her own rituals, just as binding to her as anything legally recognized. She was making it up as she went along, so she didn't have anyone she could turn to, for answers.

She didn't know if it was a good idea. She was still going to do it eventually, she'd decided, but would it actually help Ezra feel better? Even the tactile alphabet, which she had been so sure about... would it do any good, or help in any way other than distracting her?

At least she knew Zeb was just as lost as she was. And well, if she'd waited until she knew what she was doing, she never would have escaped the academy, and somehow things had ended up eventually working out. (Although she could have done without almost dying, thank you very much.)

The droid came back. Both of her sleeves were already rolled up, as she vaguely remembered something about "dominant arm", but wasn't sure if that was the side that should or shouldn't get poked. She didn't have anything to say as she felt the chill of the sterilizing solution on the inside of her elbow, or the brief pain of a needle being inserted, or saw her red flow into the transparent vial.

It was over so quickly. Like most important moments, if she thought about it. And in a case of her mind jumping to the exact worst possible thing, she remembered that when Kanan was blinded, it had happened in less than a second, from what she heard. That had been red too, but from a blade, not blood.

But Kanan was... well, nobody she knew could be accurately described as "okay", they all had too many problems from both inside and outside, but mostly as okay as he had been. She hadn't been okay either, for a long time, but she had gotten back into a functional state. It had happened before, and it would happen again, with this.

She had to believe it.

She blankly stared at the vial of blood, and the droid, and the droid's manipulator holding the vial. The colours played before her eyes, white and red and black in her peripheral vision. They made a vivid statement together, but she couldn't tell what it was saying.

"--ntact when you require it, although doing so ahead of time would be preferable. There is no guarantee that I will be unoccupied at any given moment, as emergencies do not happen on a set schedule."

It wasn't that droids were hard to pay attention to. It was her. She couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. She knew the sensation. It was uncomfortably familiar.

"Thank you," she said after a pause that was probably too long. "That's all I had to do here."

She wasn't made for rooms with such blank walls. Nobody was; well, except Noisy (the droid probably was literally made for rooms like that), but certainly not Ezra. He shouldn't have had to get life-changing bad news at all, but it must have been even worse, being somewhere with nothing to look at when told he wouldn't be able to look at anything in a few years.

It was too late to change anything that had already happened. All she could do was try to make sure it wouldn't happen again. Eventually, one way or another, she needed to bring some colour into that room. Everyone needed colour.

But what if they couldn't see it?

She left with the binder in her arms, feeling no better than when she had arrived.

[nyc-uws]

End of the Office: The Quiet, Grinding Loneliness of Working From Home

Before Covid-19, many of us thought remote working sounded blissful. Now, employees across the world long for chats by the coffee machine and the whirr of printers. The Guardian  Simon Usborne..

Dahlia Francis is sitting on a small couch at the foot of her bed, in her shared flat, on a housing estate in south London. She wears her new uniform of pyjama bottoms and a Zoom-ready plain T-shirt. Her room used to be a living room. Now the only communal space is the kitchen, where Francis’s three flatmates occupy a small dining table. They, like almost half of Britain’s workforce, are also working from home. 

Francis, who is 29, is a credit controller for a charity in central London. She commuted there, by bus and tube, for a little more than a year. There were baking competitions and quizzes and a kitchenette, where gossip and tea flowed freely. Now the kettle is silent and the cubicles are empty. They are likely to remain so for the rest of the year.

For the first few weeks after her office closed in late March, Francis was too busy to consider her new circumstances. Then they hit her – and got her down. Days spent in her bedroom hunched over a laptop, centimetres from where she slept, blurred into endless weeks. She has become lonely. 

Francis has worked for a tool hire firm and a betting chain, as well as for charities. The offices she remembers have taken on a different shape in her mind. “I used to think of a desk as like a kind of prison cell, where I was chained for eight hours a day,” she tells me over the phone. “It was always like serving time. But, at this point, my desk would be my saviour.” 

 Lockdown has not so much redrawn the workplace of millions as it has chewed it up like a broken printer. Working from home, a mode traditionally viewed with suspicion by bosses and with envy by commuting bureausceptics, has become the norm for those whose livings are tied to computer screens.

As weeks become months and offices remain closed, many are predicting their permanent decline. Buildings that for decades have defined urban geography, diurnal rhythms and the meaning of work may never hum in the same way to the sounds of keyboards and fluorescent lighting.

  “I’ve spoken to about eight startups that have already got rid of their office,” says Matt Bradburn, the co-founder of London-based People Collective, which advises companies on human resources. “And we’re talking companies of 50 to 100 people.” Elsewhere, firms including Twitter and Facebook have said they will allow employees to work from home for ever. 

The potential demise of commutes and the soul-sapping trappings of office life is a cause of celebration for many among the 49% of workers now toiling at home. But for people such as Francis, whose flat is unsuited to work, offices provide space to share ideas, socialise and maintain a work-life divide that has become hopelessly blurred.

According to a survey by the global financial services company Jefferies, 61% of more than 1,500 UK respondents said they would return to work immediately if they could. Facebook says half of its employees will work from home by 2030, but Mark Zuckerberg said only one in five were enthusiastic about doing so. More than half “really want to get back to the office as soon as possible”, he told the Wall Street Journal.

 When Bradburn polled his network of more than 5,000 HR bosses, he asked for the biggest reasons their teams had shared for wanting to go back to the office. Seventy per cent cited social and mental health issues, including feelings of loneliness. “I think young people in particular really need that connection,” Bradburn says.

 The effects of working from home have been little studied, partly because remote working was pretty rare until this spring. The proportion of the UK workforce who worked “mainly” at home went from 4% to 5% in the UK between 2015 and 2019, according to the Office for National Statistics. Permanent home working was vanishingly rare.

“It’s always been a pretty backwater topic,” says Nick Bloom, a British economics professor at Stanford University in California and an expert in home working. The last time Bloom’s phone rang so much was 2013, he says, when Marissa Mayer, then the chief executive of Yahoo, banned remote working. “Speed and quality are often sacrificed when we work from home,” read a leaked memo to staff.

 The assumption has been that remote workers slack without direct supervision. But do they? In 2010, a Chinese travel agency with 16,000 employees came to Bloom in search of evidence. Ctrip, which assumed workers would prefer being at home, was spending big money on offices in Shanghai. It wanted to know what remote work might do for the bottom line. “Their proposition was that they’d save on rent, but lose on productivity,” Bloom says.   

 Bloom devised a trial – the first of its kind – involving 250 members of a Ctrip call centre. Half of the group were selected at random to work from home for nine months. The other half would continue to work in the office and the productivity of both teams would be measured.  

 None of Ctrip’s assumptions were right. Productivity in the home group went up by 13%. Without the distractions of the office, agents were making more calls and taking fewer breaks and sick days. “They were truly stunned by the results,” Bloom says of Ctrip. Its executives calculated not only that they could save millions in rent, but also that they could make $2,000 (then about £1,300) more in profit annually per employee. 

But the experiment also measured happiness. When Ctrip polled staff, half of the home-based group wanted to go back to the office. “Loneliness was the single biggest reason,” Bloom says. Plus, they were not in lockdown conditions: only people with a spare room took part; none had children at home or flatmates; and they still worked one day a week in the office.

 Bloom is now constantly fielding calls from anxious executives. “They have said productivity has been great and they’re thinking of abandoning the office,” he says. “I’m counselling that it’s shortsighted and high-risk.” Bloom had always been supportive of remote working, if not full-time, even after the Ctrip experiment. “Now I feel like I’ve gone from being an evangelist for working from home to an evangelist for the office,” he says.

 Erin Mackenzie, 23, knows what it can be like to work remotely full-time without the stresses of lockdown. In the summer of 2019, she got a junior marketing job with an online education company based in the Middle East. Mackenzie, who lives in a small house in a small town 50 miles north of New York City, thought working from home would be great. 

After four months of long days alone at the tiny desk in her bedroom, Mackenzie had a panic attack. She had lost weight and become depressed. “At first, I thought it was because the job was demanding, but I realised it was more the isolation and not being able to interact with people,” she says. “I hadn’t realised I’d relied on that so heavily for my mental health.” 

Mackenzie also felt suffocated by the digital monitoring, which was already becoming standard in big firms. Hers was relatively light. An agenda app would track tasks and alert faceless bosses when they were done. Response times to chats were noted. “It definitely added to me feeling like I didn’t have set hours and the anxiety of it all,” she says.

If offices were to evolve to extract as much as possible from human resources, there are concerns that firms would use technology to tighten the screws further in our homes. Interest in the software offered by Teramind, a Florida-based employee monitoring and analytics firm with more than 2,000 clients, has tripled in lockdown. When downloaded to employees’ computers, Teramind’s “agent” can measure time spent on different windows. It can play back or live-stream a view of an employee’s screen and record his or her every keystroke. It can also raise a flag if certain predetermined words are typed.

Before lockdown, 70% of Teramind’s clients were concerned about security – leaks of sensitive information, for example – while 30% saw productivity as the priority. “Now, it’s flipped,” says Eli Sutton, the firm’s head of operations. But he rejects the suggestion of Orwellian overtones. “I can say first-hand that employers have better things to do than to spy on you all day,” he says. “Teramind is an extra set of eyes to make sure distractions aren’t causing issues.”

Will Gosling, who leads Deloitte’s consulting on “human capital” in the UK, says: “We’re at the beginning of a very big ethical debate about this. We were already seeing businesses wanting to get more data on employees and the pandemic has brought it into sharp focus … but they need to support and build health and wellbeing.” 

Trade unions worry that working from home will challenge privacy and rights, making it harder for employees to organise or be aware of how colleagues are being treated, particularly in the most onerous fields of white-collar work. There are questions about liability. Mental health is part of the picture. “Employers have a responsibility to ensure worker wellbeing and that doesn’t end just because people are not in the office,” says Tim Sharp, the senior policy officer for employment rights at the Trades Union Congress.

Mackenzie quit after the panic attack and got a job with an insurer. She immediately felt better, even while enduring a two-hour commute to Manhattan for her training. She now works in a smaller office a short drive from home – or, rather, she did until the pandemic. It helps that she now works for a better, kinder company. Her fiance is working at home, too. “Without him here, I probably would have crumbled,” she says. 

At their best, offices are crucibles for ideas and lifelong friendships, particularly among younger workers with small homes but big social circles. The Office was not just a comic study of business park malaise – it was a love story. Working from home may boost productivity for a while, “but it’s so costly in terms of creativity and inspiration”, Bloom says. “We’re all suffering from Zoom overload and feeling worn down.”

Flick Adkins, who is 28, counts some of her colleagues as her best friends. For three months, she has been cut off from them while working from the flat she shares with five other people in north London. She works for LRWTonic, a market research company, and takes a lot of private calls. She has to sit cross-legged on her bed, stacking her laptop on part of her vinyl collection. She has settled on 20 records as the optimal height.

Adkins’s now empty office has a ping pong table and a coffee machine, where she would chat with friends before starting her day. On Fridays, she and her 20 mostly young colleagues would go out for lunch and have drinks after work.

 Like Francis, Adkins feels lonely, down and unmotivated. “Having an office was symbolic of normality,” she says. “I loved just being at my desk and hearing the buzz and all the conversations … I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve said: ‘I don’t know much longer I can do this.’”

 Last month, Adkins’s boss, Anna Dunn, floated with her team the idea of ditching the office for good and saving £200,000 a year in rent. “I said that the money would be distributed to them in a bonus, to some degree,” Dunn, 40, says from her kitchen. She, too, misses the office. “I thought there might be this desire to stay remote, but not one person does. They all want to go back.” 

The sounds of the office have a new resonance. More than half a million people have tuned into The Sound of Colleagues, a web page and Spotify playlist of workplace sounds, including keyboards, printers, chatter and coffee machines. Red Pipe, a Swedish music and sound studio, created it in April as a joke, but its data suggests that people keep it on in the background.

 Progressive employers are racing to find ways to recreate the joys and perks of office life. Google is laying on cookery classes and mindfulness sessions, as well as offering $1,000 (£780) to each employee for equipment. Lauren Whitt, Google’s wellness manager and resilience lead, says demand has grown for her team’s services, which include video counselling and therapy by text for people who lack privacy. “We’re also seeing more families having more access [to these services],” she adds.

 If reports of the death of the office have been exaggerated, everyone agrees it won’t look the same. Bloom envisages a new landscape of smaller offices, with employees alternately working at home for half the week to bring down costs and make physical distancing more viable. Budgets for nice interiors will fall. “I think the office will be more suburban, more spacious and nastier-looking,” he says.

Francis would not care. When I speak to her, she has taken a week of holiday. She had anxiety before the pandemic, which partly expressed itself in a need to be busy all the time. But, after three months of sometimes 12-hour days and a deepening sense of unease, burnout has become a worrying prospect. Not that she can really escape her place of work. “I’m just sort of winging it this week and not planning too much,” she says from her bedroom couch. “I just need a bit of time to gather myself.”                    

Simon Usborne is a freelance feature writer and reporter based in London. He was previously a feature writer and an editor at The Independent.

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