#textured vignette

[cuprikorn]

[sunlit-mess]

collab with an art friend 🖤🤍

[1lifeinspired]

All About Our Hardwood Flooring | Wildflower Home

[radellama]

Omg, what was your dream? If you're interested in sharing it :0 I keep my own dream journal so it's interesting to hear other people's dreams.

Haha glad to share! This dream was back in 2018 and it was when I had a quick nap while I was house sitting with a friend. As soon as I woke up I quickly drew the main visual of the dream because it left such a distinct feeling in me and I was shaking when I woke up haha.

It was more of a nightmare than a dream, as I had a really strong sense of dread and there was something about the atmosphere of that dream that was so.... Thick?

I was walking on the beach right where the water was coming in, so it was lapping at my ankles every other step and my feet were soaked. I had the distinct feeling that something was behind me, but I didn't know what, and couldn't see because it was so dark. All I had was a flashlight, but it barely lit up the ground in front of me, and I was almost better off not using it. When I look up, I see a bunch of lines against a red sky- which I assumed to be very straight trees in a forest. I looked back, cause the slight change in the wind felt like breathing on my neck, but nothing is there, just the waves at my feet. When I turn back around and keep going forward, there's a white bar in the sky between the lines. Something about that white bar felt like hope, the first time, at least. I started running towards it but I fell, and turned around to check for injury. Every time I turned around or tried to run, more white bars would fill in the sky, and instead of hope, it was pure dread. I was terrified, something felt so wrong, I couldn't do anything without more white bars appearing between the lines and it started to feel like they'd get me or something lol. I also noticed that no matter how far I ran, the bars and lines were fixed in the sky, like a skybox in a video game. Perpetually out of reach...

I woke up in a cold sweat and was still shaky from the fear, but I fucking loved that visual so much and described it to my friend as I drew. It gave me the same chills you usually look for when you're playing a scary game, and I'd love to somehow use this concept in a story/game, but who knows.

Your masking tape art was so pretty and reminded me of the ominous white bars from my dream... Except yours are the NICE version haha, mine were evil :P

[sref-favorites]

[animblog]

Eluvium - Regenerative Being -- 2017 Stas Santimov 07:21

[flunkett]

best feeling of editing is when im on the part where i just overload the project with effects

[hsundholm]

An Alhambra Vault by Henrik Sundholm Via Flickr: One of the many spaces inside the famous Alhambra in Granada, Spain.

[nereidprinc3ss]

andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)

a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.

note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.

series masterlist

18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!

Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.

The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list. 

He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying. 

Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist. 

“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him. 

Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up. 

“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”

It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now. 

“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”

“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”

“Alright. Got your phone handy?”

It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.

“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”

Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you. 

Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone. 

He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself. 

But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.

So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much. 

Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy. 

Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine. 

Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol. 

So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is. 

“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”

He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her. 

“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”

She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall. 

“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance. 

She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that. 

But god, does he think about you like that. 

His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee. 

Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—

He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand. 

Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought. 

But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.

“Found it okay?” 

Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her. 

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse. 

There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom. 

It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.

At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again. 

But. 

That’s all contingent. 

No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same. 

The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.

In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies. 

Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him. 

And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him. 

The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back. 

If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.

And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out. 

Not again. 

But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.

Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can. 

Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is. 

It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too. 

He sends you a text—the third message in a row. 

The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years. 

I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you. 

[episims]

Done in collab with wonderful @pforestsims – it's 2024, high time to rework how cameras work in TS2!

With this mod, sims can only take pictures if they have a camera in their inventory. To make this more feasible, the default camera is now buyable under Electronics / Small for §120. (If your sim happens to leave on a vacation without a camera, they can still ask kind locals and tourists to take pictures for them.)

In addition, there are six new functional custom cameras.

For most cameras, you'll need to order the photo with a computer to get a printed version, as is the default behavior.

Instant cameras: With Classic Polaroid and Instax cameras, the photo will be added to your sim's inventory right away. They require the instant photo mesh to work (included with the download). The photos taken with instant cameras can't be ordered with computers.

By default, the instant photo has a clear vignette overlay. You can add a tint to it by clicking the mesh and choosing either blue, green, red, or orange tint from the pie menu. It's also possible to revert it back to being clear.

There are two versions of this mod: the 'cellphone' one makes the cellphone work as a camera and is meant to be used together with my phone default. The cellphone will get picked for taking pictures only if the sim doesn't have another camera in their inventory.

The 'no cellphone' version has all the other functionality but the default cellphone won't work as a camera with it.

📷 Download (SFS) (alternate)

Files are compressed. Requires Bon Voyage and maybe University too. A collection file for the custom cameras is included; you can keep only those that you like, the mod works with or without them.

🚨🚨 Conflicts with the custom smartphone camera mod by @jellymeduza. Meduza has shared compatible versions in that same post.

This mod conflicts and isn't compatible with no bad photos mod by @picknmixsims.

There's also a conflict with the snowproof accessories mod by guirnaldas. Both mods will work if you make the camera overhaul load after the snowproof accessories.

This mod is compatible with camera default replacements that don't include an OBJD override, for example this one by @vegan-kaktus or this one by me works perfectly.

Update (12.5.2024): The default camera and all custom cameras are now sellable in OFB businesses. The cameras will also appear in the correct position when moved away from a sim's inventory.

Update (24.4.2024): Visiting sims can now be asked to take a picture for you if they have a non-instant camera in their inventory.

Update (29.1.2024): Taking pictures with instant cameras now fulfills the want to take a picture just as the normal cameras do. Sims using instant cameras also correctly gain art enthusiasm from it.

Update (28.1.2024): Both the default and the custom cameras won't get covered in snow anymore if used outdoors when there's snow on the ground.

The mirrorless camera was converted from TS4 by @lordcrumps, thank you for sharing the textures! The telephoto camera was converted from TS4 for this project, thank you @deedee-sims for extracting! The DSLR camera was converted for this project as well, from ACNH.

[comatosebunny09]

It’s a story that ends much like it began—the warmed, leather pistol grip printing its texture into your palm and the barrel aimed between familiar, dual flames of scarlet. 

A humorless chuckle. The narrowing of a condescending gaze as the world fades into the backdrop, fire and crumbling debris streaking the atmosphere a corrupted mixture of yellow, orange, and grey. The pungent scent of ash and iron curling around you. Sweat. A pulsing heartbeat. Your lips thinned with determination, glare unwavering yet resigned. 

He repositions himself on his makeshift throne, posture lax, as he watches you past the silver streak of the barrel. “You came back all this way just to kill me? An odd way of greeting an old friend. Civilian life must have robbed you of your manners.”

If nothing else, his quip makes your grip on the pistol tighten. You press it deeper into his forehead, earning a scoff and quirked lips that deny their usual amusement.

“You and I both know that won’t be enough to kill me. Or have you forgotten that in the time you’ve spent away?”

For the first time since the world came cascading down in veins of fire and ash, you smirk. Push a huff through your nostrils, the metal of the gun squeaking as you slowly draw the trigger back. 

“I’m counting on it,” you rasp through cracked lips. And the world slows as if spinning through syrup when you fully depress the trigger with an exhale. 

A cacophonic bang. A flash of color. The sound of something whizzing by and lodging itself into the leather where a shock of white once resided. 

You knew it wouldn’t connect. Knew the bullet would miss its target. He wouldn’t be the King of the Underworld if he allowed himself to be taken out so easily. And by you, no less. 

Where you once stood between his splayed legs as he sat upon his wing-backed chair, the rubble of his study sweeps from beneath your feet as you dangle some inches off the ground, pistol long forgotten amid the wreckage, clawing at the crushing pressure encircling your neck. 

In a warped swirl of red and ink, he materializes before you, a hand around your throat in place of the sickly swipe of his Evol.

You glare defiantly at him from down the bridge of your nose. Fingers wound about his wrist as the air slowly spills from your windpipe. 

In the chaos of his once glorious mansion rotting beneath the flames, plumes of smoke blotting out the spill of stars, he resembles something beastly. A primordial horror that’s roamed this planet since its formation. Yet, as he ducks through the shadows and smoke, so close, he breathes fire over your skin, he appears as a mere man. 

“Did you truly think that would work on me? Did you think you could win?” 

Where initially, you scraped at the hand around your throat and kicked and flailed your body about, desperate for freedom, for air, the fight in you sloughs off as your vision glazes with a hot film of tears, and a sardonic smile curves your lips. Your hands drop listlessly at your sides. Despite the world blackening around the edges like a vignette, you manage that cheeky expression he’s grown to adore all these years of working with you.

His brows furrow. Gaze intensifies. He holds you higher. So much higher, you’re not only dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Aside from the pathetic sound pinched from your throat, you don’t show any signs of struggling. It’s almost as if you’re resigned to your fate—like you wanted this. 

“Fight back,” he husks. Quiet at first. Disbelieving. His voice evolves into a growl, a barked order. Desperate, pleading. “Fight me back!”

Your vision escaping, breathing a distant memory, your smile wavers as you’re led to the doorstep of impenetrable darkness by scarlet eyes regretfully flashing over your features, and his fingers loosening their deathly grip around your neck.

Then, there is nothing. 

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Rook Hunt - Savanaclaw Dorm Uniform Voice Lines

Savanaclaw Dorm Uniform Rook does not have a vignette

When Summoned: I vow here and now upon my ever-burning tenacious spirit that I shall repay this favor!

Summon Line: Welcome to Savanaclaw! ...I kid. It's a rather strange sensation to stand before you in this attire.

Groooovy!!: For the sake of bringing back the beautiful world that I cherish... I must strike to put a stop to this treacherous dream!

Home: Ah yes, I feel the spirit of persistence flowing through me.

Swap Looks: Time for a short break.

Home Idle 1: My hair is easily damaged by UV rays. If I don't take proper care of it, it starts to develop a wheat-like texture.

Home Idle 2: Oh là là! There are holes in my denim jeans around my knees... This would always happen whenever I would get caught up in chasing after animals.

Home Idle 3: You know how we stay in shared rooms until our junior year? As I thoroughly enjoy private time to myself, I found it quite nervewracking.

Home Idle - Login: I never would have imagined being able to traverse through a dream like this. ...My heart leaps in anticipation of the beautiful world I will witness!

Home Idle - Groovy: I truly do wish to see a movie where Neige-kun and Vil are both together the lead roles. One day, when that happens, you and I should go watch together!

Home Tap 1: I had forgotten just how easy it was to move around in the Savanaclaw dorm uniform... It's a refreshing sensation, especially since I'm more used to the Pomefiore dorm uniform now.

Home Tap 2: Are you interested in the paper I keep in my waist pouch? I keep these on hand to easily sketch my observations, or attach notes to arrows.

Home Tap 3: The King of Beasts overcame adversity and after strenuous efforts, was able to secure the throne. I absolutely hold his persistent spirit in high regards.

Home Tap 4: Truthfully, in the past, I would always just cut my bangs with a knife. At the time all I cared about was to keep my vision clear, after all.

Home Tap 5: My hat is dirty? Ah, you're right, it's covered in leaves, sticks, and even dirt... Fufu, if Vil were to see this unsightly mess, I would be in for a tongue-lashing.

Home Tap - Groovy: I find it slightly embarrassing to have others witnessing my innermost thoughts. Of course, you would keep to yourself anything you see or hear in my dreams... Wouldn't you?

Duo: [ROOK]: Vil, I dedicate this victory to you! [VIL]: Do ensure that you take them down, Rook.

Requested by @thelonepearl.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I was wondering if maybe in the Coral Sea they use underground volcanoes or geysers instead of fire to cook food.

I wonder if that’s possible..? 🤔

Merfolk don’t seem to be familiar with fires (as Floyd indicates in his Beans Camo vignettes). There also seems to be differences between the food merfolk eat and the food avaliable on land. For example, hot meals are not A Thing in Coral Sea.

In his School Uniform vignette, Jade states most of the food in the Coral Sea is consumed raw, and sweets are a rarity. He also says that it is not possible to light a fire under the sea.

It should be noted that Ruggie mentions mercouples often ask for a rainbow dessert soup served. This soup is normally served warm and served with trident cookies.

This technically contradicts what Jade said about his people’s food being mostly raw and non-sweet. However, this exception does make sense if you consider that the wedding venue Ruggie used to work for is located on land; this land-based wedding venue therefore likely offers different dishes than what would be available in the sea.

Cooking food with a geyser of underwater volcano isn’t the exact same as cooking on a stove. There are moist-heat and dry-head methods, which can impact the properties of the resulting dishes. I feel like underwater geysers/volcanos would, by default, be moist-heat methods, and so there theoretically wouldn’t be certain textures (like crunchy/fried) or flavors available to merpeople even if they do have alternate methods of cooking. (I assume La Grotta, Mrs. Ashengrotto’s restaurant, uses these alternate methods.)

… But then how come Azul’s favorite food is fried chicken??? You’d need to fry the meat somehow, and frying is a DRY-heat cooking method.

The Episode of Octavinelle manga also depicts exceptions to the types of food that can be cooked underwater. In this one page alone, you can see shortcake, pasta, fried chicken, a hamburger patty, vegetables, and a muffin. Most of these could be prepared via steaming or another moist-heat method—but again, NOT THE FRYING.

Did Mrs. Ashengrotto find some way to fry food… underwater??? Is it a magical method…? Does that mean that all her chefs must be mages?? If that’s true, then this only further fuels the idea that some jobs are entirely staffed by mages (and therefore impossible for non-mages to take on, which perpetuates the social divide between mages and non-mages.)

What if her secret method to fryinf is the reason why La Grotta became such a popular restaurant? 🧐 Have we uncovered… a conspiracy theory…?

[stethosc0pe]

never be like you

frank langdon x goth!reader, slight/past trinity santos x reader

wc: 9k!

content/warnings: LOVE CONFESSION!, canon typical gore maybe idk, blood, jealousy, fluff, yearning, angst, arguing, banter, langdon being desperate for that thang, excruciatingly dialogue heavy, gross abuse of italics, flashbacks, moving in, neighbors!!!, best friends!!!!!!, best friends to lovers, pre-established relationship, divorce, Frank has no kids, rehab, benzos mention, alcohol, weed, smoking weed, # they are drunk and high, reader is PGY-5, reader has a Buick LeSabre, reader wears all black, reader has black hair, hopefully no exclusionary language (no mention of hair texture, skin color, weight or height), slight/past santos x reader, no smut sorry (next chapter tho), bisexual reader :P

a/n: hey. we are jumping around in time! here’s chapter two, which is technically chapter one bc it is a prequel. It can also be read as a stand alone. but if you read this and enjoy it, like a stone is it’s follow-up. no smut in this one, but next chapter with be about their first time and will probably be all smut :3 I AM NOT A DOCTOR SORRY IF THERES MEDICAL INACCURACIES!!

if you see this: ·:*¨༺ ♱ ✮ ♱ ༻¨*:· it means there is a spotify link to a song for you! i feel like it can be hard to follow because we are jumping around in the timeline, so i only put two in here. but there will probably be more in the future. unfortunately it is my condition to create stress inducing pieces of work. reader has a david fincher lisbeth salander-ish aesthetic but not necessarily a lisbeth salander physicality, skin tone, body type or shape, height etc. all my reader characters are bisexual even if not explicitly stated. memory is indicated by large chunks of italics.

this fic is named after Never Be Like You by Flume :P

read like a stone here

You moved to night shift while Frank was at rehab. 

It’s just easier this way. You stopped finding yourself able to sleep well after the sun went down anymore. You sweat and have gory nightmares. You’ve never been one to shudder at gore, but these were highly indicative of stress. 

Sometimes the hospital blows up, flames licking up the walls.

Sometimes you’re eviscerated, an autopsy being done on you.

In these dreams, no matter what, you are always, always, at work. It is always, always daylight. And you look around for Frank. Someone to commiserate with. To look over and see him torn open too, and feel comforted. 

And he is never, ever there.

You tend to psychoanalyze everyone you meet. Silently, of course. Everyone except yourself. You can’t see that you’re having these vignettes in your dreams because you just miss him. And the botched routine has started to get to you, because a vital piece is missing. It’s a routine years in the making. And you fucking hate change. 

It seems to be making your mind violent.

Abbot accepted you immediately into his team. It’s harsh to settle into, but the knife always dulls. 

The nightmares stop. Now you dream of nothing at all. Like black out curtains. You wonder what it’ll take to have a good dream. And to remember it when you wake up, too.

You tell Frank all about the switch over when you visit him at the rehab center. You tell him about the nightmares, the switch over, and the nightmares’ departure all in one sitting. He has to pull it out of you, because you don’t want to talk about yourself at the museum of his addiction. You haven’t talked about yourself in a long time. The medical field will do that to you. But you talk, and it all comes spewing out. And there’s not much Frank can do about it from there. It seems to comfort you for now. And that’s good. 

But it’s Frank’s first week back, and he’s never been to work before where he knew you weren’t coming back. You’ve taken days off. Gone home early, shit like that. Now you’re just… on the other side of the clock. And he rarely sees you anymore. 

And there’s this new guy. He’s a PGY-3 and he definitely wasn’t hired to take your place at day shift, though it feels that way to Langdon. He’s 5’6 and has a very patchy mustache. He’s happy to be there. Like, suspiciously chipper. Frank knows they will not get along.

The week comes to an end slowly. It long. People know. Rumors spread, especially when you get caught stealing pills. And with that, comes people walking on eggshells around you. It’s fucking annoying. And he has no one to hold him to it and through it on his lunch break and in busy halls. There is no one to make him belly laugh. There is no one he’s excited to make laugh.

You are both suffering for this. 

You could not fathom the change of him being gone, so you throw your entire work life into upheaval, having to learn a whole new night routine after all. He’s back now, and the original change can be rectified. You know that. You don’t know why you stay at the night shift.

Frank cannot fathom the dissonance of you being gone. He can’t seem to stop looking for you. He wants badly, badly, badly. But it’s selfish to ask you to come back. You’re finding comfort in the night shift from what plagues you. And that’s good, he tells himself. Over and Over.

He texts you. He calls when it’s really bad.

The phone rings 4 times.

‘Hello?’ You answer, voice husky.

‘Hey. Were you sleeping?’ Frank says, trying to be as considerate as he can be. He’s eloped outside for a second to do this.

‘Almost. I was just about to get in my coffin. You’re lucky, cuz there’s no service in there.’ You sound like you’re rubbing your eyes.

‘S-Sorry.’ You don’t expect this stressed tone from him. You expected a joke back.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m fuckin’… It’s rough here today.’ He leans against the outside wall of the Pitt. ‘Y’know- I don’t like this little shit who’s taken your place.’

‘They didn’t take my place. No one did.’

‘Well, he’s using your locker.’

‘Who is it?’ You were sitting up before, probably to answer the phone, and it sounds like you’ve just sunk back into bed.

‘I don’t even know his name. I don’t want to know. He’s a transfer.’

‘I was a transfer.’ You say, monotone.

‘Yeah, but they don’t make em’ like you anymore.’

‘They tried. When they made you.’

He laughs, and you chuckle, and there’s a comfortable silence. He’s imagining your face, hair put up for bed. And as for what you wear to bed, he…

‘Can… can I see you this weekend?’

Frank has been sober from benzodiazepines for almost nine months now. Three in inpatient, which he thought was overkill, but whatever. And five in outpatient. He still has to go to meetings and do drug tests to make sure his job at the Pitt keeps. He’s moved into the apartment across from yours, and he was seeing you at least twice a week. Usually on the weekends. You run errands together. 

Then, it slowly evolved into a situation that was entirely too domestic to be comfortable. But it is. 

Some days, Frank hears your key turn in your door from his apartment and is at your heels before you’ve made it in. He comes in with you and you eat something together usually. You talk over your food until you’re too tired to stand anymore. The lines close in farther and farther. You tell him you’re going to bed, and the first time this happens he asks if you want him to leave. Only if you want to, you say. Watch TV. I have HBO. 

Just lock the door when you leave. 

He doesn’t know what you mean by this, since he doesn’t have a key to your apartment. You’re sleep deprived, he supposes. So, he stays until he wants to lay in a bed instead of a couch. When he needs to leave, he takes your key off the ring and locks the door with it, and then he slides it back under the door for you. 

You pick it up when you get ready for work. You keep picking it up each time until it has surely, solidly become a thing to expect.

Sometimes Frank felt like you were his only friend. Him and Abby’s friends chose her in the divorce. The others from work called and texted but… he only saw your face. 

Your apartment smells like you and it smells lived in. The blankets are pilled and frayed like you’d taken them from home. There are things to look at. Trinkets and books and loose papers scattered around. The walls have frames and art and your high school diploma. They aren’t glaringly white and empty like his. And you’re right across the hall. It’s hard to resist the urge to be with you.

Even if you’re just sleeping in the next room.

Now Langdon’s back at work, and trying to get a hold of you is like hell. Because, y’know. You’re sleeping, but it’s different now. You're nocturnal, and when you aren’t at work, you try to rest like every other doctor. 

Your door is closed before he can make it in now. It feels like a tombstone staring back at him; unmoving and final. 

And he needs sleep of his own. 

The symbiotic relationship seems to be at a disconnect.

He hears you clear your throat softly.

‘I’m off Saturday, but a bunch of us are going out then. Ellis and I- and… pretty much everyone who doesn’t have kids to put to bed. And I’m on call Sunday, so...’

‘Am I not invited?’

‘I was gonna ask, but I didn’t think you were doing bars yet. Or ever.‘ 

‘I can do a bar.’ He really shouldn’t. Not yet. He’s not far enough removed from it all. Or, that’s what the professionals would say. But he will abandon caution to not have to wait another month to see you. Risk relapsing one addiction to feed another.

On the other end of the phone, you’re worried for him. But you’re not his keeper. Just his friend. 

‘…Okay.’

-

Frank has a car. He’s always had a car. And it sits in the apartment complex lot getting dusty. You and him are usually going to the same place, anyways. Why double the air pollution? And, okay, he likes being your passenger princess a little bit. 

So, you and him take your car to the bar. 

You walk a little ahead of him in the parking lot, and he gets to sneak a full look at you tonight. You’ve got your hair down but tucked behind your ears. You have this big, bulky, leather men’s bomber jacket and you wear it everywhere, hands always finding their home in the pockets.  In one of the other pockets, you have a lighter and gum. The jacket is cropped shorter than most jackets, so he can see your ass move in your pants as you walk. Your boots don't make any noise anymore, weathered by the many years you’ve been wearing them.

He has the instinct to run up close to you and make you hold his hand the whole night. He doesn’t want to lose sight of you. But he knows he will have to at some point.

Together, you and Frank enter. He gets a couple of hugs from Collins and Mel. Abbot pats him once on the back. They’re surprised to see him there. He’s never come before. 

You settle into the quietest section of the bar you can. There’s a big open space for people to dance in front of a small platform where a band plays for the night, and already people have gathered there. 

‘Are you sure you’re okay? Being here?’ You ask him.

‘Yeah, I’m… It feels good to be out. With you guys.’

You catch up with everyone for a good thirty minutes. Then the clock strikes ten, and you order your first drink. 

‘We might have to leave the car here. Cuz I kinda want to get blitzed.’ You say to Frank, and though the bar is a little loud with the music and all, he’s right next to you, so you don’t have to yell.

‘So, if I stay sober, can I finally drive it?’ Your faces are close. Maybe six inches apart.

‘Mmyeah. But don’t do that. We’re celebrating.’

‘Is it someone’s birthday?’

‘No. It’s Frank Is Nine Months Sober From Benzos Today Day.’

‘Oh, yeah. A fully gestated sober-baby.’

‘A baby, huh? Can I be the daddy?’

‘If you’re the daddy, it’ll look like the third Addams family baby.’

‘Pubert. He has a little mustache, it’s cute.’

‘Should I grow one?’ Frank asks. He touches his upper lip. You can’t tell if he’s serious.

‘No.’

‘You just said it was cute!’

‘He’s a baby!’

‘Gomez has a mustache too.’

‘You are not Gomez.’

‘I could be.’ He shrugs with wide eyes and a goofy closed lip smile. Neither of you meant for it to happen, but the next thought is obviously… who’s going to be Morticia?

It’s no secret, really.

‘You know you’re not going to grow one. So I’m not pulling at this thread.’

‘Why is it such a sure thing?’

‘You don’t have the je nais se quoi required.’

‘That’s not convincing to me because I don’t speak french.’ 

There are two MDs between you, and you argue like middle schoolers.

‘Neither do I. This is beginners french. Si tu te laisses pousser la moustache, je devrai baise sur ton visage.’ You start to get up from your stool to go see Santos, who is sitting at a four top with Garcia and Walsh. They’re having their own separate general surgery clique conversation. 

‘Hey, was that as filthy as it sounded?’

‘No.’ And then you’re away.

-

You sit at the empty seat adjacent to Santos. She’s on her phone and nursing something clear.

‘Drunk yet?’

Her eyes light up when she sees you. She ignores your question because she has something much more interesting to ask you. ‘Hey, do you know your blood type?’

‘Yeah, O neg.’

‘Universal donor. You donate?’

‘Of course.’

She nods and shakes her head like she’s found herself getting off track, ‘Anyways, I had a patient today with RH null. Rarest blood type ever. There’s only like, fifty documented cases.’

‘Fifty-one now. What was wrong with him?’

‘He screwed his sister-in-law and his wife hit him with her car. He was pretty much okay, though. And thank god, because if he had needed a blood transfusion, it would’ve been over.’

‘We’re on the wife’s side, right?’

‘Oh, definitely. And he didn’t even press charges.’

‘That was smart of him.’

‘I had to get help on it. Cuz honestly, I didn't know enough about his special blood to not accidentally kill this guy.’

‘Wow, you would’ve never admitted that six months ago.’

‘Yup. I watched Forrest Gump last night. Discovered the preciousness of life.’

Yeah, she’s a little drunk. You laugh with your chest. ‘No, you didn’t.’ You giggle out, shaking your head. 

‘No, I didn’t. But I thought you’d want to know about the blood stuff.’ She smiles, visually pleased at your reaction.

‘How thoughtful of you.’

‘I know.’ Santos glances behind you at the rest of your coworkers and sees Frank. ‘I can’t believe he actually came.’

‘We came together.’

‘Huh? Like a date?’ Pfft. If you and Frank going somewhere together was a date, you’ve been on a lot of fucking dates.

‘No. We’re like, neighbors, I guess.’ You fiddle with the wrapper to her straw that’s been discarded on the table. 

‘What the hell? Since when?’

‘Six months ago.’

‘Oh, god. Am I the last to find out?’ She cringes and almost whines.

‘You’re the only one to find out.’

She sighs audibly. Some in relief, some in disbelief at the situation.

‘Well— That’s so weird. Unless you’re fuckin’. Are- Are you eating that poor man alive?’

‘No, ma’am.’ You like the image she’s painted for you, like you’re a praying mantis biting off a man’s head after sex. Then, you remember Whitaker. ‘Are you eating Whitaker alive, then? You actually live together.’

‘Well, no. But I’m a lesbian.’ She heaves an exaggerated sigh, ‘I should stop putting so much faith in your horoscope.’

‘Uh- Yeah. I’m nothing like Abby.’

‘But… That’s a good thing, though. They’re divorced.’

‘Mmm… regardless, I’m a…’ You scratch your head and scrunch your nose, ‘…big investment, I think.’

‘Are you a stray cat?’

‘I mean, like, emotionally.’ You laugh.

‘Oh, and you think you’re special? Everyone on our floor is practically falling off the fuckin’ bone.’

She looks around at her coworkers and silently judges. You feel like she’s about to go on a tangent, so you recenter her.

‘What did the Zodiac say about today specifically?’

‘Ummm… Today, something about the fear instinct. Fight or flight. Horoscope says you’re fight.’

‘You still check mine?’ Even though I’m night shift now?

‘You’re the only person I trust to keep me reading them a secret.’

‘Aww. Thanks. My little scorpion.’ You kiss her on the cheek. She leans into it, and giggles lowly with a rasp. You find that you’re affectionate with Trinity. She’s not a touchy person. You’re not a touchy person, not easily. So, at the beginning, there was no expectation for it. That’s what makes it feel so comforting now. It’s like you’re doing exposure therapy for each other.

And— you sloppily made out in the bathroom of this bar many months ago. It’s a good foundation for a beautiful friendship with no boundaries.

She thinks for a moment, takes a big swig of her drink, then shrugs.

‘But, hey- look, fuck what the ‘scope says about fight or flight—’ She makes quotations with one hand, ‘Not everyone is either or. You can be neither. Some people are both.’

‘I’m suspicious of your tone. Like you know something I don’t.’ You poke at her.

‘We’re about to find out.’

‘What?’

She points with her lips behind you. You turn your head to see that Frank has found himself a skinny blonde. She’s sitting in the stool you had left open next to him. They’re faces are so close, like an open invitation to physical contact.

You flee.

‘I’m gonna go pee.’

-

You go outside to smoke a joint. You go out the back door and take three hits. You stay until you start to feel it. It takes five minutes.  When you come back, the blonde woman is still there. 

You approach the opposite side of the bar, trying to put distance between you and Frank. Trinity finds you there, like she’s been looking for you since you fled.

‘I need a shot.’ You say. Santos calls the bartender over and orders you one. Don Julio.

‘Sorry.’ Santos says eventually.

‘For what?’ You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand after the shot.

Santos realizes you are not drunk or high enough to be talking about this, and you will hold onto your denial until you can’t see straight. She narrows her eyes at you and opens her mouth a couple times like she’s about to inquire. But she cares for you. So for once in her life, she’ll have some tact. 

‘I asked the band to play that song you showed me.’

She drags you to the dance floor. You are stiff as a board at first, but then the shot takes it’s place in your blood and you feel comforted by her. She’s good to you. 

Your arms are around her neck and you sway back and forth. You are glad to not be alone. And you are glad to be distracted. It’s nice to be without him for a moment. To have someone to feel loved by, even if it’s not necessarily romantic.  

You start to come back to center, and the high settles deeper in your body. The places where you need most to feel at ease; back, shoulders, and jaw.

Maybe in another life, or time…

…You and Santos were something. But things are much too complicated. And if there’s a way forward for this, you can’t see it right now. You are both crushing on people you work with. That feels gross. But the person makes you feel anything but.

You wish the timing was right for you two. But some time ago, you were dealt a hand with Frank's name all over it. 

Maybe that could change. Fuck, you don’t know.

So, you don’t talk. You just enjoy your respite with a woman you admire dearly. Her fingertips don’t burn like when you dance with a man, because there’s no presumptions about getting laid being made.

‘You alright, Harker?’ She asks you, eyebrows peaked in concern. She can see you thinking, your own eyebrows dropped low and eyes zoned out.

‘Right now, yeah. Later, I don’t know. I never know.’ You make a sad smile like you wish you could change it too.

‘That’s okay. Just be drunk with me.’

She pulls you closer so you’re hugging, the sides of your faces touching as you oscillate together.

·:*¨༺ ♱ ✮ ♱ ༻¨*:·

The band starts to sing Like I Used To.

Will the marker stain the skin?

Stole the dress I saw you in

Now nothing comes to mind

Saw a life as override

One more session overdrive

The ceiling is the roof

While you and Santos were talking before, Frank sat with the rest of his coworkers as they made lively conversation around him. He actually enjoys his colleagues' company. He drinks but paces himself. He steals glances at you. 

Santos says something that makes you crack up. He hears your full laughter. He wishes it was silent in here so he could hear it unaccompanied. He wishes that Santos did not possess the ability to make you laugh like that at all.

That’s fucked up. Don’t wish that, he chastises himself.

His vision is suddenly blocked. A blonde joins him, and he is less than thrilled but glad to be distracted.

She scooches in close to him. She buys him a drink. She is very pretty, and interesting to talk to. She’s a programmer. You have to be really smart to do that.

He wishes all that was enough for him.

Now… you are swaying with Santos, attached to her by bare skin. And he is feeling very different. She is everywhere he wishes she wasn’t. Your arms are on her shoulders and slung around her neck and her hands are thrown on your waist and…

It burns Frank’s as he watches. He’s jealous. Does he have a reason to be? No, you aren’t his girlfriend. You’re friends with Santos? Right? You’re like, close, right? But this logic- it doesn’t deter him. The feeling is too vast, crossing over everything else.

He orders another drink. 

The music starts to sink into his bones and shreds him to ribbons.

He sees you, off his multiple drinks, through a series of memories from six months ago, shot to the heart via lyrics.

Change address and draw a line

Your voice on the other end of the line. 

Frank’s getting out of rehab soon. He’s reaching that ninety day mark steadily, and he needs to arrange for someone to pick him up.

He half expects you to not pick up. Then he remembers that you’re you, and if he misses you, you’ll just call back. 

‘Hello?’ You answer. He’s using the communal phone for this, so you probably don’t have this number saved, though he’s called you from here before.

‘It’s Frank.’

‘Oh, hey.’

‘Okay, so- basically, a week from now, my inpatient program is over. And I need someone to pick me up.’

‘What happened to your car?’

‘Abby took it home so it wouldn’t get towed.’

‘You really want the first thing you see out of rehab to be my shitty Buick?’

‘I don’t care. I’m just glad to leave. I’m gonna leave a Frank-shaped hole in the wall.’ You give him a chuckle for that. ‘And maybe I just want to see the smiling face of my dear friend. Did you ever think of that?’

‘Probably won’t be smiling but yeah, I’ll be there.’

‘At nine am.’

‘Nine am.’ You repeat back in concurrence.

‘Hey, don’t dress too much like an omen of death. I’m fragile.’

‘Well, if we’re making requests, please don’t dress like an undercover cop. Wait… no— never mind. That’s all you own.’

‘Bye.’ He rolls his eyes lightheartedly and hangs up.

Show my friends the silver line

You, leaning against your shitty Buick with sunglasses on and your hands in your jacket pockets. He’s walking out the doors of the rehab facility, and back into the world. Frank was in rehab for ninety days. He had a wife, and a house. Now he’s getting a divorce, and he and Abby are selling that house. It’s only the early stages of selling, so he still has a bed there, but he needs to start looking for new places now.

‘Hey.’ You say as he walks towards you with his bags. No smile but contentedness evident in your tone, ‘I’m here to pick up a newly-sober doctor with a pretty face. You seen him?’

‘Can I drive?’

‘Fuck, no.’

Call my family just to know they’re there

You, pulling out of the parking lot and into the nine am sunshine. You pull your car visor down to cast shade on your face.

‘Where are we going? I don’t exactly want to go home.’

‘We are going…’ You pull your bottom lip into your mouth, focusing on backing the car up. You look behind you to check your rear. ‘To my home.’

‘Aw, man. I’m not sleeping on your couch, am I?’ 

‘There’s an empty unit across from mine. I paid the first and last month’s rent.’

‘What? For- for me?’

‘For you.’ You keep your eyes on the road and make a turn, one hand crossing over the other. ‘Surprise.’

Sleeping in late like I used to

Frank almost leaves his stuff in the car. 

‘Hey. Bags.’ You remind him.

Right. 

He’s still a little confused.

Frank slings his backpack around his shoulder and you take his duffel bag. It’s fucking heavy. He’s high maintenance; he’s got aftershave and hair products and so many clothes stuffed in there. You don’t seem to be phased by the bag's weight. You’ve taken off your jacket since it’s nice out, and he gets to see your bicep flex and contract to carry his duffel.

You enter your apartment building and go up an elevator two floors without saying a word. Just the automated elevator voice saying Ground Floor, Floor two, Floor three.

That’s okay. You like the quiet. And you knew he’d be weird.

You turn the lock and open the door, gesturing for him to go in. He does, and he feels awkward. Like it’s not his place. But it is.

You show him. You show him every detail you find important. 

‘Welcome home, House.’ You grab his hand and pry it open, setting his new key in his palm.

‘Okay, so- it’s basically a carbon copy of my apartment.’ You start pointing in vague directions and he’s super overwhelmed, ’Kitchen. Bathroom. Shower with no tub.’ 

He notices you haven’t bothered to turn on the lights. The light comes through the windows that have no curtains yet. Your shadows are stark against the eggshell walls.

He keeps following you until you stop at a grey couch and a black entertainment center with a 45 inch TV on top.

‘This is Dana’s old couch. This is Perla’s old TV. Everything else… IKEA.’

You walk again, so he follows you again. Opening the door to the bedroom, you check behind you to see if he’s still there, because he’s been eerily quiet.

The bedroom opens to the cleanest bed he’s ever seen. No sheets. You haven’t picked out sheets for him. There’s no rug, no wall art, nothing personal. There’s a plain black nightstand with a plain white lamp. You’ve left it open for him to make his own.

‘Except… for this.’ You hold out your hands towards the bed like you’re Vanna White, ‘It’s a sleep number. For your fucked up back.’

You smile at him. Beaming, and he’s sure he’s rarely seen you with such excitement. Though it’s still restrained, not having found its way to your body. And the sunglasses are still on. 

He’s stunned. Unable to fathom.

‘How…’ He takes two steps into the room, and you’re behind him now, ‘…You did all this?’

Crossing my fingers like I used to

You, shrugging. ‘Soft place for you to land. Fresh start.’

‘Y/N…’ He sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Thank you. Really.’

‘Course.’ You shrug again, still smiling. He wants you to come sit down next to him.

You don’t. You won’t invite yourself to stay.

‘I don’t even know what to say.’ Frank runs his hand through his hair once and breathes out a brief, disbelieving laugh.

‘Say you like it.’

‘I love it.’

‘I’ll take you to get the rest of your stuff from Abby later-ish. Tomorrow, maybe. Take a shower. You smell like rehab.'

Waiting inside like I used to

You, before you’ve fully backed out the door.

‘Remember, first and last is paid for. The rest is all you. I’m not made of cash, you know?’ You joke.

‘You kinda are. You’re a doctor with no kids.’

‘So are you. Did you forget?’ You raise your brow at him like you're tough-love reassuring him that he’s still got a medical degree. You’re reassuring him he still has a place to be. And purpose. And help.

Avoiding big crowds like I used to

While he sits on the bed, the brand new bed, the very first thing he does is look up ‘sleep number price’.

On average,

They’re three thousand dollars.

Crawl the field and let you in

He starts to get hot. The rest of this specific memory is irrelevant. Because you are not there anymore.

Brand my heart I found you in

Frank lets the woman in front of him talk. He Mhm’s and Oh, Wow’s. He is busy watching you and Santos. 

Now nothing’s more apart

The blonde woman looks behind her to see who Frank has been staring at all night. She doesn’t know if it’s you or Trinity, but she loses interest in this clearly spoken for man. She walks away. 

He didn’t mean to scare her off. The woman’s name was Amy. He’ll never know.

Will my lover bе there, stay

Follow them to less the pain

The ceiling must be wrong

Lighting one up like I used to

Dancing all alone like I used to

Giving it up like I used to

Falling in love I like I used to

Frank waits in the hallway outside your door at 7 am the next morning. He’s waiting for you to get home. You round the corner, and at first glance you just see a 5’11 male figure loitering outside your apartment. There’s a stutter in your gait until you realize it’s him.

‘Holy Christ, you scared the fuck outta me.’

‘Didn’t mean to.’

‘I know.’ One corner of your mouth tilts up, and you stick your key into the lock. He follows you inside.

‘So- uh… Just to like, clarify… that mattress is very expensive.’

You huff facetiously, ‘Try not to count my money.’ Toeing your shoes off your aching feet, you let your bag drop to the ground and you shrug your jacket off as well. He follows you around to continue the conversation.

‘It’s multiple thousands.’

‘I’m a saver. Why do you think I still drive the car that I drive?’ You chuck your keys into a bowl on the kitchen counter.

‘You won’t buy yourself a car, but you’ll buy me a bed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Three thousand can buy you a car that doesn’t rattle.’

‘Yes, I know, dickhead.’

‘Y/N, I don’t know if I’m worth all this. Especially after what I did.’

Open my heart like I used to

You're both standing in your kitchen. Frank is standing aimlessly and listlessly in the center, no wall to lean against, no chair to sit in where he is. He's just standing there like a little kid, arms at his side.

You've turned around at the last thing he said. You face him now, arms crossed over your chest and resting against the counter behind you, the sharp corner of it poking into your back.

‘Well, you can’t return the mattress, okay? It was a final sale.’

You really don't want to talk about this. The why and the when and the how. It might just lead you to somewhere weird for the both of you; the true foundation for your care laid bare.

But he's still standing there, so you guess you have to continue.

‘I… want this to be as seamless of a transition as possible. A lot is changing. You’re gonna go back to work soon and people are gonna… look at you sideways. For a while. It’s going to be okay, but it’s going to be different.’

What you’re saying is realistic and not sugarcoated… it feels sad and heavy. 

‘And not to monologue, but...’ It seems like you’re struggling to collect your thoughts and articulate them in the most detached way possible. 

You suppose… the world will move on without you if you keep choosing to stay quiet because it’s easier. You can’t hide the fact that you consider him anymore.

‘When I was struggling… If someone had helped me, I would’ve had a much easier time being good at my job. Instead, I was cold to it all because I was alone.’ 

Somehow, in your monologue, you manage to specify nothing about this struggle you had.

You have a gift here. You are so kind in this it’s almost cumbersome with quiet grief. You must’ve experienced something that made you empathetic to this— his addiction. He doesn’t know how else you’d show up with exactly what he needs. Maybe you went through something similar yourself. Maybe you lost someone. Addiction can be so many things. 

Maybe it wasn't an addiction at all. Just a chapter of your life you were poorer for. Some dark cloud hanging over you.

But something has broken you all apart and pieced you back together different.

‘I did all this because… I want you to get back to who you are. Who you are is…— a doctor. Focus on that. The rest will follow.’

You expect him to have something to say, irritating and vocal as he is. 

But he just listens. So you keep talking in the space he’s opened up.

‘And, y’know I didn’t want to have to say this, but since—apparently—you need convincing; I’ve never been able to spoil anyone I cared about before. I never had the funds, and— when I did, there was no one who needed taking in like a stray. So, let me do this. Okay? God, it’s like pulling teeth.’

Frank doesn’t say anything. After a while, he just nods. A smile rises to his face slowly. You’re very vehement about this. It feels good for someone to be vehement about you. You smile back at him in the way you do, like you’re annoyed by the act. 

You sigh, a weight lifted off your shoulder, spewed into the air. Then, you slant your eyes at him.

‘Why start an argument if you’re not even gonna try?’ You say.

He’s falling in love.

Making out long like I used to

Holding hands openly, rights to

Taking what’s mine like I used to

The song ends, and his attention is drawn to people clapping for the band. Your coworkers clap. Frank takes a beat. Half-drunk and set to implode, he claps eventually.

When he looks back, you have vacated the dance floor.

-

Frank wanders outside for some air. The door closes behind him with a slam, and then the sound from inside is muffled and contained. He gulps in a big breath of fresh air.

‘Hello.’

The sudden voice jolts him, expecting to be alone.

Frank turns around quickly to see you leaning against the brick wall of the building, holding a cigarette. Your back and butt are against the brick and both your legs shoot out at an angle in front of you. The top of your hair is lit up by the streetlamp above you. The beginning of a smile dusts your face at his shock.

‘Oh. Hey.’

‘What’re you doin’ out here?’ He inquires. Your face relaxes back to a furrow in the brow and an effortless frown in your eyes. Like you were making your face neutral before to signal to him you aren’t a threat, even though you are above him in the food chain. He walks over and parks himself to your left, mirroring your position exactly.

‘I’m always out here. I just say I’m going to the bathroom.’ You take a drag and blow it away from him, though he can still smell it, and it doesn’t smell like a cig. He realizes it doesn’t look like a cig either, really.

‘Is that weed?’

You nod, and you think for a second.

Then,

‘I don’t like being drunk. So, I figured… smoke, come back in. Have as much fun as everyone else is having.’

‘That’s true. I’ve rarely seen you drink.’

‘Mhm.’

‘Why don’t you like being drunk?’

‘I make less-than-desirable decisions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Settle down. You ask a lotta questions.’

He just desperately wants to know every part of you.

‘C’mon, what’s the worst decision you’ve ever made off the bottle?’

‘Probably… drive my car. Total it. But aside from that… I saw one too many of my friends blackout for it to be interesting to me anymore. Depending on the person, you just… you can just lose it. You lose your restraint. I need my restraint.’

‘Oh.’

You glance over to find him looking like he’s thinking very hard.

‘Weren’t expecting that, huh?’

‘Uh-uh.’ He shakes his head. 

‘I’ll take a shot, though. Jane Eyre says I’d rather die happy than dignified.’

‘Actually, I guess it does kinda fit? Being surrounded by a cloud of smoke does make sense for a girl like you.’

‘A girl like me?’ You smile as your left brow goes up in question.

‘Yeah.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Y’know.’ He shrugs, and gestures to your face, and down to the rest of you, how you’re all balled up, arms cradling you. And back up to your face. ‘Scary.’

‘Ohhhh. Okay. And we prefer to be called women, by the way. Not girls.’

‘Mmm.’ He puts his hands in his front pants pockets.

A moment passes, and you don’t take another pull from the joint, and he lets the silence ride for a while. There’s vibrations from the music playing inside to pad the moment that’s already fuzzy from drugs and alcohol.

Trying to get his next question out is like tearing skin from bone.

‘Do you like her?’ It’s blunt. 

‘Who?’

‘Santos.’

‘N- well… she likes Ellis.’

‘Wasn’t my question.’ 

‘No, I don’t.’ It’s a bit of a lie. You’ll always love her in a way that spills over a little. You don’t know if you’re willing to tell anyone something so sensitive, though. ‘I did. We had a thing. But those are fleeting.’

Yeah, not to him.

‘C’est la vie.’ Such is life, you say.

‘Blegh.’ He feigns disgust, ‘Too much French tonight.’

‘Lots of words are French, you just don’t realize. Cuz you’re uncivilized.’

He stays quiet. Expectantly.

‘Blouse.’ You poke the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Brunette.’ You point at his hair. 

‘Are you schooling me right now?’ He tries. You pay no mind to him.

‘Bachelor.’ You motion with the hand that holds your joint, up and down to his entire person like he had when he called you scary.

Frank thinks for a moment and shifts on his feet. ‘Touché?’ 

You start to hee-hee giggle and he follows. Not because it’s super funny. But maybe just because it’s him and it’s stupid. And he’s laughing because you’re laughing. And you’re both intoxicated! It feels giddy for a while, warmth blooming in both of your chests. 

‘And you? How’d it go with that girl in there?’

‘Mmm. Bad. Yeah… not good.’ He shudders a bit like he'd like to forget all that.

‘You fucked it up?’

‘No- umm… not my type.’ He rubs at his brow.

‘What is?’

He looks down at his feet. He shifts his weight back and forth.

‘Brown eyes.’

‘Ah.’

‘Black hair.’ You look up at him. He looks up at you.

Is he…? 

‘S-…’ His throat catches on the word.

‘…Scary.’

You freeze, the joint between your fingers stopping an inch from your face. 

You must be cross-faded from the shot you took.

You push off the wall, coming to stand completely on your feet. You start to feel that anxious feeling bloom, starting at your chest and spreading as far as you go. He watches you dutifully and lets you have your moment, impatient as he is.

You hide behind your hands for a second and pretend he's not there at all. You press your fingertips into your eyes.

‘What are you thinking?’ He asks quietly, drunk confidence wearing off.

‘I’m thinking I’m fuckin’ high.’ You look at the joint in your hand to see how much of it you’ve actually burnt through. Little more than you thought.

‘You’re not that high.’

‘Christ. I’m higher than I thought. I gotta go home, man.’ You start towards the parked car and he stops you by grasping you by the biceps softly.

‘Hey- no…’

‘What’d you say? Just a second ago?' You interrupt him, 'What were you telling me? Cuz I think I got it all wrong.’

‘I’m in love with you.’ He says, taking a sharp inhale after it’s finally out.

He doesn't know how much more straight forward he can be. He just wants you to know, and he wants to know back. Whichever way you respond, he wants the pining to be over with. He needs to get over you.

If it’s necessary. If you’ll let him.

‘Uhh…’ He's got a hold of you, so you have no choice but to look right at him. You look for the signal that he's being facetious. Or that he's blackout drunk. He looks... remarkably serious.

‘And I miss you. And I want you to come back to day shift. And I need you to know now, because… I feel like I’m gonna lose my shit being across the hall from you.’

‘What the fuck? No, you’re not.’ There’s the fight.

‘Why not?’

You’re shocked into silence again. Because you don’t know the answer.

He lets go of you and steps back a little, giving you space.

‘Look, you’re having trouble with this. I understand. It’s a grenade. And I wasn’t-‘ He rubs at his eyes and groans softly, ‘I did not plan on doing this tonight, but then I had two screwdrivers and a beer.’

‘Would you believe me if you were in my shoes?’ You’re not yelling at each other, but it’s getting there. It’s just… charged.

‘Yes! We’re good together.’

‘Stop.’ You sound annoyed. And he's beginning to feel offended that you aren't taking any of this seriously.

‘Why? You don’t feel the same?’

‘I feel…’ You drop the joint out of your hands and watch it burn a little longer on the ground.

‘I… feel…’ It seems you can’t bring yourself to say it. To say anything, one way or another. ‘I feel like you only want me because I was dancing with someone else.’

‘You- you think I’m jealous?’

‘I don’t know!’

Okay, now you’re yelling at each other.

‘Fine, I am!’

‘And you’re fuckin’ drunk!’

‘That’s such bullshit.’

‘Then why haven’t I heard anything about this before?’

‘Because I was married!’ Oh, my god, you do not want to talk about that.

‘And then I was caught out for being a druggie! Oh, yeah,’ His midwesterner accent slips out, ‘Let’s do it then! No- There’s- there’s no good time for this!’

He puts his hand on his hip, unsure what to do with his hands, exasperated and discouraged at your stubbornness.

‘Wait-‘ You remember what was going on in there, and suddenly you are even more angry at his hypocrisy, ‘You’re mad at me for dancing with our mutual friend-‘

‘She’s not my friend.’

‘-but you were in there with a blonde in your lap?’

Fight.

'I'm not mad!' He says, voice raised. Obviously not mad.

‘Oh, fuck off.’ You turn away, angry in your own way.

‘You fuck off!’

You spin around back to him with vigor.

'Look at you! Look at yourself, Langdon.' You hold a hand out at him, fingers flattened and all pointing at him.

He tries to check himself at that. He’s jittery and tipsy and rife with adrenaline and… a mess. He looks to the ground, tries to catch his breath, runs a hand down his face, and brings himself back as far down as he can get. Drunk and all.

‘Haven’t you ever heard that to get over someone, you have to get under someone else?’

You gawk at him, mouth open with a scoff in incredulity. Eyebrows coming down like a guillotine. That’s abruptly bold of him to say. And very clear. You look away from him and put your hands in your pockets. You’re retreating. He takes a step towards you, it makes your gaze snap back to him like you’re keeping your eye on a stranger.

Frank doesn’t want to be a stranger. He can feel you closing up. He’s getting scared. He’s going to start grasping at straws soon.

‘So, you’re jealous, too? Because of that random lady? You don’t have to be. That’s so stupid. You have me.’

You don’t like that he knows you’re jealous now. Like he has power over you. It feels like an exposed nerve. A button to be pushed at will. You just stare at him with your slightly agape mouth. But you don’t deny it, and with that, his flickering hope stays alight.

You snuff the joint out for good with the toe of your boot.

I need my restraint.

‘I’m going home.’ You scratch your head and realize you have to take him too, ‘Are you ready to go home?’

Flight, again.

‘No! Harker!’ His tone says We are not done here! Frank gets the sensation that everything is falling apart in this foreign place. He misses who he was before he got caught. He’s scratching and crawling to get back there. Just- sans drugs and with you.

He knew this would be hard to convince you of. It was hard enough to earn your friendship in the early days. But he’s started. So he’ll see it through.

He’ll try.

‘Then I’m leaving you here.’ You stomp towards the car.

‘Fine. Fuck.’ Frank is frustrated. He’s wounded. He gets in and slams the car door.

-

·:*¨༺ ♱ ✮ ♱ ༻¨*:·

The ride is quiet the whole time. It’s a warm night, and it feels like it might rain early in the morning tomorrow, so it’s just starting to get humid. You’ve rolled the windows down, and you have the AC on. Generally, this is counter-productive. But everything feels so restricting to you right now. You want to slice a cut into your skin and crawl out of it anew like a lizard. You try to feel the wind and the manufactured air. It’s warm, it’s cold, it’s physical. It’s something to grab onto.

You have your left arm bent and sat on the open window. The hand is balled into a fist and at your temple, like you should be resting your head against it. But you do not rest, your neck is tense and knotted, keeping your head straight and eyes on the road. 

Don’t look at him, you remind yourself.

Frank Langdon has been watching you. As he is wont to do. Your hair blows in the wind, and as streetlights fly by, they illuminate each strand. The light peeks through the gaps between tresses, lighting up your side profile. 

Frank started this car ride out the same as you. Perturbed and not knowing where you stand. Scared of what was in the atoms in the air between you. Now, every minute that passes by, his neck cranes and he faces you more and more. And every bit of anger you both feel, for whatever reason, is tamped down in this car. And all there is is time to think.

Earlier tonight, in the back lot of the bar, his mouth opened and words came out. He can’t put the words back. You can’t unknow what you now know. Frank can feel the weight of what he’s done. But you’re still there, his captive audience. There’s still a chance. You have laid all your spindly roots in him, thorned and black, and so grows something unruly. He can’t contain it anymore.

‘I love you.’ These are the first words spoken.

‘Langdon.’ You warn. The hand that’s steering the car wrings the wheel. Just be quiet, please. If we are both quiet, and nothing else is said, we can blame it on the weed and the liquor. Though, you’ve sobered a lot by now.

Frank has not. He's still tipsy. And you are so pretty. And there is so much more to say.

You start to cry. Quiet and stone faced, except your brow, which furrows and peaks with each wave of tears. You’re okay to cry in front of him. You’re just scared of what you’ll say, and what you’ll expose of yourself. What you’re scared to say is that this feels eerily similar to getting your hopes up for something that’s fake. Or doomed.

You’re scraped and bruised from the past. From words too cruel to stand. It's showing now, your drum of a heart sending blood to float it to the surface. And you can see him in your periphery watching you like a puppy.

He sees the change in your face and the tears come down. Over the brim of the eyes and trailing down under your jaw. He waits a moment. And then, again,

‘I love you.’ It’s quieter this time, ‘Why are you crying?’

‘Because…’ Though it pains you with every word, you manage, ‘I feel like this is all one big joke.’ 

‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’ He assures. It’s quick.

‘You’re like, important to me, y’know? I don’t wanna… I’m scared.’ You still haven’t looked at him. Your fingers come off the steering wheel a little bit, adjusting restlessly, and your eyes blur with more tears. You blink them out and down your cheeks.

‘Y/N.’

‘What?’ You raise your voice just a bit, distressed at his persistence.

‘I would never do that to you. I love you.’

‘Why do you keep-’

‘Because I’ve been wrestling with it for months. I just wanna…- Just let me say it.’

You turn the wheel to the right all of a sudden. You pull over to the side of the road, and he thinks you’re going to kick him to the curb. 

Instead, you just sit there for a minute. You turn the car off, and the AC goes with it. Your hand drops from the top of the steering wheel to the bottom, hanging there. You think to yourself that… not an hour ago, you were thinking you could never imagine you and Frank together realistically after seeing him with the woman at the bar. 

You’re starting to imagine. A seed is planted.

‘Months?’ You look at him finally, and he’s got the side of his face against the headrest, dutifully holding you in his gaze. 

He nods. His hands lay in his lap relaxed and face up.

‘I- I’m all fucked up. My paint is peeling. I’m a bitch. And I’m not easy to live with.’ You try to warn him off. He swears he’s never seen brown eyes look so blue.

‘Harker, It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.’ You cover your face with both hands for the second time tonight. You’re overwhelmed. ‘I’m an addict. I got divorced before thirty-five. And I’m a bitch, too.’

He pries one of your hands off your face. He puts both hands around it. You drop the other one to look at him.

‘Don’t you feel it?’ He brings your knuckles to his mouth, kissing it once, and then holding your hand, curled and tensed, against his chest. ‘Don’t you feel this?’

He’s starting to get circles under his eyes. They’re wet. You can see how you’re hurting him. You stare at him for probably thirty seconds. Could be much shorter. Time feels wonky here. He holds your gaze the whole time. You need to end his misery, even if the jump is terrifying to you. 

This could all end horribly, the devil on your shoulder whispers at you. But him, right in front of you… his face is telling you he does not care. Let it end horribly. Just let me show you how good it can be right now. 

Your chin quivers. You lick your lips for something you’ve never tasted before. You press your forehead to his, and you both close your eyes at the contact. It’s the beginning of something. Frank doesn’t know what yet; a rejection, an embrace, an I don’t know.

But you do. You know.

‘You know I do.’ You utter softly, heart beating in your ears.

You are deathly afraid. He breathes out in choppy puffs like he’s about to audibly sob, stomach twisted in knots. But he doesn’t. 

‘God, that feels good.’ He whispers. Cars and their headlights pass by your pulled-over one. The passengers of those cars have no idea there’s a whole world opening up here. It’s a complicated thing, but it’s hopeful to know something like this can happen even here, even in the back lot of the bar.

And if you trace your finger along the red string all the way back to the beginning, the first time you stepped foot into the Pitt. Robby introduced you to the current cast of doctors, and Frank can’t remember what the first thing you said to him was, but it was surely something short, sharp, and effective. Sharper than whatever snarky thing he’d said. Probably something like Hey, I didn't know the Pitt took transfers from Transylvania.

And you took a quick look at him up and down, and probably said something like…

Well, they take interns from Pleasantville.

And now, three— almost four years later, you still talk to him just like that. The only thing that’s changed within your dynamic is that he loves you now.

And… you love him too (?). He wants to be sure.

‘Can you say it?’ He asks of you, eyes still closed. God, he never stops.

‘I love you.’ You have little trouble saying the words. You’ve let it all go. The settings have already been turned over to Yes, I feel the same. ‘Okay?’

‘Okay.’ He says. You lean forward and plant a wet, closed-mouth kiss on him. He deserves it. He stuck it out.

‘Are you happy now?’

He is happy. But do not be fooled; he will never be kissed enough times by you to be fully satiated.

‘Yes. Let’s go home.’

As you start the car again, Frank lets his hand fall to your thigh. He tucks your fallen hair behind your ear so he can see you the whole way home.

You move back to day shift a week later.

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✦ digivamou ...

pt: digivamou. end pt.

a neogender umbrella related to themes of love & lovecore, ( love ) letters, and digital aesthetics .

pt: a neogender umbrella related to themes of love and lovecore, (love) letters, and digital aesthetics. end pt.

other themes that may be connected to this umbrella :

the ILOVEYOU virus

old internet aesthetics

emails and texts

displaying affection via digital means

poetry and writing

for my 100 follower coining event, theme 'aesthetics'.

flag ids in alt text & under cut.

[normal flag id: a rectangular flag with 9 stripes on an angle between diagonal and horizontal. the 4th and 6th stripes are thin, and the 5th stripe is very thin. from top to bottom, the flag colours are reddish-pink, pink, lightish-pink, light pink, white, light pink, lightish-pink, pink and reddish pink. in the middle of the flag is an icon of a pale magenta-pink envelope with a reddish-pink heart-shaped stamp; the stamp has a slightly darker reddish-pink outline and the envelope's is detailed pale pink. the entire envelope is outlined thickly in white. on top of the envelope's top left corner is a small reddish-pink circle with the number 1 on it, resembling a notification symbol. the envelope and notification are both tilted to match the stripes. surrounding the entire flag is a soft white vignette which blurs the parts of the flag it touches, and the entire flag has a digital screen texture. end id.]

[simplified flag id: a rectangular flag with 9 stripes on an angle between diagonal and horizontal. the 4th and 6th stripes are thin, and the 5th stripe is very thin. from top to bottom, the flag colours are reddish-pink, pink, lightish-pink, light pink, white, light pink, lightish-pink, pink and reddish pink. in the middle of the flag is an icon of a pale magenta-pink envelope with a reddish-pink heart-shaped stamp; the stamp has a slightly darker reddish-pink outline and the envelope's is detailed pale pink. the entire envelope is outlined thickly in white. on top of the envelope's top left corner is a small reddish-pink circle with the number 1 on it, resembling a notification symbol. the envelope and notification are both tilted to match the stripes. surrounding the entire flag is a soft white vignette. end id.]