#literally got out of the shower and thought 'i should open the doc and reread that bit' like babe

[grinchwrapsupreme]

allowing yourself to write a novel will drive you insane actually i used to sing in the shower and now i think about Plot Points in there

[sevensided]

how did you get into writing fic? i'd love to start but idk even where to begin! I loved adats so I was wondering do you have any advice?

Oh my goodness! I am so flattered you’ve asked me this. Yes, I can absolutely help. I’ll throw a bunch of rambling under the cut.

I started writing fic probably when I was... sixteen years old? A lot of my early works were oneshots. I couldn’t figure out how to do anything plot heavy for the life of me, so I just stuck to AUs or whatever I felt like. I wasn’t in any particular fandom -- I really wrote whatever I had ideas for. I remember I tried once to do a plot-heavy story and I received a review absolutely ripping it to shreds. Like, it was so cruel I cried lol. I ended up deleting the fic. Years later, I get what they were trying to say (basically, more substance, less style), but at the time it cut to the quick. Really, it was only when I was in my twenties that I started writing work that was longer and/or better.

The fandom that helped me actually write plot heavy work was a historical-based fandom. As I’m a historian, it was perfect. I got to use my research skills and knowledge to create works that, above all, aimed to feel authentic. I mainly read historical fiction, so I was familiar with how that genre worked. Miraculously, people loved my work. I think I wrote about ~200k in the period of a year? These were several short stories (20-40k) and a few oneshot filler fics. While I was part of this fandom I also helped organise a Big Bang which was a lot of hard work but was extremely rewarding. Along with that, I interacted mainly with other fic writers, so I spent a lot of time chatting to people about ideas and encouraging other writers, and it just created a lovely medley where no concept was impossible or any line of dialogue too difficult. We supported each other and it was truly like a little commune. I gradually stepped away from the fandom mainly because it was just a part of my life at a very specific time, and almost as soon as that time was over, my love for that story/ship faded, but I firmly believe I figured out a lot of how/what I do now purely through that experience.

Regarding ADATS

With ADATS, it stemmed entirely from wanting to “explain” three months in canon (at the end of season three). I was interested in the idea of season four setting up Will/Mike in canon, and I wanted to test the source material to see if I could draw from what already existed to create something authentic. I began with that simple idea: what happened from July to October in 1985? Then I thought about the major themes I wanted to hit -- family, friendship, coming of age, sexuality -- and I nested them around the bigger concept: how do I get Mike from being ostensibly straight to realising he is gay? That meant thinking of two steps: Mike discovering his attraction to guys; Mike discovering his attraction to Will. Those two concepts were separate “arcs” that needed addressing in different ways. Balance was key to weaving them together and making the reader feel like they knew what was coming (and that they felt smart for putting the pieces together) without just rushing through and going “now kiss!” That’s partly why ADATS needs a sequel, lol: because it’s not finished!

Writing process

The first thing I do when I start to get an idea is I write it down. Sounds obvious. But when you have a killer line of dialogue come to you in the shower and you think “I’ll remember that” -- reader, you will not remember it. You gotta get it down ASAP! I do that the whole way through, as generally I’ll be thinking of scenes I’m stuck on and then it’ll just come to me and I’ll quickly jot it down.

The next thing -- or what I do in the meantime -- is start structuring. I plan. I try to plan a lot. Sometimes it’s okay to write “and something happens here to get them here”, because you’ll figure it out later, but for the most part I’ve discovered that planning is like gold and you can’t get enough of it. I break my work up into generally 3-4 parts/sections, and I treat each section like a mini story. So each part needs a conflict and resolution, and it needs to flow into the next section. You need to have a feeling of things evolving and maturing. Once I’ve planned those little bits, I start thinking about the bigger plot arc and how I can drop in hints along the way. I’m probably not a subtle or skilled enough writer to yet pull off that sort of gasping twist you get in really excellent books, but I’m trying to get there. It’s hard, is what I’m trying to say, but that’s okay, because we’re all learning.

Then I generally do aesthetic stuff. Sounds stupid, probably. But nothing helps me get more into a mood than doing a Pinterest board or -- most of all -- making a Spotify mix. I start thinking about the vibe and the general atmosphere, and then I almost exclusively listen to that mix when I’m working. Sort of like muscle memory? Just to get the creative juices associated with that particular selection of songs.

Another thing I’ll do along with plot structure is character structure. This is a biggie. I mean, a story is nothing without characters. So I’ll just jot down a bunch of bullet points of characters and particular aspects that I want to highlight or remember. I hate continuity errors in fiction. Like, if someone says they work on Maple Street but later in the fic they’re working on Pine Street. I hate that. So I keep note of specific things that my main character might notice at repeated points in the story (colours, places, smells, names, sounds -- so they’re all consistent even as the narrative evolves). That’s another thing -- your characters’ motivations. Not everyone is going to be a huge player, but they all do serve a purpose. The most important character is obviously your main character. I personally think it’s important to let your M.C. be an arse at times. They’re going to be mean, they’re going to misinterpret things or fly off the handle... just let ‘em. Let them be wretched humans, and then bring them back and make them realise what they’ve done. Let them learn! I love consequences in fiction, lol.

At the same time, I’ll probably start writing. We’ve already written down some snippets of neat dialogue or descriptions, but now we should start the actual process. For me, I used to start at the beginning. Usually this was the most fleshed out anyway: I’ll have a clear idea of the beginning and the end, but nothing in the middle. These days, if I have a scene in mind that I can’t forget, I’ll just write it. It will possibly get scrapped or rewritten, but that’s okay, because at least you’ve got it down and now you can devote your brain power to something useful (like figuring out what the middle is supposed to be). I’ll have half a dozen of totally out of context scenes just littered in my Word document that I’ll add to as I go along. Eventually, though, you’re going to start writing properly, and that’s when you write your opening scene.

Opening scenes: super important. Every time I write a scene I think: what is the point of this? What do I want the reader to learn or takeaway? Sometimes you do have filler scenes, but they also serve a different purpose (perhaps to establish a group dynamic or to explore/describe a character’s surroundings). Mainly, though, every scene should push something forward in some way, whether it’s character development or a plot point. So, with an opening scene, I always think you have to establish: where you are; who you are; what they are doing; where they’ve come from (in a philosophical and practical sense); and where they’re going (ditto). That doesn’t have to happen in the first paragraph -- that would be silly. But if you sprinkle that information in over time it’ll gradually build up a picture of your character and that way the reader can get an idea of who they are. You basically need to give a snapshot of what your story is about. This also goes back to the character creator stuff: where they are at the start should be different to where they end up. How that happens is, of course, because of plot, and because you’ve structured everything to the nth degree, we’ve got a very clear progression of that character’s growth (/s easier said than done lol).

General advice

Write down everything: every idea, a bit of dialogue, a description, whatever. Write it down. Doesn’t have to be neat. Just has to be on paper. You can’t remember everything, so if you’re spending time trying to hold those things in your head, it’s taking up space for new ideas to come along.

Structure, plan, structure, plan. Sometimes it’s boring and I hate it. Other times, when I’ve not written in a few days and I open the Word doc and think wtf is this supposed to be, I am very grateful for Past Me for leaving such detailed notes. Seriously, it helps so much. Oneshots don’t really need planning, in my experience. You just get those out there. But multi-chaptered stories really do, even ones that “just” focus on a relationship.

Whatever you want to write, commit to it. Space goblins invade Hawkins? Do it. Eleven and Max find themselves in a cult akin to Midsommar (2019) and must escape? Yes. Just... whatever you want to do, remember that you’re writing it for you. Write what most interests you, what makes you when you reread it go AHHHHH I LOVE THIS!! Because that makes it a thousand times easier to actually get on with the writing when you enjoy what you’re doing.

Write a lot. Every day, if you can, or at least at designated times. Occasionally I have a very specific headspace/vibe I have to be in, but sometimes it just hits me and I’ll say to my partner “I need to write now” and just disappear, lol. The more you write the more you write. It’s so, so, so true. Cannot emphasise this enough. When I wrote that ~200k in twelve months? It was because I literally wrote every. day. Or near enough. Remember that some days you’ll write 200 words, and other days you’ll write 20k (this happened to me with ADATS -- part of the reason I finished it so quickly was because I had sprints of writing 10k+ at a time that only happened because I was in the rhythm of it). Write, write, write. Who cares if it’s crap! No one will see it until you are ready. In the meantime, just write!

Probably last of all (although I could go on and on) is connect with other writers. If you’re struggling to start, sometimes just talking about it can help a huge amount. I hope it goes without saying that you can message me whenever you want, anon or not, and I will talk to you. We can talk about ideas or I can beta stuff, whatever you want! Find like-minded people and talk to them about what you want to do. Another thing this helps is in advertising your work when you do publish. I see a lot of first time fic writers get super down because they publish their magnum opus on AO3 but no one comments. Honestly, it’s because no one knows you’ve published! You don’t have to be tooting your own horn every which way, but just actively talking about your work and even collaborating with other content creators with get you hyped and other people too (and the input and encouragement other fandom members give is just... out of this world. Anon messages helped me finish ADATS when I was really worried I wouldn’t [that’s the truth]. Seriously, support is everything). When you have people excited about your work, you get excited. It’s really as simple as that.

I could go on but this is already horrendously long. I hope even a bit of this helps! If you want to chat or have any more questions, just hit me up any time.

[thelastspeecher]

King Stansort AU - Shermie

During a break from working on my thesis defense, I opened up my Stansort AU doc on a whim to reread some stuff, like I often do.  And I stumbled across something I had written but never finished, so never posted.  So, naturally, I finished off the thing (it was almost done anyways) and here it is: Shermie finally showing up in the AU where Stan marries a foreign princess and becomes a king consort.  Think of it as something to tide you all over until I update “Recoil” next week.

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              “Mr. Pines?”  Shermie looked up from the stack of homework he was currently sifting through.  He beamed at one of his favorite students, Devin.

              “What’s up, Devin?” he asked kindly.  Devin chewed on his lip.

              “I, um…”  Devin took a breath.  “Do you have a brother named Stanley?”

              “…Yes, I do,” Shermie said.  He leaned back in his chair.  “How did you know that?”

              “Well, for Social Studies, we have to bring in a current event every week and explain it,” Devin said, talking much faster than he usually did. Dread began to mount in Shermie’s chest.

              If Stan’s on the news, that can’t be good.

              “And my mom, she was helping me find a current event to bring in,” Devin continued.  “She likes following royal stuff, even royal stuff from places like Denmark or whatever. Not just England, like most people.” Shermie nodded silently.  “So she told me to- to use this.”  Devin dug a piece of paper out of his backpack and placed it on Shermie’s desk.  “I thought that the guy looked sorta like you, and then I read that he had the same last name and was from New Jersey like you are and is- is that your brother?” Shermie stared down at the piece of paper.  It was a printout of a news article from online, with a large image at the top of the page.  The image was a picture of two people dressed in fine clothes being showered with petals. And one of the people was unmistakably Stan.

              “Yes, that is my brother,” Shermie said in a thick voice.  He cleared his throat.  “Do you need this back or-”

              “No, I’ve- I’ve got two copies.  Just in case you wanted to keep that one,” Devin said.  Shermie nodded.  “Are you upset?”

              “What?  No! No, I’m not.  Just surprised.”  Shermie smiled in a reassuring manner.  “And thankful.  Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”  Devin nodded jerkily.  “You should probably go if you don’t want to be late for your next class.”

              “Right!  Okay, bye, Mr. Pines!”  Shermie waved at Devin as he raced out of the classroom.  He looked back at the article resting on his desk.

              “American Pauper Marries European Princess”?  That’s…how did Stan do that?  I doubt any of us would be able to marry royalty, but Stan seems the least likely.  He’s not refined at all.  Shermie picked the piece of paper up and stared intently at the picture.  There was no one else it could be, other than Stan. Stan seemed well-groomed, well-kempt, and euphoric as he beamed at his new wife.  Guilt trickled into Shermie.  Stan had been kicked out while Shermie was deployed and was long gone by the time his tour ended.  It was something that weighed on Shermie; the wondering of whether things might have gone differently if he’d been there or gotten home sooner or even tried just a bit harder to find Stan.  Clearly, I didn’t need to, if he married a princess.  But still…

              “Hi, Mr. Pines!”  A voice shocked Shermie from his thoughts.  He forced a smile at the flood of students entering his classroom.

              “Hello, Bethany,” he replied, unable to see her in the mass but recognizing her voice.  He shook off the guilt and regret.

              I have to focus.  My students don’t deserve to lose out on English class just because I found out where my brother is.  He managed a half-smile.  Even if they’d prefer to spend the whole period doing anything but learning.

----- 

              When he arrived home, Shermie dropped his bags by the front door, kissed his wife Amelia and their young son, Caleb, and made a beeline for the desktop computer.  A quick search on the internet for “Stanley Pines” resulted in dozens of hits about Shermie’s younger brother, almost all linked to his relationship with royalty. Specifically, the royal family of the small European country of Lirone.

              Lirone?  I’ve never heard of it.  Shermie clicked a few links, trying to get as much information as quickly as possible into Stan’s current circumstances.  Then again, I’m not a geography teacher.  He spent well over an hour diving into articles on Stan, Lirone, and the Lirone royal family, only stopping when his wife called him for dinner.

              “In a minute, love,” he said absent-mindedly, still focused intently on an article detailing Stan’s wedding.  Amelia walked into the living room and propped a hand on her hip.

              “What exactly are you doing?” she asked.  Shermie tore his gaze away from the computer screen.

              “I know where my brother is.”

              “Well, yeah, so do I.  He does research in Oregon.”

              “No, not that brother.  My other one. Stanley,” Shermie said.  Amelia frowned, confused.  “He made a big show of being allowed to drink champagne at our wedding.”

              “Oh!  And then, because he was talking about it so much, got told he couldn’t anymore?”

              “Yep.  That’s him.” Shermie looked back at the computer. “I don’t know if you remember, but he got kicked out while I was on tour.  I tried to track him down when I came back and- and I couldn’t.”

              “But now you know where he is.”

              “Yes.  One of my students gave me a news article today about him,” Shermie said.  Amelia sucked air between her teeth.

              “Oh, that can’t be good.”

              “No, it’s- honestly, it’s better than good.  It’s astounding.  Stan married a princess.”  Amelia’s jaw dropped.  “That was my reaction, too.”  Shermie clicked on another link, this one leading to contact information for the Lironian royal family.  “I need to talk to him.”

              “Honey, I don’t know if you should,” Amelia said gently.  Shermie froze in the middle of filling out a form. “He married a princess and never told you or Ford or your parents.  If he wanted to talk to you, he woulda sent an invite to the wedding, right?”

              “I…”  Shermie’s hands fell away from the keyboard.  “…You’re right.”  A weary weight settled on his shoulders.  “He has resources available to him.  If he wanted, he would have been more than able to contact me.  But he chose not to do that, even when he got married.” Shermie hung his head.  “I can’t- I can’t really blame Stan for not wanting to talk to me.  I shoulda tried harder to find him, I-”  Amelia walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

              “Don’t blame yourself.  You did what you could.”

              “Yes, but-”

              “Maybe he just needs time.  I’m sure he’ll reach out when he’s good and ready.”

              “Maybe,” Shermie mumbled.  Crying began to emit from Caleb’s playpen, which was set up in the middle of the living room.  Shermie got up from the computer.  “I’ll take care of the little stinker if you want to serve up dinner?”

              “Sure thing,” Amelia said.  She kissed him on the cheek.  Shermie walked over to the playpen and picked his son up.  He glanced back at the computer.

              Amelia’s right.  I need to let Stan make the first move.  But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep an eye on him and what he gets up to.  I am still his big brother, after all.

----- 

              Shermie turned on the news.  For four years now, he’d been following the actions of the Lirone royal family. Perusing pictures of them at events, watching speeches translated into English, and being moved to tears by announcement of the princesses’ birth.  He was still heartbroken that Stan had yet to contact him, despite being a father now.

              But that’s not what’s important at the moment.  What’s important is that Stan’s wife was shot and they still haven’t caught the would-be assassin.  Shermie sat down on the couch to wait for any updates. The phone rang.

              “Amelia, would you mind?” he called.  The phone stopped ringing.  He could faintly make out Amelia asking who was on the phone.  The news segment changed.

              “In international news, we’re receiving word that the royal family of the small European country of Lirone had a visit this last month,” the newscaster said.  Shermie leaned forward.  “The news of the visit was public information in Lirone, but kept out of international news organizations, due to the country’s unique privacy laws.  However, now that the visit is over, we can retroactively inform an international audience that it occurred.”  A picture appeared on screen of Stan and his daughters walking in a garden.  Shermie smiled.  “Apparently, the visit was from none other than the king consort’s estranged twin, a Dr. Stanford Pines.”  The picture zoomed out, revealing Ford walking with Stan and his daughters. Shermie’s smile was wiped away.

              What?

              “Shermie,” Amelia said, walking into the living room.  She held out the phone.  “It’s for you.”

              “Sweetheart, I’m not sure I-” Shermie started, his eyes still glued to the television screen.

              “It’s Stan.”  Shermie’s head whipped around.  Amelia nodded.  “So are you gonna take it, or should I tell a literal king that you’re too busy watching TV to talk to him?”  Shermie held out his hand.  “That’s what I thought.”  Amelia handed him the phone.  Shermie swallowed and held the phone up to his ear.

              “…Stan?” he croaked.

              “Yeah.”  At the sound of his younger brother’s distinct voice, Shermie could feel tears welling up.  “Yeah, it’s- it’s me.  Look, I, uh-” Stan took a breath.  “I figured it’s about time you knew what I’ve been up to.”

              “I know.”

              “Wait, you do?” Stan asked.  There was a muffled commotion on his end of the call.  “Danny-”  Stan said something in a foreign language.  A high-pitched voice asked a question in the same tongue.  “Non.”

              “Apr-”

              “Non,” Stan said, more firmly.  He barked out an order, still not speaking English.  There was another muffled commotion.  “Sorry about that,” Stan said.  “It’s a little bit crazy over here.”

              “I know.  Being a father is difficult.”

              “You know about-”

              “Yes, Stanley,” Shermie said.  “I know you married a princess, who became a queen.  I know that you have twin daughters.  And I know that your wife was recently the subject of an assassination attempt.”  Stan was quiet for a moment.

              “How?” he finally asked.

              “One of my students stumbled across an article about you when you were married.  I’ve been keeping track of you since then.”

              “I…”  Stan seemed at a loss for words.  He finally let out a small laugh.  “Well, there goes the whole little speech I had planned.”  Shermie smiled.  “Ford had no clue.”

              “Stanford is brilliant.  But he tends to focus his observational skills on things other than human interactions.”

              “Yeah.  You’re right.”  Stan cleared his throat.  “So, uh, Ford, he- he actually visited us here in Lirone.”

              “The news just mentioned that.”  Shermie leaned against the back of the couch.  “I’m honestly surprised you invited him.”

              “I didn’t.  Turns out his research partner is my brother-in-law, Fiddleford.  Ford saw what happened to Angie on the news and convinced Fiddleford to let him visit.”

              “Really?  During such a tumultuous time?”

              “Yep.  It didn’t go well.  I, uh, I actually kicked him out.  But that’s not- that’s not why I’m calling.  I’m calling to…”  Stan took a breath.  “Invite you to the castle.”  Shermie sat up straight.

              “Wait, what?”

              “It’s- my kids, they deserve to know my side of the family.  I shouldn’t keep them from meeting you and Mom, just ‘cause I don’t know how to let go of a grudge.”

              “But you don’t want them know Pops?”

              “Oh, hell no.  If Pops shows up, he’s getting kicked outta the country right away.”

              “Smart move.”

              “But yeah, I- I want my kids to get to know their Uncle Shermie.  They really liked Ford and he’s not half as good with kids as you are, so I know they’d love you.”  Stan paused.  “And…I wanna see you, too.  It’s been a long time.”

              “It most definitely has.”

              “So you’ll visit?”

              “Of course!”

              “That’s- that’s great.”  Stan sounded relieved.  A muffled voice said something on Stan’s end of the call.  “I gotta go.  But, uh, I’ll have my people set it up, okay?”

              “You won’t be-”

              “I don’t really have the time to set it up myself,” Stan said.  Shermie’s heart sunk.

              Right.  He’s a king consort.  He has more important things to do.

              “We’ve got the best people working here, though, and they’ll call you to iron out the details.  I really- I really gotta go.  There’s a debriefing and-”  Stan cut himself off.  “You don’t need to know about it.  All right, bye.”

              “Bye,” Shermie said, barely getting it in before Stan hung up. Footsteps sounded.  Shermie looked up.  Amelia had joined him in the living room.  She raised an eyebrow.

              “Well?” she asked.  Shermie let out a long sigh.

              “It looks like I’m going to Europe.”

----- 

              Shermie nervously drummed his fingers on his lap as he stared out the window. His luggage was packed in the trunk of the town car that had come to pick him up from the airport.

              “I’ve never had a chauffer before,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. The driver glanced at him but didn’t say anything.  “Not a talker, then,” Shermie mumbled to himself.  He looked down at the bag sitting by his feet containing gifts for Danny and Daisy.  His mouth went dry.

              That was a mistake!  Why did I bother getting presents for literal princesses?  They can get anything they want.  He took a deep, calming breath.  Relax.  It’s going to be fine.  He resumed looking out the window.  While he’d been distracted, the car had turned down a long, winding driveway leading to a castle.  Shermie swallowed.

              The town car came to a stop.  Before Shermie could even reach for the handle, the driver jumped out of the car and opened the door for him.

              “Thank you,” Shermie said.  The driver merely nodded.  Shermie grabbed the bag with his nieces’ presents and stepped outside.  He turned to the driver.  “Do you know where Stan is?”

              “The king consort got caught up in a meeting,” a voice said.  Shermie turned around again.  A man strode over.  He was short and slender, wearing fine, tailored clothes.  The man stuck his hand out for Shermie to shake.  “The name’s Lute.”

              “Lute…you’re one of the princes?” Shermie asked.  Lute grinned.

              “Yep.”

              “I recognize the name.  As well as, to be honest, the nose.”  Lute laughed.

              “I’m not offended, don’t worry.  The royal nose is large and distinctive.”  He blew his dark bangs out of his face.  “It’s also one of the first things both your brothers mentioned when meeting me.”

              “That sounds like my brothers,” Shermie said.  Lute raised an eyebrow.

              “You mentioned it as well.”

              “Fair,” Shermie said lightly.  The driver set Shermie’s items on the ground next to him.  Lute looked down and caught sight of the bag containing Danny and Daisy’s gifts.

              “What’s in there?”

              “I-”  Shermie rubbed the back of his neck.  “This is stupid, but I brought Danny and Daisy some presents.”  Lute was silent.  “I just- I felt bad about missing their birthdays and- I’ll bring them back.”

              “Why?”

              “Well, Danny and Daisy are princesses.  They can get whatever they want.”

              “Pfft.”  Lute snorted. “Not quite.  Do they have access to more than the average child? Yes.  But Angie and Stan don’t want their daughters to be spoiled.  Not to mention, they rarely get American items.” Lute smiled reassuringly at Shermie. “Trust me, they’ll be happy just to meet you.  When you give them gifts?  They’ll be – ah, what’s the phrase – over the moon.”  Shermie smiled back hesitantly.  Over Lute’s shoulder, he saw the large main door open.  His mouth went dry.  A man exited the castle and walked over to Lute and Shermie.

              “Uh, heya, Sherm,” Stan said awkwardly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tailored slacks.  Acting on impulse, Shermie abruptly embraced Stan.  Stan stiffened in shock at first, but relaxed and returned the gesture. Shermie broke off the hug.

              “Hello, Stanley.  It’s good to see you again.”

              “Yeah, uh, you- you too,” Stan mumbled.  He cleared his throat.  “Um, come- come inside.  If the girls don’t see you in the next five minutes, they’re gonna riot.”

              “That’s the only reason you want me inside?” Shermie deadpanned.  “You’re not concerned that if I stay out all night I might freeze to death?  Or be attacked by bears?”  Stan rolled his eyes.  “You don’t want me to come in because you want to catch up with me?  No, it’s because your daughters will be upset? Sure.  Whatever you say.”  Stan punched Shermie on the shoulder playfully.

              “Shut up and get your ass inside the castle.”

              “Well, since you asked so nicely…” Shermie said slowly.  Stan let out a laugh.  Shermie beamed, glad that his tactic to make things less awkward had worked.  “Don’t worry, I’m as excited as your daughters are.”

              “That’s a high bar, Sherm.  They loved it when Ford was here.  I think they’re expecting someone that looks just like him.”  Stan looked Shermie up and down.  “They’re gonna be disappointed.”  Shermie rolled his eyes.  Stan turned around and began to walk back to the castle.  “No use delaying their disappointment!  C’mon, Sherm.”  Lute and Shermie exchanged an amused look.  Stan stopped at the door to look back.  “I’m a king, Shermie.  I can have you court-martialed.”

              “You may be a king,” Shermie said, picking up his luggage, “but you’re also my little brother.  If you court-martial me, I’ll have no choice but to tell the press all about Mr. Tummy.” Stan grimaced.

              “Fine.”  He sighed in an exaggerated manner.  “I won’t court-martial you.”

              Shaking his head to hide his smile, Shermie followed Stan and Lute inside.

[elsaclack]

This is really random but I saw a fic of yours about Amy being sick (I think the prompt was "Amy yells at the Vulture") but I can't find the full piece anywhere. Is it on AO3 anywhere? I love your writing and I completely understand if you just didn't want it out anymore. Just thought I'd ask! :)

i thought it was but i just went and searched my entire work history (including all 70+ chapters of those god-forsaken oneshot collections) and i couldn’t find it anywhere!! i guess i forgot to cross-post it back when i first wrote it, and it got lost when i deleted the original elsaclack. but i just scoured my docs list and found it buried in a random folder so i’ll repost it here and add it to the newest one-shot collection on ao3 :)

fun fact: this was written almost exactly 2 years ago!!! meaning that my writing skills have developed considerably since i actually wrote this. aka please don’t judge me if this seems like a sudden regression haha

also i wanna tag @phil-the-stone-art bc we actually developed the concept of The List together so she’s at least 35% responsible for this fic lmao

under the cut!

Amy Santiago does not get sick, thank you very much. She prides herself on her meticulous nightly hygienic rituals, on the cabinet full of multivitamins and minerals she takes on a daily basis in her bathroom, on the rigorous workout routine and diet she keeps herself on each week to maintain perfect health. She lives her life by a very tight plan (laid out in checklists and carefully organized in color-coded binders) that simply does not afford her any extra time to be sick.

Which is why, when she wakes up one Tuesday morning with a head stuffed full of cotton and violent shivers rolling down her spine, she gets up to start her usual routine in spite of the fact that she feels like she hasn’t actually slept in three weeks. Jake’s still snoring on the other side of the bed, another hour away from getting up to haphazardly dress in whatever flannel he can find lying on her bedroom floor that doesn’t smell too dirty, and he doesn’t even stir at the sound of her shuffling footsteps or running nose.

She drags herself into the bathroom, shuts the door, and flicks the lights on. Her reflection honestly makes her jump back an inch or two; she’s never seen her skin quite so pale, or bruises beneath her eyes quite so dark, or her lips quite so visibly dry and cracked. She reaches out to grip the edges of her sink and realizes that her arms and hands are trembling, and when she leans a bit more weight onto them she notes that her knees are quaking beneath her.

All in all, not a great start to the day.

She presses on, though, ignoring her running nose and congested head and general exhaustion. The shower helps a little, but not much.

When she shuts the water off, she hears Jake moving around in her bedroom, and her heart skips a beat. She hadn’t even realized she’d been in the shower that long. ���Jake?” She calls as she wraps a towel around herself. Her voice is coarse and rough.

“Hey,” he knocks lightly at the door. “You okay?”

“Yeah - yeah, could you, um…there’s a binder out on the dining room table, should say something on the cover about that case I was working on last night -” she clears her throat and winces at the sharp pain that responds “- could you grab it and put it in my bag?”

“Sure,” he’s quiet for a moment and Amy’s left to gently rub at her temples with the heels of her hands. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound awful.”

“I’m…I’m fine.”

But she’s not. Her knees are still quaking and vertigo has suddenly set in and she’s swaying, reaching out to grab the tiled edge of her shower. Her hand slips against the wet surface and she falls forward, shoulder banging painfully into the tiles.

The door swings open and Jake bursts inside in a panic. “Ames? Oh my God!” She suddenly realizes that she’d sunk down to a crouching position upon falling. He kneels next to her, gently pulling her away from the shower and letting her lean heavily into him. Her head falls against his shoulder, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, and she hears him tut. “You’re burning up, babe,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” her voice fails half-way through and she ends up finishing in an unconvincing whisper.

“You’re not going to work today,” he tells her.

“But -”

“You almost fainted just now, Amy. You’re staying home sick today.”

She tries to argue but he pulls her up off the ground, keeping his touch firm and steady should gravity leave her again, and her voice completely dies on the way out of the bathroom. He lets her whisper weak arguments as he steers her gently toward the bed, humming and nodding along as he pulls fresh sweatpants up her legs and eases one of his academy shirts over her head. He pushes back on her good shoulder with just enough force that she lays down and pulls the comforter up to her chin. Her eyelids flutter closed when he presses a kiss against her forehead.

“I’ll tell Captain Holt where you are,” he says quietly. His hand finds hers against the mattress, fingers twisting through hers. “Get some sleep, okay?”

She’s asleep before he even gets out the front door.

A few hours later she’s roused by the sound of her phone vibrating on her bedside table. Sunlight streams in through her window and she squints, disoriented, fumbling around with semi-numb fingers for her phone.

From: Jake PeraltaHow u feelin? Miss u at work. Charles says he’ll bring u goat soup later lol

It hurts to even swallow, and Amy has to work really hard to keep from whining at the splitting headache igniting behind her right eye.

To: Jake PeraltaFeel like garbage. I haev a headache. Im afraid to get out of bed for meds. Miss u too

She waits five minutes for him to respond, and when her phone remains motionless, she closes her eyes and lets it fall against her chest.

Precisely twenty minutes after that, she hears her front door open. It closes again and she hears footsteps crossing her living room and it only just hits her that someone is in her apartment when those footsteps cross the threshold of her bedroom.

“Hey, hey, don’t get out of bed,” Jake says soothingly. Amy falls back against her pillow from her struggling half-sitting up position as Jake drops a plastic grocery bag at the foot of her bed and perches on the edge of the mattress beside her. He replaces her phone back on her bedside table with one hand and smooths his other palm over her forehead (and she only just then realizes that she’s sweating) and grimaces. “You’re still burning up,” he says, running his fingers through her hair just above her forehead.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, and the words slip out between two wet coughs.

He frowns and gently scratches his short nails against her scalp. “I brought Advil,” he says, casting an absent glance over his shoulder at the bag he brought in, “and stuff to make soup. It’s the recipe for Nana’s matzoh ball soup.” She raises her eyebrows beneath his palm and he grins down at her. “Don’t tell Charles, but it’s literally the best soup you’ll ever have and it’ll cure your dumb cold in twenty minutes or less.”

“Promise?”

He leans down and pecks a kiss against her forehead. “Promise,” he says when he leans away. “I’m gonna go make some and bring it in here and you’ll be back on your feet before the end of the day. Peralta Guarantee.” He winks.

She sinks down into the mattress as much as she can when he stands up, opening her eyes only when he comes back in with two Advil tablets and a glass half-full of water. Within minutes she begins hearing pots and pans knock around in her kitchen, and through her cloudy mind she registers that her stomach is rumbling in irritation.

“Alright,” he announces from her doorway. Her eyes split open and he’s carefully balancing the soup bowl on top of her dresser. “I’ll help you sit up, don’t move.”

He pulls her up with one hand and waits until she’s sitting up steadily before hurriedly stacking her pillows up behind her. She breathes a sigh of relief when she leans back, not realizing just how much of a strain sitting up is until that moment. He hurries back to where the soup is still steaming and carefully brings it over to her, the tip of his tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth for how hard he has to concentrate on not spilling any.

He nestles it in her lap, and she smiles, because he looks so proud of himself and he’s really so adorable.

Jake stays with her until she finishes the whole bowl and then he takes her dishes from her and quickly rinses them out in her sink.

“I’ll be back after work to check on you and to finish cleaning that, okay?” He calls from her doorway.

She hums hoarsely and fades out of consciousness.

An hour later, Amy wakes up feeling half-human. Her head and throat still hurt and she still can’t breathe out of her nose, but her brain doesn’t feel quite so fried and her limbs don’t feel quite so weak anymore.

Jake was right - the soup really did help.

Not as much as Nyquil would, but…still.

She kicks the comforter off and moves to sit up, and her phone suddenly falls into her lap from her chest. She pauses, staring at it, trying to remember when it ended up back there. She has no new calls or texts, but when she unlocks the screen, there’s a new note pulled up.

Things i want t odo to jake in bed

Amy feels flames engulf her face that have absolutely nothing to do with her fever. The list has twelve items on it, each one raunchier and riddled with more spelling errors than the last, and by the time she gets to the end of the note she’s covering her face in embarrassment. She’s got just the vaguest memory of typing it (and it’s really more of a dream of a memory than anything else), but none of it will solidify into more than just faint snapshots in her head.

But the more she rereads it, the more heat begins building in her body - heat from the mental images, heat from the germs ravaging her body, heat from the thick comforter still draped over her legs.

She has got to go get some Nyquil.

Santiago Determination blazes through her as she drags herself out of bed, shoulders set and jaw clenched as she pulls one of Jake’s hoodies over her frame and slides her feet into her rarely-worn flip-flops. Part of her feels guilty, knowing that if Jake was the one home sick she’d insist on him texting her anything he needs so that he would stay in bed and recover faster, but she brushes it off as she grabs her purse.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

She blames her scattered brain on the matzoh ball soup later. She blames her compromised detective skills and her lack of attention to detail and her general disorientation on the soup. Because under normal circumstances, no matter how sick she truly is, she would definitely have noticed the Vulture browsing the low aisles of the bodega around the corner from her house immediately upon walking through the front doors.

But as it is, she doesn’t, which means that he gets a visual on her before she’s even aware of being spotted.

She’s so busy perusing the medicine section toward the back that she doesn’t notice him stalking around the shelves, doesn’t feel him peeking around the Doctor Scholl’s cardboard display, doesn’t hear him mutter at a mother and daughter to get out of his way as he follows her ambling walk down the aisle. She isn’t aware of the danger until he’s basically on top of her.

“Yo, Santiago,” he says, his voice low and curdling. She winces and turns slowly, and he’s leaned against the shelves to her left, leering down at her. A handcart hangs between them; it’s full of at least thirty boxes of condoms, she realizes when she glances down. Her stomach shifts unpleasantly. “You look homeless.”

“Get out of the way,” she whispers hoarsely.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Peralta got you screaming so hard every night you lost your voice?”

Heat bursts through her cheeks and she glances back, meeting the scandalized look on that same mother’s face with an apologetic grimace. “Shut up.” She snaps as fiercely as she can.

He smirks, because her voice only comes in bursts. “Damn, you really let yourself go, didn’t you?” His eyes rove her body and she’s suddenly very keenly aware of the fact that she’s not wearing any underwear beneath her sweatpants. She can feel her face blossoming.

“Whatever.” She turns away quickly and digs her phone out of her purse, cursing when she hears the Vulture following her down the aisle. She dials Jake’s number quickly, and he answers after just two rings.

“Hey, is everything oka-”

“I need you go come to the bodega by my apartment,” she whispers. She can feel her hand trembling again and she curses whatever part of her thought it would be a good idea to do this on her own.

“Wait, what? Why are you -”

“I thought I could walk over here and get what I needed without you, but -” she winces at the sound of the Vulture’s laugh, loud and obnoxious behind her. “But I ran into someone and I need you to come save me.”

“Santiago, look - they do make extra-small condoms! Should I put a whole box in for you and Peralta or is that too many?”

She hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Is that the Vulture?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do not faint.”

“I’m doing my best, but please hurry.”

Amy starts pacing up and down the aisles, doing her best to block the Vulture out. He trails along behind her, alternating between making lewd sexual innuendos about random items on the shelves they pass (“Everything’s a sex toy if you try hard enough,” while pointing out a plastic broom) and insulting her general appearance (“Y’know, you were much sexier before Peralta dragged you down to his level of ugliness. Just make sure your ass doesn’t get as fat as his”). It’s around the time they make it back to the medicine aisle that he turns to making fun of Jake himself.

“I still can’t believe you’re with that loser,” he laughs as Amy finally swipes a bottle of Nyquil off a lower shelf. She stands up slowly, gripping the shelves above her firmly, as a wave of vertigo hits her once again. “You’re hot as shit usually - not right now, obviously - I bet you could sleep with any guy you want.”

She clenches her jaw and tries to calculate how long it’s been since she hung up with Jake.

“I bet the sex is really boring, too,” the Vulture continues. “I bet it’s all missionary and full of, like, eye-contact and shit. I bet he tells you he loves you because you don’t make fun of his tiny weiner.”

“Okay, y’know what?” She snaps, and suddenly her voice is half back. “First of all, there’s nothing wrong with missionary if you do it right. Secondly, you’re full of crap if you really think eye-contact is boring. Third, you’re right, he does tell me he loves me, because he actually loves me, you sexist pig. And fourth, he’s not tiny.”

“Whatever. He’s a joke, just like you, and I bet the sex sucks and you’re both so bad at it that you can’t even tell that it sucks.”

She knows people are staring, but her brain just isn’t functioning right. She yanks her phone out of her purse and quickly scrolls over to her list. “Jake’s the best sex I’ve ever had, okay? In fact, he’s so good that I made a list!” She shoves her phone in his face and scrolls quickly, grinning in manic triumph at the dumbfounded look on his face. “I made a list of all the things I want to do with him because he’s so unbelievably good. You wish you were as good as him.”

He is, for once, speechless. Amy locks her phone and steps back, smug grin on her face. The Vulture’s eyes flicker to something over her shoulder and she sees the spark of recognition in his face; when she turns, she feels her stomach drop down to her toes.

Jake’s standing at the end of the aisle, looking just as dumbstruck as the Vulture. She gasps, and the sound comes out like a ragged squeak. His mouth is hanging open but his brows draw together at the sound.

“Ja- Jake,” she says hoarsely.

This seems to snap him out of his stupor. His mouth snaps closed and he immediately begins striding down the aisle toward her and there’s something new in his eyes - smug and barely-contained glee, maybe - when he throws his arm around her shoulders. “Hi, honey,” he says, laying a kiss against her temple and pulling the bottle of Nyquil from her grasp. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

“Yeah, well, you’re both a couple of losers!” The Vulture shouts after them. Jake twists around and flashes his middle finger at him and grins into Amy’s hair at the sound of his splutters. “I’m buying thirty-five boxes of condoms!”

“You’re amazing.” Jake murmurs once they’re outside of the store. “But next time, just call me instead of trying to go get stuff on your own. I really don’t mind doing it for you. That’s what boyfriends are for.”

She sinks into the passenger’s seat of his car and sighs in relief; her body is already aching from the exertion of just a lap around the bodega. She feels Jake slide in on the driver’s side, feels the engine roar to life beneath her and the air conditioner tickle across her face. The car lurches a little when he puts it in drive and then his free hand finds hers and interlaces their fingers.

“I’m sorry about…that.” She whispers once he’s pulled away from the curb.

“It’s fine, but I really mean it about calling me next time, okay? ‘Specially since you almost fainted this morning and everything, like, what would’ve happened if you’d fallen and hit your head and they took you to the hospital? They would’ve called Manny and it would’ve taken him three hours to get here and -”

“Wait, no, they’d call you,” she interrupts. “Manny’s not my emergency contact anymore. You are.”

He turns his head toward her and stares.

“I changed it two years ago, Peralta. Way before we started dating. I just figured, y’know, since you’re my partner and everything, you’d be able to get there the fastest. And, besides, that’s not even what I was talking about. I meant…the stuff I said to the Vulture. The list.”

“Oh,” he shrugs. “I don’t really care. The guy’s an ass. I could hear him yelling all the way from the front doors. Besides, you weren’t lying.”

He squeezes her hand a few times in quick succession and she snorts. “So you’re…not mad? About any of it?”

“I’m more curious than anything else. Do I get to look at the list, too? Or is that just between you and the Vulture?”

“I can’t stand you.”

She does let him see it once they’re back to her place. He reads each item carefully three times over without ever saying a word, and then stands and grabs his laptop and a notepad off of her dining room table. When she asks what he’s doing, he responds with a muttered “research” and then promptly tells her to finish her soup.

The night passes in a haze that has nothing to do with the cold or the soup or the medicine, and the next morning she wakes to the sounds of Jake’s congested voice explaining through chest-rumbling coughs that neither he nor Amy would be making it into work that day.