#literally crammed most of it in like 5-6 hours straight yesterday

[biromanticwritergal]

My head fucking hurts because I just finished my final paper for my grad class. I'll tumblr summarize it in a fun way:

My paper boils down to D.H. Lawrence screaming about a confusing communist but weirdly sexist utopia. No social classes any more but women, you get back in the kitchen now so men feel better about themselves...(I wish I were kidding, but I'm sadly not).

In response, Radclyffe Hall is yelling about lesbians and how her butch Stephen Gordon is a better protagonist than the caveman Mellors (and she is).

Meanwhile, Virginia Woolf is quietly suggesting bisexual women exist with her kiss between Clarissa and Sally in Mrs. Dalloway. She's whispering behind Hall's yelling, just to see what happens.

People are too distracted by Hall yelling at Lawrence and everyone in general to properly notice Woolf's suggestion.

Lawrence starts crying because Woolf and Hall are both 'new women' who don't like him and never will... MODERNISM!

[cywscross]

Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4 | Pt.5 | Pt.6 | Pt.7 | Pt.8 | Pt.9

bloop

After a couple days and still no sign of his dad at home, Stiles is too impatient to wait any longer so he ambushes the man at the station instead, waves the papers at him, and flails about how awesome the tech camp will be.  He’s caught him at the perfect time too – the Sheriff is on the phone, probably with someone important, and he already looks exasperated before Stiles even opens his mouth.  Stiles only needs to ramble for about forty-five seconds for his dad to get the gist of it, and after an absent scan of the info package and permission slip, he signs his name on the dotted line, mouths have fun and make sure you have your phone turned on at Stiles, and then goes back to his phone call and whoever is squawking at him at the other end of the line.

Stiles suppresses a fist-pump and ducks back out of the office post haste instead, waving at Jenna on his way out the door and stuffing the papers away in his bag with his other hand. The Sheriff’s used to Stiles finding himself something to do over the summer anyway, whether that’s hanging out with Scott or (fake-)visiting people out of state, and so long as he doesn’t do anything that will land him in a jailcell (or anyone else in a jailcell for that matter), John Stilinski is just relieved Stiles won’t be around to stumble his way neck-deep into some kind of trouble that will mean giant headaches for everyone involved.

Parental supervision taken care of for the summer, Stiles hurries home to finish packing.  Peter will be doing the same, and Stiles will swing by to pick him up early tomorrow morning.

Afterwards, he does a quick run-through of the house, making sure nothing is too dusty and the garbage is taken out.  He did the shopping earlier but he double-checks the fridge anyway, making sure it’s stocked with frozen foods and boxed leftovers, the latter for which he quickly writes ‘EAT THESE FIRST’ on a slip of paper before taping that on top of one of the containers.

Almost eighteen years and Stiles honestly still doesn’t know whether or not his father can whip up anything more complicated than a cheese sandwich.  Claudia did all the cooking when she was still alive and well.  Then there was a period of time in-between when he and his dad literally ate nothing but takeout and instant noodles and canned soup.  And once Stiles managed to teach himself, he’s been doing the cooking ever since. If the Sheriff ever cooked, Stiles can’t remember it.

So when he’s not around, he always makes sure the house has enough food to feed his dad, even if it is terribly unhealthy, but it’s not like he doesn’t know the Sheriff sneaks burgers and other junk on a near-daily basis anyway.  He just pretends he doesn’t know because he’s long since resigned himself to the fact that all his health lectures will always go in one ear and out the other when it comes to his father.  Sometimes, Jenna manages to redirect the man from the nearest In-N-Out or pizza place to somewhere that actually serves a rounder meal, at Stiles’ request, but Stiles understands that the Sheriff is still her boss and she can’t actually order him to eat something healthier, especially since it’s personal business.  So Stiles makes up for it during the meals that his dad shows up for, and it’s why he almost always ignores him whenever the man complains about all the vegetable dishes Stiles serves him.  Very rarely, he gets steak with his pasta, along with a large side of asparagus, but that’s the extent of Stiles’ leniency.

The Sheriff will get the whole summer to indulge his terrible eating habits this time, and the mere thought of it is almost enough to make Stiles want to cut his trip short.

Almost.  But Stiles also thinks of open roads and city lights, and he remembers sitting at the back of a bus, crammed in the corner by a window as it trundles along the quiet countryside in the early hours of the day, taking him from one town to the next as he watches the sun creep over the horizon through sleepy eyes, and there’s no way he’s giving that up.

He sweeps through the rest of the house, pausing to tape more instructions in the laundry room because his dad is okay with the dishwasher but Stiles knows he always gets the washing machine and dryer settings wrong when he has to do his own laundry.  Fortunately, it’s a problem that can be prevented easily enough.

He leaves the weekly shopping list on the dining table with the envelope of discount coupons, and beside that on another sheet of paper, Stiles scribbles a reminder to eat at least a few salads, to not work too hard and sleep in an actual bed, and to be careful while he’s at work.  It’ll probably make the Sheriff roll his eyes but at least Stiles can say he tried.

Duties taken care of, Stiles finishes off yesterday’s leftovers for dinner before getting ready for bed.  He’s planning to be up by four, and he doesn’t want to oversleep.

His phone buzzes just as he’s pulling the blankets over his shoulder.  When he checks, it’s a message:

:I’ll see you in the morning, Stiles.:

Only Peter, Stiles muses, could make a simple text sound like both a threat and something between a question and an expectation at the same time.

:430am: He types back.  :don’t oversleep or il call u lazywolf forever:

:I would never.:

:Goodnight, Stiles.:

:nite peter:

At 4:28am the next morning, Stiles pulls up outside Peter’s apartment building to find Peter already sitting on the bottom step of the stairwell waiting for him.

“G’morning,” Stiles mumbles around the coffee he just bought, thrusting the second one at Peter as the werewolf slides into the passenger seat and tosses his duffel and sleeping bag into the back.

“Good morning,” Peter casts an amused glance at him as he balances the coffee between his thighs and digs into the McDonald’s paper bag for a breakfast burger.  “Don’t wrap us around a tree before we even get out of town, Stiles.”

Stiles cracks a yawn. “I just need the caffeine to kick in, and then I’m good to go.  You got your passport and stuff together?”

Peter nods, fishing out his wallet.  “Driver’s license too, and I have access to one of my bank accounts again.”  He smirks almost grimly.  “I always knew it was a good idea to keep a private account that my family didn’t know about.  And things get done much faster when people owe you a favour or two on the illegal side of life.”

Stiles rolls his eyes but he can’t exactly refute that.  And at least Peter has his identity and some money again.  He already knows the werewolf still hasn’t gone to Derek to ask for his share of the Hale Pack money, never mind the insurance payouts from the fire, and Stiles can’t even blame him.  Stiles wouldn’t go begging either.  It feels wrong to have to ask for that kind of thing from someone in the first place when at least part of it – if not most, considering Derek wouldn’t even have been working six years ago and therefore wouldn’t have contributed a single dime to the family accounts – should rightfully belong to Peter, and doubly so when that someone is both your family and your murderer.  There’s just something seriously twisted about that.

He takes one more gulp of coffee before setting that aside and pulling out of the parking lot.  It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to merge onto the road that would lead them out of Beacon Hills, and another ten minutes sees them driving past the Thank You For Visiting Beacon Hills! sign.

“So where to first?” Peter enquires, absently rolling the window down to let the wind riffle their hair.

“Maps are in the glovebox,” Stiles tells him.  “But I was thinking we could head up to San Francisco first before crossing the Oakland Bay Bridge and going straight east from there?”

Peter shrugs.  “Sounds good.  I haven’t been to San Francisco in years.”

“I went last year, and the year before that, but I always just passed through,” Stiles admits. “Maybe we can stop for a day or two this time?  If you can remember any favourite restaurants or something, we can go to those.”

Peter brightens.  “The Orpheum Theatre, Stiles.  That’s a must if we’re stopping.  Maybe we can even watch something if tickets haven’t been sold out.”

He whips out his phone and presumably begins looking up shows and availability.  Stiles grins and turns most of his attention back on the road. He can’t say he’s been to many theatres – there’s only one in Beacon Hills with an actual stage anyway – but hey, he likes musicals, and it’s nice to see Peter already enjoying himself, with plans of his own for their road trip.  Stiles was a little worried that Peter only wanted to come because he didn’t want to be left behind, and that was probably a part of it, but it looks like the werewolf’s pretty happy about the road trip itself too.

He speeds up as they turn onto paved street, and Peter glances up, looking almost startled.  The first rays of dawn are streaking up over the trees and across the sky from their right, making the leaves glimmer green-gold and painting brushstrokes of orange gilded with the faintest hues of pale blue across the dark night canvas.

Something in Peter’s expression eases at the sight, like an invisible weight being taken off, and it erases some of the lines on his face.

“…I’d forgotten,” Peter murmurs after a long moment of peaceful morning silence, with only the wind crooning in their ears.

Stiles glances at him even as Peter’s gaze remains riveted on the view blurring past the half-open window on his side.  The man tilts his head back and settles deeper into his seat, putting his phone away in favour of unwrapping his burger.

For a while, it doesn’t seem as if he’ll finish his thought, but then he says, quietly, “I’d forgotten, that the world isn’t always so terrible.”

Stiles says nothing in response.  It doesn’t seem like something that needs an answer.

Not when he started travelling to remind himself of that exact same reason.

They reach San Francisco a little before nine, and they end up checking into a hotel just a ten-minute walk away from the Orpheum Theatre.  They drop off their bags and duck out again to sightsee, with Peter taking the lead as familiar locations come back to him.  They go to City Hall, the Opera House, and a truly astounding number of churches. Peter’s fascinated with their history, and Stiles learns more about their architecture and design, reconstruction post-earthquake, and even famous events that took place in them than he ever did at school.

They stop for tacos in-between before Peter shows him the Main Library.  It’s a large white building, with seven floors total and a glass ceiling.

“I’m pretty sure I saw this place in City of Angels,” Stiles mutters.

Peter rolls his eyes and drags him off to see the Asian Art Museum next door, which is apparently where the old Main Library used to be before the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989 hit it.

“Are you sure you were a lawyer and not a history professor or architect or something?”  Stiles asks suspiciously.

“Very sure,” Peter snorts, mouth twisting oddly.  “…Teaching history wouldn’t really have benefitted the pack, so it was always more of a hobby for me.”

Stiles studies him for a moment, and he doesn’t push when Peter doesn’t continue.  Instead, he points at a colourful mural on one side of the building they’re standing in front of.  “Tell me about that.”

Peter’s more than happy to continue as Stiles’ tour guide, but they do eventually need to head back to the hotel for a shower and a bite to eat if they want to make it to the production at the Orpheum Theatre tonight.

They watch Billy Elliot, and it’s a lot better than Stiles thought a live theatre production would be.  Beside him, Peter stays intent and focused the entire show, only stirring for intermission, and he almost looks teary-eyed at one point.  Stiles spends the time with one eye on the stage and one on Peter – he can’t help it, it’s one of the most human moments he’s ever seen Peter in, and he thinks that’s more fascinating than the production.

The actors deserve the huge round of applause at the end, but the enthusiasm Peter shows still takes Stiles by surprise.  The smile on his face, even more so.

“Did you have fun?” Peter asks on their out with the chattering crowd.  The werewolf slants an amused look at him.  “What with staring at me the whole time.  We could’ve stayed at the hotel for that if I’d realized you were so fascinated by my face.”

Stiles flushes.  Busted.  “I wasn’t- well, I mean, not the whole time.  And,” he tacks on defensively, “you were… different today.  Happier, I guess.  And I’ve just never seen that before.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “I assure you, Stiles, I have been quite happy spending time with you over the past couple of months.”

Stiles’ cheeks feel hotter than ever, and he splutters wordlessly for a moment, floundering for something to say.  Nobody’s ever-

“I just mean you were happy over doing something!”  Stiles hastily amends.

-told him they were happy to spend time with him before.

“I had no idea you were such a history buff!”  Stiles rambles on, not giving Peter time to say anything else potentially embarrassing. “And you really like theatre, huh?”

“When performed well, yes,” Peter nods.  “And tonight’s was excellent.”

“It was pretty good,” Stiles agrees, relaxing a little.  “I’ve never been to one before so it was interesting to see how different it was from movies.”

You poor deprived child, Peter’s face practically screams, and Stiles has to roll his eyes and dig a pointy elbow into the man’s ribs. Peter flashes his eyes back at him, as playful as they are bright under the sidewalk lights.

They make their way back to the hotel, and they’re both tired enough to retire to their room directly, ordering room service instead of going out to find someplace to eat.  The room isn’t big but it’s comfortable enough for two, furnished with two twin beds, a clean bathroom, and a table and two armchairs they can eat at.

“Did you stay at hotels when you travelled alone?”  Peter asks after swallowing a mouthful of his halibut dish marinated in a garlic-butter sauce.

“Cheap ones mostly,” Stiles shrugs, reaching for his water.  “Sometimes I slept on the bus if it was an overnight one.  And once I walked from Portland to the next town so I just found trees and bushes to sleep under.”  He grins at the appalled expression Peter aims at him.  “It wasn’t that bad.  Better than sleeping in some stranger’s car when they gave me a ride, right?  And you’d have no problem doing the same if you went on a road trip without a car.”

Peter actually presses a hand over his eyes for a moment before lowering it and giving Stiles the flattest, most unimpressed look possible.  “Yes, but unlike you, I can rip anyone’s throat out if they’re stupid enough to try something.”

Stiles just waves a dismissive hand.  “I was fine though.  So you know, all’s well that ends well, right?”

Peter heaves a deep sigh like the dramatic asshole he is.  Stiles rolls his eyes.  “I’m alive.  I never even had to stun-gun anybody.”

Peter still looks kind of dubious but at least he eases up on the judgemental concern routine upon hearing Stiles – obviously, because he’s not stupid – at least carried around a weapon.

“You worry too much,” Stiles tells him, returning to his fish.  “Besides, I have you this time, and I promise if anybody attacks us, you can put the fear of God in them.  I draw the line at killing them though, unless they try to kill us first.  And I have my jeep.  I didn’t tell you to bring a sleeping bag just so it can take up space, you know.  The backseat of my car folds down, and we won’t be able to stretch out or anything, but it should be big enough for two when we stop in the middle of nowhere.”

Peter sighs again but relents with a nod.  After a moment’s consideration, he adds, “It’s not that I think you can’t take care of yourself, Stiles, but there are still a lot of things out there that won’t spare you just because you’re young.”

Stiles snorts and jabs his fork at him.  “I already know that, Peter.”

Peter studies him for a long minute before nodding again.  “Yes, I suppose you do.”

The matter is dropped, much to Stiles’ relief.  Peter’s never been prone to pushing an issue further than Stiles can stand, so there’s that at least.

They finish the rest of the meal in companionable silence.  Peter pushes the cart back out into the hallway afterwards, and Stiles ducks into the bathroom first to get ready for bed.

The room has two twin beds so they each get to claim one.  He’s used to being in much closer proximity with Peter than this so it doesn’t feel too strange as he watches the werewolf check the locks before getting into bed as well.  He spares a few seconds to tap out a text message to his dad that he’d arrived safely at camp before plugging his phone in to charge.  Peter uses the other socket for his own phone, and then he reaches over to click off the lamp, leaving the room awash with shadows.

“Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“You had fun today too, right?”

There’s a helpless sort of fondness in Peter’s voice when he responds.  “Silly boy.  Of course I did.”

“Good.”