#there is a high level rat piss wall in the side of my closet

[maeremiga]

nnanut

NUT FREE.....no...it cannut be. we must almond this crime... pistasshiation in progrrsss....

[sabraeal]

Provocateur, Prologue

[Read on AO3]

Written for @krispy-kream in honor of her birthday. Many years ago, back when I first joined fandom, I came up with the idea for an Obi Works For Izana AU, and both Sharon and I ended up writing small pieces of a much larger whole. And now FINALLY...I’m actually writing the very beginning 🤣

When it comes down to it, in terms of area and amenities, the royal dungeons has some of his last few flats beats.

There’s light, for one. He’s never liked basement apartments-- he’d take a stifling attic room over a place with only one exit any day-- but the windows here are high up on the wall, enough that he can watch the sun paint his cell floor as the hours pass. They’re ground level, at least by the foot traffic outside of ‘em, and with how loud these guards gossip, he’ll know whose girlfriends are pregnant and who’s nursing a nasty boil by shift change. Just like sitting in a tavern for a few hours, only with less ale.

There’s a cot too, straw-stuffed and a little too soft, with a blanket that doesn’t even itch. Seems like it might be warm too, for when the nights get cold. Not that he has an intention of testing out that particular hunch.

The guard down the hall is decent in the way authority figures never are; when he calls out to ask where his piss bucket is, the man-- boy? It’s hard to tell beneath those helmets-- ushers him down a hall to a water closet, and when he pops out, reminds him to take care to wash his hands. He’s prompt about mealtime too; when supper comes, the man says to expect three square and leaves him with with a dinner that would put most publicans to shame.

All in all, this isn’t the worst trouble he’s gotten himself into. Worlds better than that stint he’d had in Eurikenna’s gaol. Or that night in Port City.

Still, he’s got no plans to linger. No point in sticking around for a punishment when he's got no interest in redemption. But he’s got a prince to wait for.

Oh, His Highness might say he’s above getting his hands dirty, might look down that noble nose at a man like him who makes his living in trade, but he’d seen his look. Not the first, when his little mistress was watching, all puffed cheeks and disapproving brow, but the second, that glance over his shoulder as the Big Man frogmarched a dirty rat down into the dungeons.

That one was a man who had found the right tool for the job. Hands don’t stay clean without gloves to cover them, especially if they mean to hold a mistress who collects trouble like some ladies collect hairpins. If he wants to keep his side piece quiet, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to make a statement. And nothing says don’t touch what’s mine like a few accidents. All he has to do is wait out a royal conscience.

The light fades as he waits, just the last stretch of dusky light yawning on the sill. It’s almost time for all good little princes to be in bed, but this one-- this one will be working instead. The hand that grabbed him had been stained with ink and calluses both; the kind of man who longed for action but was stuck behind a desk. He’ll be up late, managing men and supplies miles away on paper, but in his head--

Oh, in his head, he’ll be thinking about the man he’s left to rot in the dungeons. The one that might be just the right fit for what he needs, for the jobs he can’t give that giant or the pretty girl at his side. It’s the sort of idea that’ll eat at him when the lamps are low and the night is quiet, and oh, how a conscience can gnaw when there’s no more work to feed it. There’s a reason he’s never idle. Not usually, at least.

He casts a long glance down the silent hall; the guard sits at his table, log book spread in front of him, another smaller one laid atop. A novel, by the slack-jawed look that’s slapped across his face. In Eurikenna, his reputation had preceded him, and they’d bound him hand and foot, bolting his wrists to the wall and his feet to the bench. Viande had put him in a cell with a single window and stone on all sides, his only escape leading into a moat rumored to be prowled by sharks.

Here he has a single guard and bars he could probably squeeze through if he skipped a meal or two. It’s insulting to be so underestimated-- or it would be, if he wasn’t already planning to stay. He’s paid out his room at the inn for a week; a few days to enjoy the impeccable food and passable mattress he’s got here won’t hurt-- just as long as he makes it back before the innkeep tosses all his worldly goods in the gutter. And if he does need to make a quick escape--

Well, it’s hardly the first time he’s slipped the noose. But it won’t come to that. Younger Highness is on the hook.

The door to the dungeon clanks open; it’s a softer sound, barely loud enough for him to hear, but he hasn’t made a name for himself by being the sort of person who only hears what he ought. The guard’s gone-- book too-- and his hand itches to have something that ends with a point in it. He should have known, this was all too easy.

A shrouded figure sweeps through the threshold, prowling with the easy confidence only men born to power possessed-- or a professional. His hands flexed, too empty. He’s a loose end, an embarrassing stain on a proud man’s reputation, and there’s only one thing to do with that-- rub it out.

“You’re not the prince,” he says, keeping his voice even, maybe a bit petulant. Boldness wins a bluff; all he needs is time. Just a second, a hesitation--

Which he gets; the figure’s boots scuffing to a stop. Its head cocks, curious. “Is that so?”

It’s a man’s voice, higher than he expects, but resonant. The sort that people listen to when they’re not looking for a way out. The sort that won’t care for a man turning his back on it.

“You’re too tall.” He saunters to his cot, the mattress sinking under his weight. Not quite the attitude he’d been hoping for, but close enough. Gives him enough time to realize his cloaked friend isn’t talking-- no, instead he catches the barest tremble of cloth before a gloved hand tugs it smooth.

“How...astute,” the man hums, a strange lift kicking that first vowel before he smooths that out too. Everything about this man is slick, from the shine of his boots to the way he says, “That must be the observational skills that tempted even the marquis to hire you.”

His grin flicks into a grimace, but habit wipes that all clean before he says, “I wasn’t hired by anyone. Just wanted to...advertise my skills. In case anyone with a fat wallet found themselves needing a problem taken care of.”

Another pause, this one heavier. “And this girl seemed like a likely target?”

“A commoner nosing around a prince?” A laugh huffs out of him. “What about that isn’t a problem? At least when it’s a lady, she doesn’t have pockets that need filling, but some little herbalist girl? There’s a long way between lady slippers and slippers for a lady. And not everyone wants to kiss hems to get a mistress in their pocket.”

Not when it’s just as like to be covered in mud. If there’s one thing he’s learned about these bluebloods, it’s that they only suck up, not down.

The shroud shifts, arms folding across a chest too slender to be called broad, and shoulders too wide to be scrawny. Lithe, perhaps, the perfect size to slip through a man’s guard.

“The job is over, you know.” Boot heels clack as the man draws closer, just enough to see a defined chin beneath the shadows of his hood. “There’s no need for all this cloak and dagger. Haruka has already confessed to the crown that he was the one to hire you.”

His fingers flex behind his head, longing for something besides bristle to cross his palms. “Don’t know why he’s going through all the trouble. I don’t know him.”

This isn’t his first interrogation, but it’s certainly the slowest. The man stands silently outside the bars, a single finger lying along his diamond-cut jawline. No questions, no speculation, just a shadow staring out of a hood, observing. This must be what it’s like to be boiled alive; put in the pot when it’s barely a simmer, the heat raising so gradually that it’s not until his chest is near bursting to speak, to fill the silence, that he knows he’s been cooked.

“What would you have done?” the man says, finally. “If you had your way with the girl.”

The girl who, in the face of danger, tore an arrow from the wall rather than run. “Nothing permanent.”

What little he can see of the shroud’s mouth curves. “How very vague. So many unpleasant things only take a moment.”

“The job was to scare her off,” he admits, wondering why his belly quivered in his gut. There’s bars between them, and his hands are faster than any nob’s, no matter how good the costume. But still, his muscles lay coiled against his bones, ready to strike. “Seduce her, if she seemed...amenable. Bribe her if she didn’t.”

“And what then?” It’s a quicker response than he expects, but the man isn’t agitated-- far from it, he’s never seemed calmer. “If the girl proved impervious to your more...gentle measures.”

There’s a question in that, one the shroud won’t voice. But he hears it, loud in his ears as a bell’s gong.

“I’ve killed before,” he says, each word on thin ice. “And I still sleep at night.” Barely. “I could have done it again.”

“But would you?”

For once, he hesitates. Imagines looking into those bright eyes, the ones that flamed so fiercely in defiance, and with the flick of a wrist, snuffing them out.

“It’d be a waste.” His hands tremble where they cradle his head, a command he hasn’t given them. This is the last thing he needs right now, losing control. “That girl’s got a lot of pluck. And if rumors around the pharmacy are right, a lot of brains too. Besides, bodies make more talk than bribes.”

“That they do.” There’s a lilt to those words, almost amused. “You know, you called it a job. Implying that you received compensation for your services.”

It’s a sting to realize he’s slipped. “Doesn’t mean it was the marquis.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” the man agrees, and if this room weren’t so dark, if this conversation wasn’t so serious-- well, he’d be tempted to say this guy is laughing at him. “Do you have a name?”

He turns to him real slow-like, one utterly dubious brow arched toward the guard’s register. “You want me to believe you can’t read?”

That shadow of a mouth lifts again. “Am I to believe a man of your skill gave your birth name to the royal guard?”

His mouth cocks into a grin. “You must if you think I’m gonna give it to you.”

The man comes closer still, one gloved hand wrapping around his bars. He’s visible to the tip of his nose; a long, patrician one.

“Of course. But you must have something you would like to be called.” His lips-- bowed, the most fashionable in Clarines’ court-- twitch toward a smile, but fall perilously short. “An alias, if you will.”

“Obi.” It’s too short, too quick, but already he likes it. It’s a more playful name than he’s had in a long while. Easy to lose, too, if he needs it.

“Well then, Obi.” His arm rests over one of the cross bars of his cell. “I believe I have a proposition for you.”

“Haah.” He hops to his feet, hoping to seize the high ground. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m already waiting on an offer.”

To say the hood recoiled would be an overstatement, it merely pulls back, barely more than an inch. “An offer?”

“Well, maybe more like...I have prospects.” Obi restrains his grin to little more than a twitch. “I just gotta see if they’ll pan out.”

The hood stills, thoughtful. “What if I could guarantee you a better offer?”

“You couldn’t.”

The man hums, amusement changing his pitch. “I quite sure I could.”

“Nah.” Obi shakes his head, almost wishing it weren’t so. This guy seems like he could be real fun, if he got his hands on his reins. “I don’t think so.”

“Please.” He opens a hand; an invitation. “Try me.”

“Fine.” There’s nothing to lose by telling, besides some face, if he’s wrong. Which Obi knows he’s not. “I got a feeling the next guy through that door’ll be His Highness.”

The man rocks back, like he’s been hit. “Zen? You think...?”

Obi expects some bargaining, some disbelief, maybe even some haggling, but--

He does not expect the laugh.

“Oh,” the man coughs, lifting a hand as if he might wipe tears from his eyes. “I promise you, I can give you a...far more attractive offer.”

Now that’s a rich one. “What could be better than a second prince?”

The man’s hand raises past his eyes, right to the edge of his hood. With the barest flick of his fingers, the cloth falls back, baring bright gold and Wisteria blue.

“Why,” drawls His Highness Izana Wisteria, crown prince, soon to be first of his name, “the first.”

[luckystarchild]

If NQK were to live with one of the boys... how would they fare? Would it work or would they starve to death or something like that after the first week? What is the usual state of the apartment/house? What kind of dinamic do they have?

This ask is HELLA FUCKIN’ OLD. I am sorry it took me so long. Finally have a PC where I can type with abandon, so I’ve decided to start with the oldest Asks in my inbox and work my way forward in what shall be known as “Lucky’s Ask Marathon of 2020.” Starting with this one, the oldest in my inbox!

Let’s start with a person she’s basically already lived with during LC: YUSUKE URAMESHI.

From the outset, Yusuke makes zero attempt to clean up after himself. He is a mess of a roommate, and while this would normally drive NQK UP THE GODDAMN WALL, she knows him well enough to not get her hopes up that he’d ever pick up a shirt or do a dish. She has NO EXPECTATIONS, and that means she is NEVER DISAPPOINTED. She’d do the chores, and she’d be mildly resentful, but her already low expectations keep her from losing her temper about it. She cleans up after him and gives him an earful every time, and he tells her to shut it, and they fight, but that’s just how they are, and that’s that.

THE BRIGHT SIDE to living with Yusuke is that he’s a great cook, so she never really has to worry about whether or not he can feed himself (and if she buys enough food, HE’LL actually feed HER). And they will never have to worry about neighborhood kids messing with their place, because they’ll be too scared of mean-muggin’ Yusuke to dig up her begonias. 

And now for KAZUMA KUWABARA.

She goes into this living arrangement with high hopes. He’s a real sweetheart of a guy who totally asks what he can do to take care of their house, together, as a unit. As it should be! Women taking care of the household is SO last decade. Their place would start off super clean and really well taken care of… but it wouldn’t stay that way. It would start small. A dirty shirt kicked under a chair. A dish left overnight on the coffee table. Tupperware with a science experiment left to grow inside it at the back of the fridge. Kuwabara would get comfortable, and he’d stop doing the chores he was so gung-ho to perform when they first moved into their place. And Keiko would remind him to clean up, and he’d happily do it as soon as she asked… at first? He’d slowly take more and more time to clean up when she asks, and eventually she’d start getting resentful of how she’s forced to clean up after him lest she wish to live in an utterly disgusting sty, and one day she’d get pretty damn mad that she had to clean out the fridge AGAIN. And he’d be good for a while after that! But then the cycle would repeat itself, and eventually she’d cave and just hire a cleaner/housekeeper to take care of it before it can become a problem.

(Confession: I live with a Kuwabara, and these are the problems we face. I know EXACTLY how this would all go. Love the guy, but DAMN is he a mess. LOL)

But the upside is that he’d 1000% sense whenever she was having a bad day, and he’d know without asking if she needs space, a bottle of wine, or a cuddle. And he’d always deliver, which is why she’s willing to put up with all the mess.

And then we come to… HIEI.

Oh boy. Where the fuck do I start with Hiei?

She basically doesn’t HAVE a roommate if she lives with Hiei. His bed? Doesn’t look slept in. His closet? Pretty much empty; Hiei is a minimalist. The living room? Barren, decorated with her things and her things alone. He’d pay his bills on time (if you count money getting left in suspiciously weird units of currency on her desk) but he’d never contribute to the weekly trip to the grocery store unless he wants something and gives her the money to buy it for him (in this scenario, Hiei despises buying groceries, and he makes his item requests by scrawling something on the whiteboard she’s hung in the kitchen for this purpose). He would, however, leave random foods in the kitchen for her to find. Like… a melon. A loaf of bread. An entire wheel of hard cheese. The majority of a beef cattle, unbutchered. She’s pretty sure he’d basically a cat leaving her the equivalent of a dead bird, because he doesn’t think she’s feeding herself properly. NQK would be living with a cross between a gremlin and a stray cat, and frankly? It’s a pretty nice arrangement.

And last but not least, we come to KURAMA.

This is the part where NQK gets her comeuppance, because this time around it’s HER who’d piss off HIM.

I’m a magpie. I collect things. Books, records, artwork, little trinkets… and while in his past life Kurama was a thief who also collected shiny objects with magpie-like enthusiasm, he’s not the same level of pack-rat as NQK. He’s more… particular about his collections. She just finds something she likes and collects EVERY LAST THING RELATED TO THAT SUBJECT WITHOUT DISCRIMINATION. (I’m staring at my YYH stuff as I type this.) Sure, she’d work with him to keep the place super spotless and aesthetically pleasing, but her private space (bedroom or office or whatever) would be a maze of random collections that would inevitably spill out into the shared spaces. A figurine on a table. A stack of books beside the door. A candle or two on a tray on the bookcase… and then three candles. And then four. And then ninety two fuckin’ candles all in some godforsaken variation of sandalwood. Who even makes this many variations of sandalwood candle, Kurama asks you??? And then he’d forced her to have a rummage sale and she’d cry, but in the end she’d be glad that he pulled a Marie Kondo on her… because it just makes room for a new collection.

Also, she’d forget to water his plants when he goes out of town and they’d all die. Unless they’ve been, like, NQK-proofed by Kuram’s demon powers.

This Ask was great and I’m mad I didn’t get to it sooner. Love ya, anon, and sorry it took so long.

1/120 asks and counting.

[cheetahsprints]

Beyond the Surface

Words: 2822 Summary: Cisco couldn’t stand Harrison Wells. Crossing his path in an unexpected place would change that view permanently. Rating: Gen A/N: Title inspired by Fly Down - Stephen

Cisco tapped his pen on his mouth. He checked over his grocery list to be sure he got everything. It was just general foodstuff. He added some extra items.

- That new conditioner I heard about - All the bath bombs - Try the candle Caitlin suggested that smells like my kinda man called “Mechanical grease and Angst” - A recorder to piss off my grumpy neighbor. Tell him it's for a hipster band. - Dog food. - One of those big fake owls. It might freak out neighbors cats

Cisco always left without dog food. He underlined it three times. He chuckled at the recorder addition, picturing the constipated expression his neighbor would make. It wasn’t a challenge to antagonize him. Cisco was constantly finding new and creative ways to accomplish his mission.

His neighbor was also his professor. He was the unrelenting Harrison Wells. He cursed the day he incidentally moved to his floor, beside him to boot. The man was intelligent, handsome, and mysterious. Under most circumstances, Cisco would have a crush the size of Alaska. Unfortunately, Harrison Wells needed a personality transplant. He was an infuriating jackass. He gave not an inch, and he enjoyed pushing people over the edge.

Every day he passed the man’s giant door poster. It was a picture of the Grinch (cartoon version) that said: Don't bother me after 8 p.m. or I'll steal YOUR Christmas. The building supervisor had referred to him as only Mr. Grinch, due to this decor.

Cisco was willing to bet it was custom-made. Rumor had it that Professor Wells was a man of many talents. Cisco’s complaints also fell on deaf ears. Because no one else lived on this floor to corroborate his stories. Cisco didn't blame people for moving. On the bright side, he had to pay lower rent for this shit apartment location. The apartment itself was nice, with a big bathtub, walk-in closet, and balcony. It was worth Wells knocking on his door to tell him his party was too loud. Wells threatened to call the cops, but he never did. He knew Cisco would have it cleaned and shut down before they got halfway there.

His cats meowed all hours of the night. Cisco didn't know how he could hear them running around at night. Especially since one was a stick. One had also snuck into his apartment and shredded his stuffed Rocky the flying squirrel. It had been a present from his ex, Lisa. On one hand, technically kind of a good thing. On the other, he had liked that squirrel.

Cisco perked when he heard his six month old brown-and-white shih tzu mix yapping. He strolled out to the balcony. Sure enough, there they were. Wells’ stringy black and white oriental shorthair and tabby maine coon. The maine coon was the chillest animal on the planet, asleep to the tune of barking dog. That was the one that murdered his squirrel. Everytime Cisco left his apartment, the oriental starting yowling from behind Wells’ door. Then his puppy barked her head off.

Stevie, his brindle greyhound, appeared to investigate. He nudged Cisco curiously. He patted his service dog on the head absently. Cisco was prone to seizures. They were mostly random, but could sometimes be caused by distress. He grabbed a squeaky toy to distract Buttercup. He closed the balcony doors. He packed up and got Stevie in his work outfit. He expected to run into the Professor’s dumb face when he opened the door. He always complained about Buttercup’s barking even though he could just bring in his cats. Cisco had nothing against cats as a whole. He had everything against Wells’ disregard for the effects his cats had on others. Cisco was relieved when he was miraculously not there. He either decided to keep to himself or went out. Cisco saw enough of him in class, it just figured he would end up living beside him.

On a positive note, pissing him off was the most entertaining thing. He even drove him crazy in class. On the first day, Professor Wells had began by saying, “Science fact: The world around you is made up of protons, neutrons, morons, and electrons.”

When he said “morons” he had looked directly at Cisco. He wasn’t sure if Wells was presumptuous, if it was an accident, or if the man was prejudiced. Wells hadn’t eased up on him. He had called on Cisco to answer the toughest questions, contradicted all of his answers. Cisco wasn’t a special case, Wells was mean to other students, but they were slackers or whatever. He did have the potential for kindness, immediately helping anyone who seriously required it.

Either way, Cisco went out of his way to make his teaching aspect of life a bit of a nightmare. He pretended to be incredibly dumb in class, forcing Wells to cater to him. He would ace his tests and grin like a little shit.

He would ask the stupidest most basic questions, eyelashes fluttering like an infatuated schoolgirl. Wells was that “hot silver fox professor” as the women, and even some men, all of whom had no self respect, referred to him. They fawned over him. It was revolting. Cisco made them upset too by imitating their behavior. Wells always apparently lost his train of thought. He would sort of freeze on the spot, mouth open. He stuttered over his next words. It took everything Cisco had to hold in his laughter.

He kept the irritation to the minimum at home. Needless to say, but the airheads in his class didn’t believe Wells played the most obnoxious music at four in the morning. They didn’t believe he had a psychic connection to his cats and bid them to drive Cisco up the wall. They didn’t believe Wells pounded on the wall when Cisco played Christmas music. They didn’t believe he would sit on his balcony and throw things onto Cisco’s. Those objects had included: a wrench, a stupid singing toy from a dollar-per-item store, and even a rather large dildo. He had the supernatural ability to know when Cisco was studying. His hobby of throwing random shit would always scare the daylights out of Cisco.

For some reason, they did believe when he told them about the time Cisco had returned to his apartment shirtless. Some wiseass at he dog park had knocked him into a puddle of mud. At least, he hoped it was mud. He had thrown his shirt away and stormed home in a huff. Wells had seemed to choke on his own saliva when he saw Cisco. His blushing and stuttering was adorable. It was like he had never seen another man shirtless. 

Cisco figured he might’ve been offended by the tattoo, curling around his nipple and over his shoulder. Cisco had experienced a bit of a phase in his first semester of college. He lost a bet which required him to get the tats. They were pretty, and he luckily didn’t end up regretting his decision. He went through a bit of a ‘only get away with being young and dumb once’ phase. He cleared his less that stellar ideas and urges from his system, to pave the way for responsible adulting. He would have a lot of stories for his kids, if he ever felt like having any. Maybe he would tell the stories to Barry’s or Caitlin’s.

Stevie walked easily beside him in the Starling-Central City Shopping Center. He whistled a jaunty tune. He was having a pretty good day. He had satisfied with his level of studying for the upcoming exams and wasn’t exhausted. His new puppy hadn’t peed on the carpet this week. He hadn’t seen Wells’ annoying face yet.

He spoke too soon. He saw Wells, browsing in the assorted candles and incense. He glared at his turned back. He couldn’t believe the man chose this day to enter society and be shopping for something Cisco was looking to purchase. He tentatively stepped into the section, footsteps light. He hoped Wells wouldn’t see him.

He heard someone scoff and stage-whisper, “Do you see that rat he has in his cart? Like anyone believes that’s a real service dog.”

His girlfriend cackled. “What an asshole.”

Cisco’s gaze riveted on Wells’ little dog. She was a chihuahua-corgi mix named Rocket. Wells was secretive as hell. The only things Cisco knew was that he had a daughter and pets. That was due to the photos on his desk of a young girl in braces, a calm Chorgi with its tongue hanging out, next to the 85 % legs oriental shorthair (same pic) and one of the fluffy Maine coon. And there was a final faded, worn one of a German Shepherd/Dalmation in a doggie wheelchair next to an urn simply engraved Sam - Never Forget. Cisco had asked the little dog’s name, and gotten such a gruff reply that he didn’t inquire further.

It was simple to assume his professor was not much beyond a grumpy old jerk. His humanity seemed to be buried deep. He was robotic, functional enough to take care of pets and teach a class, that was all. Cisco would have to rethink that. Rocket was even cuter in person. Wells had obviously heard and he winced. He picked up Rocket, cradling her close. He marched up to the couple.

“Hey what is your deal? His dog is well-behaved, and he did nothing to you!” Cisco crossed his arms, raising his chin. The boyfriend attempted to tower over him, but he was no match for Cisco’s sheer force of will.

“Back off asshole,” The girlfriend butted in. “No one asked you.”

“I’m the asshole? It’s pretty rude to go around assuming things about someone’s life. For all you know, he nearly lost his life fighting in a war.”

“For all I know, you’re a phony too. Look at that - that thing you have. Is it imported from Africa or something?” The Dude narrowed his eyes at Stevie. And that was the end for Cisco.

“Listen here,” he said dangerously, voice flat. “Judgey tools like you is why we can’t have nice things. You can get that stick out of your ass and -”

Dude started making offended noises. The Girlfriend looked ready to jump on Cisco and tear his hair out. He braced himself. Let them try. A distinct high-pitched bark interrupted his tirade. His mouth shut with an audible click, and he whirled around. Rocket was back in the cart, whining, trying to get to Harrison Wells. He was crouched on the floor, all six feet of him. His hand was covering his eyes. The other hand was braced on the shelves. He was rocking back and forth, making breathy noises.

Cisco rushed over, argument forgotten. He wasn’t sure if he’d go to hell for it, but he gently picked up Rocket and placed her on the floor. He certainly lost his mind whenever someone tried to touch his well-trained greyhound on duty. But this seemed like an emergency. Rocket whined again and snuffled on Wells cheek. He sighed and pulled her close, taking deep breaths. Cisco shifted. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the couple had wandered off. Confrontation wasn’t always the best idea. Sometimes, his anger got the better of him. Stevie watched calmly. He looked a bit twitchy. He was always wary whenever Cisco got himself into tense situations.

Wells gained control of himself. His eyes were glazed for a moment, then it faded. His hands were shaking. Rocket was pressed close, licking at his face. He picked her up and stood, clutching her to his chest. He stared at Cisco with wide, bleary eyes. He had never seen Wells looking so spooked.

“Hey buddy. You good or do you need to call someone?”

“Did - did I hurt anyone? When episodes strike, I black out,” Wells explained at Cisco’s confused look. “I can be prone to violence because I think I’m. Back there.”

His voice was at such a low pitch. Cisco was stiff as a board. He shook out his hands, trying to loosen his muscles. He wasn’t afraid. He just wasn’t sure how to tread here.

“No it’s fine. You were kinda on the floor. Was that my fault?”

“They started it, you were only trying to defend me, thank you,” Wells replied.

He was surprisingly relaxed, for all that they didn’t get along. Cisco felt like a veil had been torn from in front of his eyes. He saw everything in front of him anew. He should really take some of his own advice.

“Well, it got a little out of hand ‘cause I don’t know when to shut my mouth and walk away sometimes. Can I - can I buy you some ice cream or something, Professor Wells?”

Wells blinked. Then he laughed, heartily. “You can call me Harry, Mr. Ramon.”

“Cisco!” He continued, mostly to himself, “Big Belly Burger sounds damn good right now.”

Harry nodded in agreement. Cisco indicated his cart. Harry began to pile his stuff inside. It was more efficient to take one cart. His eyes widened at the Star Wars paraphernalia. So, he was a fellow nerd too. There was probably so much Cisco didn’t know about him. These recent discoveries only scratched the surface. He suddenly had an overwhelmingly urgent desire to know everything that Harry would give him.

On the way to the in-store restaurant, Cisco said casually, “I have seizures. Stevie here, he’ll sit and howl when he senses one coming, so I can find a safe place. He stays by my side and helps me out. Completely necessary just like yours.”

“Some people think they’re smart. The reality being they know nothing at all,” Harry replied.

“I know that all I know is that I do not know anything,” Cisco said and snorted. “That guy didn’t even know how to remove the stick in his ass.”

“There’s no proof of that phrase, but the spirit of it is true.”

They finished their meals, bought separately, and Harry paid for their ice cream. Cisco opened his mouth to protest. He was silenced by Harry’s glare.

“I’m sorry I act empty-headed in your class,” Cisco confessed.

Harry nodded and lapped at his ice cream. He smiled as he scooped some with two fingers and fed it to Rocket. Absurdly, Cisco’s stomach started doing acrobatics. He couldn’t pinpoint the cause. He scratched Stevie’s ears, who made a dog-sigh of content.

“I’m sorry for being a difficult neighbor,” Harry offered. “Let’s promise to be at least civil to one another for now on?”

“Agreed. Life will be much easier. And we’re totally having a Star Wars marathon.”

Harry grinned. He rubbed at his lips with a finger. Cisco gnawed on his cone and watched him for a moment. He felt a stab of guilt. He had despised Harry for his behavior. He was a hypocrite. He saw now he had acted the exact same way and judged him. He knew next to nothing about his private life, because he presumed that he did not have one. What did he think? That Harry went home and hooked himself up to a charger?

The man probably had dreams, hobbies, as many likes as dislikes. Hell, Cisco had known he had a family he must care about, from the picture of his daughter on his desk. Cisco distantly noticed Harry had no wedding ring. Somewhere, under all that brain and bluster, Cisco was beginning to see his heart.

The best restart would be to address the root of the problem. Then they could clear the air. He licked his lips nervously. He locked his fingers in his lap and leaned forward. Harry folded his arms on the table, chin lifting in preparation.

Cisco kept his voice soft and not accusing. “Why did you single me out the first day of class?”

“Are you kidding? I heard you were practically wunderkind,” Harry answered in an incredulous tone. “I was very impressed with your records.”

“Seriously? I grew up in the most obscure town.”

“I’m in the habit of keeping an eye on talent. Finding out you were in my class made my entire week, which isn’t saying much, but still. You are the most brilliant and creative person I’ve met, aside from my daughter.”

Cisco internally preened, a flush of pleasure coming over him. He had a weakness for direct compliments of his talents. He realized that also meant Harry had believed in exactly none of his bullshit. Harry pointed at his own face and raised his eyebrows. Cisco squinted at him. Harry spread his hand and made circles. Cisco scrambled in embarrassment to wipe his face off. He found it wasn’t as bad as Harry indicated. He scowled.

“You say such sweet things. But you’re still a dick.”

“Did you really expect anything else?”