#and threatening to send an email to my boss as if she isn’t the one who gives us permission to do the things we need to do!!!!

[bumpintheroad]

>:(

[12sqft]

I’ve tried writing this 3 times, but honestly, it’s not worth it.

I have a bully on my staff and she’s going over my head to intimidate my boss with 3am emails threatening to quit if she doesn’t get her way.

I got called into 5 meetings about this after my boss fell victim to this intimidation tactic.

In the first, I was told to give limited classes due to her prior bad acts and limited abilities to do the work which superseded my authority as her direct supervisor and any prior direction my boss had given me.

The contractor came back, but not before several attempts to muddy the waters, saying she didn’t know if she could work for so little when all other clients hired her back full time and vague group messages claiming I was ignoring her private messages about her schedule.

The second meeting? She called it. I agreed to talk though she refused to give a basis. I waited an hour after her class, approached her several times while she informed our members of her new schedule (not what we had arranged). I finally gave up and ate my lunch when she decided to walk in and threatened to quit. I held firm to my boss’s orders. The contractor claimed she’d have to leave. I asked if that meant she was dropping classes? She then said it would be inconvenient to drive there. I asked if she still lived down the street? She didn’t like that. She then asked about her late afternoon that had been canceled due to low attendance and no interest in subbing it. She walked out saying the one class she taught had exhausted her— she had forgotten half the routine and was on pain meds to boot.

This led to the third meeting. Seems she decided to write to our Executive Director threatening to quit— at 3:47am. She’s notorious for texting me at that hour then leaving voicemails at 5:46 am, on my personal number demanding I answer her 3 am message.

She claimed I was the bad guy for depriving and disrespectfully eating my lunch at my desk.

I reminded my leadership they had been cc’d and approved of the plan email I was asked to restate and clarify their position after she left my office the day before.

The 4th meeting revealed this is a pattern with other employees. At a staff meeting, our business manager stood on business for being accosted by a patron who also didn’t get her way. I thanked her for saying what I couldn’t, being as I’m still new here, it would hit different if I just said: you made this mess, made me clean it, and now I’m getting called into a performance review for delivering your words?

The last meeting was today. My boss assured me, the contractor would be informed that her resignation was accepted and we would split ties today.

Instead, I was told to give her two more classes. I was also reported as the perpetrator of every action she performed to make me uncomfortable, including sending messages at inappropriate hours, unrealistic timelines for responses, putting trash and unattended packages in her workspace (she teaches in our lobby, where there’s a public trashcan in the room and we provide her equipment, while I have a private office that she will dispose random items and rubbish on the floor).

I firmly reminded that we are in this position because my boss keeps backpedaling to her demands. I refused to be her direct report if I am simply typing out my boss’s oral instructions just to continue the cycle of abuse and overreach.

It got weird after that. My boss is clearly a people pleaser because it suddenly shifted. It was proposed that I was the authority here and if I say “it’s her or me” then our executive director decides. Which he did and his proposal to stay the course with the email I was guided to write stands firm.

For fucksake, this isn’t worth it, but I need to document the level of crazy I experienced today.

[idkguessiwillbloghere]

Blog Post #22

Feeling: Deeply depressed Weather: Cold Last thing I ate: Spaghetti Last thing I drank: Melatonin tea I quit my last job a month ago and I still don’t have a new job. I’ve applied places; all of the “no one wants to work anymore, we’re understaffed” whiners never return my calls or emails; they’re clearly just reaping government COVID relief finances. I wish I had the energy to report them directly to the state government. I’m sure someone out there is like “but people need those relief funds with inflation.” I say fuck you I need to work, we all do; we don’t get to be destitute and shat on for “being too lazy to work” at the same time. I’m also still trying to unsuccessfully process just how shitty people are in general. The most recent thing on my mind is I had a now former coworker (who has a knife-sharpening business on the side) fix one of my knives. My knife was custom-made, but because it was stored in a shitty leather pouch, it got moldy and rusted. It was all pitted and whatnot. When I gave him the knife to work on, I asked him how much it would cost me. He said nothing, but it would take ages to get it done because he had so many other orders to take care of. About seven months went by. I checked in once in a while, he kept saying he was still too busy. Eventually he said he was about to get to it. I asked him again if he needed me to pay anything. He said $20. Alright, would’ve been best if he said so from the start, but I meant what I asked, so I’m happy to pay it. But because this isn’t my first rodeo with shitty people, when he messaged me today saying it was done (and at THIS point, explaining that his style of fixing knives is “Wabi Sabi,” and “that’s why it’s a little uneven), I asked this question again as a test. This is someone I have been tempted to hang out with, I want to know who he really is. Guess what? He wants $40 now, unless I want more of the pitting taken out, then it’ll cost even more. I forgot to call the doctor office I worked at; as employees, our blood draws and other simple procedures are normally waived. But since my former boss now hates me, she is trying to stick me with the bill. I got a threatening letter from the organization that processes the blood draws, telling me I will be sent to collections and my credit score will suffer if I don’t pay them. I shouldn’t be paying them, the medical office should. Thankfully not everyone who works there is a shitstain; most people there like me. I called and left a message for the receptionist about the matter, I just need to call her back again. Which reminds me, my now second former therapist of the year put me in the ER, claiming I was going to kill myself that same night. He asked me, and I quote, “Are you going to kill yourself in the next two days?” I said honestly and plainly, “No.” He said, “I’m not convinced,” and proceeded to say that I either go to the ER right then, or he would call the cops on me. So ER it was. And the ER treated me like garbage, and were about to strip me naked, tie me to the bed, and take my phone away; I called my father, who’s a lawyer, he thankfully got there in time and every fuckface who was trying to pull some shit dispersed. Then, hours later, the psychology expert who I was sent there to see FINALLY showed up, talked to me for ten seconds, and was like, “O, you’re not suicidal.” And I was like yeah no motherfucking shit. But of course, I’m stuck with a huge bill from a visit that was medically unnecessary. The hospital did the whole dog and pony show of “We’re taking your concerns super seriously and we’ll let you know the results after our higher-ups review your concerns.” Obviously it ended with them sending me a letter telling me that they were 100% justified in their shit behavior and I need to pay them. Because that’s how capitalistic suicide “prevention” works. Ironically, it all just makes me want to die now.

The roommates I was going to have in Oregon had claimed they were looking for a house because their apartment lease was ending this December, and that I could come live with them when they got it. Of course, no house, renewed lease. That means that if I can’t secure a place to move to by March, when my lease is up, I gotta remain stuck here in a terrible environment for another year. I finally cleaned my fish tank. My crawfish and danio are much happier now. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.

[bold-writing]

The One With Whiskey Eyes || 18 || My Peace, Like Shattered Glass

Words: 3200+

Warnings: Trauma, Acts of Violence

Previous || Next

~18~

“Ow!”

“That’s why I wear gloves,” Iris teased gently as she smoothed a Band-Aid over the badly stinging cut that Jessica had obtained when trying to rip open a box—it was basically a papercut, but when it was caused by cardboard, the pain was considerably more; as was the amount of blood that had welled up to the surface of the cut.

“I thought that was to hide the mark,” Jessica admitted quietly, her low voice deliberately making sure that their coworkers didn’t hear what she said. “You’re always wearing them.”

“This is the fourth time you’ve cut yourself this week,” Iris pointed out in counterattack, causing the younger woman to flush in embarrassment before she simply shrugged her shoulders. There was no defense against that. Iris shook her head with a gentle smile, collecting the garbage from disinfecting and covering the cut, tossing them into the nearby trashcan of the office. “You should get a pair, you know. Boxes and books don’t just cause papercuts, but they dehydrate your hands as well. Wearing a pair of these will stop that.”

“Don’t rub it in,” Jessica grumbled half-heartedly. Iris just gave that same smile as she stood up.

“I know it’s a bit earlier than usual, but why not take your break now?” Iris asked instead, briefly checking the time on the bottom of the office computer’s screen. Jessica agreed easily, happy to get off shift and eat something. The two women went their separate ways once they left the office, Iris making her way back into the store as she smiled to her coworkers and reclaimed her place behind the register.

She knew they were whispering about her, confused by why she was constantly smiling and always seemed to be happy. Not that she’d been doom and gloom before, but they couldn’t remember a time when she had smiled and showed her happiness so openly and constantly. Jessica was still the only one to know about her marks—or at least the fact that there is more than one—but they had all been able to notice the change in their manager in the past few weeks. She’d gotten worse, to the point that she had been forced to take time off, before she miraculously got better.

There were still days when they could tell she hadn’t slept well, for whatever reason, but they were few and far between.

Iris wasn’t able to see her soulmates every day, try as either of them might, but they spoke constantly. She would wake up to emails from whoever was in the light that day, but she would usually write to all of them every morning—she hated feeling like any of her soulmates were being neglected. Continuing to do this as more and more of them are met, she isn’t sure, but she knows that she will go out of her way to make sure they are all…loved. Welcomed and acknowledged for their individuality.

It was surprisingly difficult to focus on her work—she had never had anything in her life to distract her before. Even fear of her parents had bled away after a time, but her soulmates were ever present on her mind.

Absentmindedly, Iris stroked a fingertip over the mark on the back of her palm.

They were all so different, it made her wonder who else was in the body of Kevin Crumb. When would she meet Hedwig, the supposed child? Or Jade, a younger female than Patricia?

“Looks like the cold-front has arrived,” Sarah called from the front window, a box perched on her hip as she glanced back toward Iris. The young woman’s eyes turned to the window, blinking in shock at the white-out of flurries that had overtaken the view outside the storefront.

Her face pinched slightly uncomfortably, knowing that her walk home was going to be horrendous. “That’s gunna be so cold,” she mumbled to herself, but it was loud enough for Sarah to hear. It had been chilly enough on the walk in to work, heading home through the snow was going to be so much worse. Sarah gave her a pitying look before she turned to get back to work.

Instead of letting herself become distracted by thoughts of walking home, Iris collected one of the boxes that needed to be scanned through and took it to the main counter. Sarah continued to clean and organize the front displays—it was a quiet day and there was very little to do for the group without more customers coming in.

Iris herself had been there since five o’clock that morning, completing some of the reports that needed to be sent to the owners by the end of that week. Not wanting to wait and rush through it, she decided to come in a few hours before her usual time and get in a bit of silent work. She was feeling more exhausted as the day drew on, but at least her sleep the night before had been a fitful one until her alarm had gone off.

Of course, her day did not get any better when she got a call from David, who sounded like death, saying that he had tried but he wouldn’t be able to come in to work. As an old habit, she didn’t want to bother anyone else and just decided that she would stay for the full shift and close the store down as well. Jessica and Sarah both shooed her to the back for a long break, however, and made sure she ate the soup she had brought and even made her a tea with the kettle they had in the break room.

It made Iris wonder if they had gotten a lecture about how she was always doing things for them. Her boss definitely had not liked how she was always working, taking the weekend and evening shifts or filling in for the others when they did not or could not come in. It wouldn’t have surprised her if her employees had gotten a lecture during her forced days off.

“Do you want me to get you a tea? Or a coffee? How about-”

“Jessica,” Iris interrupted, her voice carrying an amused tone as she shook her head at the younger woman. “Calm down! I’m fine, I promise. There’s only a few more hours before close and the snow kept it quiet today. I promise I’ll head straight home and eat.”

“Remember, I’m opening the store tomorrow so I better not find you here early,” Jessica forewarned, pointing a threatening finger at the frail woman. “I swear, I’ll make you sleep in the break room.”

Shaking her head at Jess’s antics, Iris motioned toward the door. “Go home, Jess. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

She was given one more warning look before her new friend and old coworker disappeared out the door into the white flurries that had dominated the window most of the day. Supressing a yawn, Iris sat herself down at the main cash with some of the paperwork from the back office—she still had work that she needed to get done, even if she had to stay and help Sarah until closing.

The odd person or two would wander in throughout the day, making small or simple purchases that Iris handled easily and with little thought. Sarah kept up with cleaning and stocking to busy herself, giving Iris several assurances that she would take care of the aisles and to not worry. By the time the final hour rolled around, and it had been at least forty-five minutes since the last customer, Iris was tempted to send Sarah home early.

The shelves were spotless and there were no other boxes that needed to be put out, so there was nothing else for the young woman to do. Iris had even spent a good thirty minutes explaining to her how to run the computer programs that she used to manage all of the store’s books. Sarah just sat with a bewildered look on her face and they both decided that management was not something that she was interested in learning.

“It’s deserted today,” Iris finally declared, leaning against the counter as Sarah wandered by with a dusting rag. “You head on home, okay? I’ll stay and finish my paperwork and if someone does come by I can handle it.”

Sarah blinked at her owlishly. “Are you sure? I don’t mind staying!”

“There’s no point in both of us being bored out of our minds. Head on home, I’ll be fine.”

And then there was one.

Iris fought another yawn as she glanced at the computer screen. Just one more hour. Sitting back in her chair to rub at her tired eyes, the dark haired woman could feel them sting slightly with the effort she had been putting in to keep her eyes open.

She used to have no problem staying up for ungodly hours, but she’d been adjusting to a new way of living lately and now it seems going back to how things were would be impossible.

Sitting forward with a silent sigh, she tried to focus on the paperwork in front of her. Only a minute had gone by before her concentration was shattered, similar to the store window that exploded in a shower of glass as something was sent flying through it.

A shriek of surprise tore from her lips as Iris ducked behind the desk, too far for the object to reach but fear drawing the defensive reaction to the forefront. Her heart had rocketed into a galloping pace in her chest, hands shaking in fright against the edge of the counter. The roar of wind and the tinkling of glass hitting the once clean floors filled the silence of the store.

The rush of cold against her covered arms and bare neck made her shiver, skin already beginning to feel feverish from the sudden rush of adrenaline that flooded her system. Shivering and panting, Iris remained crouched and hidden as she waited and listened for any sign that the person who had broken the window might come inside.

However, even as time passed and nothing happened, she couldn’t bring herself to move. Trembling in fear and shivering from the cold, her hands gripped the desk above her head until her knuckles were white beneath her gloves. Eventually the distant sound of police sirens broke the silence, bringing her mind back to the present. She’d forgotten about the security system—if one of the doors were opened while the code was inputted, the police were alerted, but if a window was broken at any time the police were called immediately.

Trying to force her hands to relax on the edge of the desk, the sirens grew louder until the police cars came to a screeching halt outside of the store.

Taking in deep breaths of the cold air, Iris exhaled through trembling lips as she finally detached her hands from the desk. Shuffling out from her hiding place, she used the desk to support herself as she finally stood up and surveyed the damage. The front was a mess now, a combination of glass and snow covering the floor and surrounding displays.

The first thing that came to her mind was how the books were going to be ruined if they got snowed on.

“Police, don’t move!”

Iris jumped and choked back a gasp, hands shooting up as one of the officers stopped outside of the broken window. She was the only person visible in the store, so she could understand being suspicious.

“I’m the manager!” she shouted, her voice shaking. “My name is Iris Mayfair, my employers are Melissa and Gerald McIntosh. They would have been contacted as soon as the alarm was set off.”

“Please step out where I can see you, ma’am. Do you have ID on you?”

Walking around the desk on shaky legs, her hands still raised, Iris nodded. “My employee card; it’s with the keys around my wrist.” She shook her arm to demonstrate, causing the keys to jingle soundly and flash the little badge attached to it that had a barcode scanner for her to access the computers upon opening. Jess had one as well, for when she opened the store.

“Are you hurt?” the man asked as he stepped forward, some of the other officers entering behind him as they surveyed the damage and entered the store, checking through the aisles.

“No, I was behind the desk-”

“You have glass in your hair,” the officer interrupted gently once he had checked the ID on her wrist, comparing the information she had given to him with the name and photo on the card. Naturally, her hand lifted to her head to feel for the sharp projectiles. Thankfully, the officers caught her arm gently to stop her before she cut her hand. “No, don’t worry. It’s only a few pieces. Shake your head and they should fall right off.”

Iris did as instructed, shaking her head as she closed her eyes. She could feel when the fragments fell out, tapping down past her shoulders before they hit the already messy floor.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” the officers asked again—a glance at his shirt revealed his name was Montez—and Iris nodded her head dazedly. “Were you the only one working?”

Iris stood in the storefront with the officer as she answered his questions, giving him the time to write them down between answers. As the wind and snow continued to blow into the store, Iris steadily started to shiver more heavily. The adrenaline was bleeding from her system, causing her vision to blur in and out. Montez must have seen her sway on her feet because he abruptly stopped talking and reached out to claim her arm.

“Woah, let’s go sit you down. Is there a back office in this place? Somewhere warm?”

“Yes, just back down that aisle. There’s a door that leads to the stock-room at the end.”

The place was crawling with police by now, and one of them informed her and Montez that the owners were on their way down. There was a camera out front that might have caught the person who threw what turned out to be an old pipe through the window, but Iris didn’t have authorization to scroll back into the recorded footage so she was no help to them.

As they entered the back office to finish giving her statement, Iris found herself wishing that her soulmates were with her. Glancing at the nearest clock, she realized that they would be home by now and waiting for her to let them know that she was home safe.

Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” Montez asked from across from her, worry clearly evident on his face as she trembled and stared blankly at the clock. “Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?”

Small and pale, Iris look like a terrified, small animal. The chair she was in made her appear that much smaller; her feet didn’t touch the floor and her boney frame was enveloped in the black leather of the chair-back. Montez felt like he was interviewing a terrified child. If she got any paler in her face, he’d be calling in the paramedics to check on her again. She looked on the verge of passing out.

The liquid gold of her eyes watered further as she gave a stuttered nod.

“Kevin Crumb,” she answered meekly. “His number is in my cellphone,” she answered, motioning to where she had left the phone on the office desk. She preferred not to have her cellphone with her when she was working, so she usually left it in the back office.

She was probably never going to do that again, not after what she had just experienced.

Montez nodded calmly, picking up the small phone and having her input the password before he stepped away. One of the other officers, a woman named Sinclair, came into the office briefly to inform Iris that her employers were here and she could leave once her statement was complete, they would help the police with anything else needed.

Iris just gave a short nod as she stared at the floor, yet to regain any colouring in her face.

Sinclair gave Montez a sympathetic look as she left, understanding that speaking to someone who was in shock could be a trying endeavor.

The ringing in his ear cut off, drawing his attention back to Iris’s phone. “Hey, Iris, you get home okay?” The casual question, filled with true concern, almost caused the officer to wince. He hated when he had to tell the unsuspecting spouse or loved one that something had happened. At least Iris appeared unhurt and he could offer that assurance.

“This is Officer Liam Montez; is this Kevin Crumb?”

There was a pause on the other end, silence filling the line for a long beat. “Where’s Iris?” the male voice demanded, upping in pitch as fear sharpened his words.

“Miss. Mayfair is fine; someone threw an item through the window of her store but she is safe and unharmed. It would be best if someone was with her right now, she’s in a bit of shock and will able to leave as soon as we finish getting her statement. She asked me to call you—are you able to come down to Pages of the World right now?”

“Yes, yea, I’m on my way. She’s alright? You said she wasn’t hurt?”

“She was far enough away that she only got a bit of glass in her hair, but no, she wasn’t hurt. I might recommend bringing her something warm, preferably tea or something that doesn’t have caffeine in it.”

“Can I talk to her, please? Just for a second?” the plea in the man’s words were impossible to ignore—Montez was certain, as he turned to hand the phone to Iris, that this was a soulmate he was dealing with.

Iris could barely hold onto the phone as she leaned her head heavily against the cellphone, into the pressure of Montez’s continued grip on the device. He was sure that she would have dropped it if he hadn’t helped hold it up. “Hello?” He couldn’t hear the man’s words, but Iris’s bow-tight body finally relaxed slightly at the sound of his voice.

Definitely soulmates.

“Hey, Sweetheart, it’s Barry. You okay? I’m on my way right now.”

“I don’t feel good,” Iris answered weakly, as though she was ashamed of her body’s reaction.

“That’s just the shock, Sweetheart. I’ll be there in ten, okay? Just try and take some deep breaths. Are you sitting down?”

“Mhm.” The conversation barely lasted a few seconds more before Iris suddenly dropped her hand, letting Montez pull the phone away. Glancing at the screen told him that the man had already ended the call, so he simply placed her phone on the desk as he reclaimed the other chair.

“Are you alright to continue?”

Swallowing thickly, Iris gave a tired nod as she met his eyes again.

Previous || Next

[papergirllife]

Chapter 3

Synopsis:

You don’t know what it’s like to be free, to make your own choices, and live your own life. For your whole life, your parents have been treating you like a puppet on strings, controlling your life to every single detail, as well as ignoring the fact that you have feelings. Other times, when you disobey their wishes, or speak up about your own opinions, they bash you down with words, in other words, psychological abuse, has led you down the long winded road of depression and anxiety. What happens when you meet a man who’s willing to be your guide out of this terrible downpour? Would you give a shot at happily ever after?

Warnings:

big age gap (kinda?)

issues on anxiety

issues on depression (mild)

issues on parental abuse

smut (maybe)

Tag List: @etherealtyjaem​ ,  @caratzennie  , @johnnysuhnflower  ,  @euphoricchannie  ,  @yeollieseo  ,  @jjhmk  , @sherzess , @wonderfulkoreanpop​

(lmk if you wanna be on the list)

You’ve been seeing Mr Suh, correction, Johnny, his first name, as per requested by Johnny himself.

“Mr Suh makes me feel older than I already am, you make me feel like a teenager all over again, so you have to call me Johnny. Let me relive my days when I was still a college kid.”

You didn’t mind, things aren’t as awkward between the two of you anymore, Johnny’s been spending time with you, although the two of you never established any sort of labelling towards what this relationship is. You and Johnny only hung out and had meals together, trying out different cuisines, watching movies, even going as far as skipping a day at work to go to the amusement park. He even bought you to an arcade when you told him you haven’t had the chance to venture to one since you were in grade school.

“Why haven’t you ever been to one for so long?” Johnny asked when he finished a round of pinball.

“They said it was a waste of time and that I should spend more time studying,” you said, wondering why Johnny would ask that, isn’t it the same for all the kids?

Whenever you mention your confining life to Johnny, he’d have a faraway look in his eyes, jaw locked in silent rebuke, he doesn’t say anything, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. He would be quite for almost half an hour before he goes back to regular cheerful Johnny, telling you lame jokes that you would surprisingly find funny.

You didn’t have a phone, since your parents forbid you to have one, the only means of communicating is through your email account on your laptop, and even that you must always bear in mind to delete his mails right after, and take further precaution, you didn’t allow him to initiate the sending.

Johnny wanted to buy you one, but you rejected him promptly, you didn’t want him to spend so much money on you, he already spends lots on taking you out to eat. You gave him the excuse that it was too dangerous, and the consequences of getting caught are severe.

You often questioned your relationship with Johnny, you aren’t dumb, you’ve googled him and saw gossip news portals uploading photos of him and some model going out and about in hotels, but those headlines were months ago, the latest news about him was from his interview with Times magazine.

You never had the guts to ask him, you don’t know what you mean to him. What right do you have to question his whereabouts and what he does? He’ll probably be bored of you after he’s known all of you.

You know you shouldn’t think of Johnny that way, it is mean to assume what he’s thinking, especially how well he’s treating you, but seeing those headlines gives you a sense of insecurity, you keep telling yourself that this won’t last, but the thought of not seeing him again made your hair stand. He’s making you happy, a distraction towards the negativity you face in that house you live in, but for how long?

House. You never called it a home, unless you were telling your boss you were leaving, to prevent anyone from questioning your odd way of describing it. It was never a home to you. To you, a home is a place where you feel happy, safe, and most importantly, loved. The closest you’ve ever felt to having these feelings were your grandma and Joh... No, you don’t love him, and he doesn’t love you. What were you thinking?

You pushed those thoughts away as you opened your laptop to double check the files that you’ve typed out for your parent’s next important meeting that was supposed to be taking place first thing tomorrow. But when you went through your folders, the files were nowhere to be seen. It’s then you realised that the notification that keeps urging you to update the laptop was gone, it wasn’t the first time you updated the laptop and found out some files were missing, so you would never update the laptop at such a crucial time.

You took the laptop out to your father who was watching some news on his phone in the dining area to ask him if he had updated the software without alerting you.

“Yes, I did. What about it?” he asked, annoyance on his face due to the sudden disturbance.

“The files are missing because of the update,” you informed him.

“What files?” 

“The files for tomorrow’s meeting, they’re missing,” you told him as you mentally prepared yourself for what’s to come.

“What do you mean missing?! I bet it was because you saved it wrongly again! Your retarded brain never works does it?! Do you know how important those files are?! You always work on them late at night blurry eyed, of course you didn’t save them properly! You could’ve worked on them in the morning before work. but no... You want to ‘exercise’! What a waste of time!” You’re not pretty anyways, what are you doing them for huh?!” Your father shouted, his eyes blazing in rage, his fist slamming onto the glass.

While your father was shouting, your mother was checking the laptop as she complains about how clueless you are. It was like your brain couldn’t take the amount of hurtful words piercing into your mind like daggers, you let out a high pitched scream as tears threatened to fall, your hands covering your ears as your eyes were a blur.

When you could see properly again, you could make up words which sounded like ‘how dare you’ from your father, next thing you registered were the fury in his eyes as he advances on you, hand above his head, ready to hit you. You didn’t know what came over you, but the first thing you did was kicking him away. That’s when a full on fight broke out.

You were filled with rage, your mind wasn’t registering what you were doing. You went into a flight or fight stance and started thrashing and kicking as his hands were holding painfully tight on your wrists after you tried punching him.

Your mom urges the both of you not to fight, her voice barely registering in your head as she sits still on the high chair by the kitchen island, not bothered to even try to cease the fight.

When you finally pushed him away, you ran into your room and locked it. Your chest was heaving from the panic attack that just started, you tried your best to calm yourself down, reminding yourself to breathe, it was suffocating, controlling your breathing as more tears made its way out of your eyes.

When it all stopped, your body succumbed into mental exhaustion, passing out on your bed as the tears finally ceased.

You only woke up for dinner last night, and proceeded to sleep again. Yesterday’s events made you feel numb, other than the pain from the bruises on your arms.

There was a big ugly one on your left upper arm, its colour an ugly shade of green and purple.  A few other less serious ones scattered around your lower arms. In other words, you look like a wreck.

You wore a jacket to run even though you were sweating from your previous cardio work outs, feeling a little better after the endorphins in your body kicked in. When you got back, you quickly showered and ate a toast. When you asked for your mother’s phone to remind your boss you were going to take the day off, she told you that weren’t needed at the meeting anymore and that she finished everything last night.

“Just call to say that you’ll be going to work,” she said, not even looking in your direction when she handed you her phone.

But when you called to inform your boss, he told you that he had another part time coming in, and that it was too short of a notice. You said thank you and hung up, but said that you’ll be at work on time today before handing it back to your mother.

You really needed to escape for the day.

You opened the laptop and sent an email to Johnny.

I’m free today. Wanna go out?

You sat on your bed staring at the ceiling as you were sure it was going to be a bit before he replied, but just as you closed your eyes, you heard a distant chime from your laptop.

I’m rushing some stuff at the office today. I’m so sorry, Y/N.

Can I stay in your office? I really wanna get out of the house.

You sounded like a spoiled kid begging for attention, but you really wanted to see him today.

Sure. But you might get bored :) .

I’m leaving the house now :) .

For a 26 year old businessman, he sure loves to use emoticons.

You got changed into jeans and a jacket, you don’t usually wear one if you were going to a secluded area with Johnny, but you had to hide all the marks from last night. You just noticed that they hurt after you accidentally knocked your wrist against something.

You took the bus to the address Johnny wrote down on your diary, it was after one of your dinners together, and he jokingly said that you could always swing by if you wanted, you didn’t know you were going to actually do that.

The bus station wasn’t too far of a walk from his office, since it was just downtown Seoul where the Korea’s financial hub was located.

As you were nearing the office buildings, you stood out like a sore thumb, given the way you were dressed and your age. The people kept giving you stink eyes and sideway glances.

Suh Capital Partners. That was it.

You walked in the rotating doors, only to be greeted by masses of people walking around with smart pads, files, talking on the phone while the assistants take notes. Johnny didn’t mention his company being this big.

You admired the facade of the lobby, it displayed the latest news on a large monitor while futuristic lights hung from the high ceiling, the walls were a perfect balance of steel and wood with a wall of plants filled the wall behind the reception area. 

You realised that the people stopped what they were doing before and started looking at you curiously when one of the nicely dressed women from the reception walked up to you.

“Excuse me, miss. May I ask who are you looking for?” the woman asked, her eyes scanning you from top to toe.

You froze at your spot from how cold she sounded, like she didn’t want you around to ruin the aesthetic of the company. You reminded yourself that you weren’t going to see her anytime soon after this and that if you did make a fool of yourself then so be it.

“I’m looking for Mr Suh,” you told her.

She looked taken aback from your answer, but gave you the ugliest sneer when she recovered.

“Miss, this isn’t a school, you can’t just walk in here and demand to see someone without an appointment. Mr Suh is the head of this company, not someone you can just meet without an agreement from him. Please leave this instance,” she said, her tone high pitched enough to gather everyone’s attention, you swore you heard someone laughing a few feet away.

“But...

“That’s my guest, Ms Park.”

You whipped your head back to see Johnny standing behind you. But instead of his usual warm honey eyes, his eyes were a cold and staring daggers into the woman in front of you.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Suh. I’ll get back to my work now,” the woman bowed apologetically, going as far as doing it numerous times.

“I’m going to need a key card for her, Ms Park. Send it up to me when you’re done,” Johnny said, but his eyes were scanning the crowd, his employees immediately went back to what they were doing, the large lobby void of any sound other than people rushing to the lift lobby to escape the scene.

Johnny placed a hand behind your back and guided you to the lift lobby after most of the people have taken the ride up to their respective floors.

“I’m sorry,” you said after the coast was clear.

Johnny’s intimidating stance broke as confusion takes over his face.

“What are you sorry for?” Johnny asked, he should be the one saying sorry.

“I’m such an embarrassment, coming here in my jeans and jacket with a canvas bag, looking like a kid,” you said, fingers nervously tugging the straps of your old bag.

“Hey, hey, hey. Nothing’s wrong with being young and dressing your age. They’re just grumpy from all the work. Don’t take their words into account, and you look great. Perfection as always,” Johnny said reassuringly, hands placed on your shoulder, the warmth of his palms calming you slightly.

“No....

You buried your face into your hands as he patted your head, you sneakily glanced up to see him smiling at you with a toothy grin. But you quickly regained posture as you saw an elevator door open with many pairs of legs.

Johnny wasn’t going in even though the lift was going up, that’s when people in the lift realised it was him, and quickly came out of the lift, saying sorry and greeting Johnny.

Johnny guided you in after the lift was cleared empty. His staff looking at you curiously, you weren’t used to having so many pairs of eyes on you, their curious eyes burning holes into you.

Johnny could sense your anxiousness from the way you were hiding behind his tall figure as the two of you walked into his office, there weren’t many people at that time, given the fact that only direct reports of his business partners came up to hand in documents.

You only felt yourself loosen up a bit after you took a seat on Johnny’s armchair in his huge office, overlooking Seoul’s skyline and the cars that were buzzing about on the roads. The view made you calm down a bit from the journey coming up here.

You felt the chair dip as Johnny took a seat on its armrest, his hands coming up to give your shoulders a nice massage. Johnny smiled at the way your eyes lit up from his comforting touch as you looked back to smile at him, he felt a warm feeling deep in his belly as he takes in your beautiful features and the warmth of your shoulders on his fingertips. But as he puts more pressure onto your shoulders, you wince slightly, which didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Did your boss at work make you lift heavy stuff again?” Johnny asked, his hands ceased all movements, fearing that he would hurt you again.

You automatically thought of your fight with your father last night, it might be because of the force exerted from when he had pushed you.

“N-no, I just didn’t sleep well last night. I watched a horror movie and had a nightmare,” you lied, not knowing how he would react if you told him the truth.

“Be careful when watching these movies, Y/N. If you went to work and your boss really made you move heavy things today, then you would’ve strain your muscles,” Johnny said, going back to massaging your shoulders, but this time gently applying pressure on that spot, rubbing it in clockwise circles to ease the pain.

“I’m fine, Johnny. Didn’t you have work to rush? I don’t want to keep you away from important matters. And my shoulders feel much better now,” you said, moving away from his hands even though you could’ve let him do that forever, it felt so comforting, borderline addictive.

“Okay, I’ll tend to your shoulders again later.” Johnny said as he lays his head on top of yours, a gesture that he had came up with whenever he wanted to show affection to you without crossing uncharted territories, your heart sped up whenever he does that.

You were just sitting on the couch reading one of your old books when you looked up and saw Johnny frowning at his laptop, you placed your book down and made your way to Johnny.

“Don’t frown like that, you’ll get frown lines when you’ll get older, it’ll spoil your handsome face,” you joked.

Your hands reach out to smooth the creases on his forehead, a smile coming back to Johnny’s face.

“Thank you,” he said, taking your busy hand into his, lightly tracing the area between your thumb and your index finger.

“What’s bothering you?” you asked, unbeknownst to you, your lips were unconsciously set in a pout.

“There’s some documents that are supposed to be sent to my office in Chicago, but the English that’s written here isn’t up to standards, I’m worried the staff there won’t understand what the document is stating. I don’t mind correcting it, but I have other things to tend to as well,” Johnny explained to you.

“Can I take a look at it? I had Cambridge classes for 8 years. Guess it’s finally coming in handy. I mean only if you think I’m capable, I don’t want you to think I’m boasting or anything, I just really wanna help...

“Y/N, sweet, I trust you. Just let me get you a laptop,” he said before dialling to his secretary.

Once Johnny sent the files to that laptop, you started correcting some grammatical errors and replaced some terms that weren’t as professional, when Johnny was done with his meeting, you were done with the documents as well.

“Here, take a look. There might be mistakes,” you said after sending him the files back.

“You were reading ‘me before you’, I think you’re fine, Y/N,” Johnny deadpanned.

“Just take a look, just in case,” you pleaded, doe eyes capturing his heart. Nodding, Johnny smiles, doing as you said.

Johnny scanned through the documents, his eyes lighting up brighter after each sentence, a proud smile making way on his face. When he was done, he pulled you close by the waist, and gave you a warm hug, his head nuzzling into your sweater.

“Thank you so much, sweetheart. I thought I needed to work overtime because of this,” he said, his voice was slightly muffled by the cotton.

“You’re welcome. You can always send me these files when I’m not here, I don’t want you to overwork yourself,” you offered.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Wanna grab lunch? I can hear your stomach rumbling,” Johnny asked after pulling away, a cheeky glint in his eyes.

You could feel your cheeks heating up in embarrassment, as you hit Johnny’s shoulders lightly for his teasing, a smile creeping up your face.

“No, I’m not...

“Come on, I know this really nice French restaurant around the corner...

“Johnny I have the file you were...

Doyoung stops in his tracks as he sees you and Johnny being so close to each other.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a guest,” Doyoung apologises, but his eyes were still wide in disbelief.

“Doyoung. This is Y/N. Y/N, Doyoung is one of my business partners, his dad was my dad’s business partner so now it’s his turn,” Johnny introduces his friend to you, telling you a bit of his background.

You gave Doyoung a tiny bow and soft hello, nerves wrecking up at meeting someone you often see on telly whenever their company has a press conference. You could sense an air of discomfort as Doyoung gives you a questioning look.

“You can just put the files on my desk Doyoung. I’ll take a look at them after my lunch break.”

When the evening rolled in, Johnny had to drive you home before your mom questioned your whereabouts.

“I really enjoyed having you by my side today, Y/N,” Johnny said sincerely after pulling up outside the gated area.

“I should be the one thanking you, I can’t believe those snails cost so much, yet you won’t let me pay you back whenever we have meals together,” you retorted, recalling how your eyes almost flew out of their sockets when you stole a glance at the bill.

“Money is not an issue, Y/N. I told you that many times before,” Johnny reminded you.

“I’ll see you on Saturday?” you asked, changing the subject before he offers to buy you a house or something.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, chuckling at how you diverted his attention.

Johnny unlocked the doors of his car, but right before you pulled onto the handle, Johnny pulled your arm, the place where one of the bigger bruises were located at, making you wince at the unexpected pain.

“Y/N I wanted to ask, wait. Are you in pain? Are you hurt? Did I accidentally hurt you?” Johnny asked his eyes wide in worry.

Before you could protest, Johnny pushed up the sleeves of your sweater, revealing the big ugly bruise on your upper arm, and several others that went downwards until your wrist.

You looked up at Johnny, scanning his face that was frozen in shock, eyes not believing what he’s seeing. His fingers gently tracing every bruise, his other hand rotating your arm gently, to see if there’s more.

“Y/N... Who did this to you?” Johnny questioned, but deep down in his gut, he’s sure it’s who he thinks it is.

“No one, Johnny. I just fell down when I woke up,” you said, lying through your teeth, you didn’t want to, but that was your survival instinct whenever someone asks about your parents.

“Don’t lie to me Y/N, it’s them isn’t it? They hit you. Why didn’t you tell me?” Johnny demanded, he questions why you don’t trust him, was he not worthy in your eyes?

“It’s nothing, Johnny. Goodnight,” you said in a breath before turning away.

You quickly got out of his car and ran to your lift lobby, Johnny was following behind you. But before he could step into the premise, you shut the glass door which could only be opened with a security card on him, mouthing the words sorry before you made your way into a lift.

Johnny banged at the door, shouting for you to come back, before the security guards asked him to leave. He could feel a prickle in his heart as he sees the bruises in his head, the image fresh. He felt red hot anger boiling in his heart, he was going to get you out of that horrible place, no matter what it takes.

[max--phillips]

Ok so basically, timeline of the work drama™️

Yesterday evening: See I have an appointment at 4:30 today. Customer is returning a 2011 GMC Acadia. Customer has requested to have the vehicle they traded in, a 2004 Chevy Trailblazer with 215k miles on it, returned to him. I check to see where this Trailblazer currently is. It is not on our lot, and logistics does not have it scheduled to be back on our lot until 7 today, which is 2.5 hours after the appointment. I submit a trade return request ticket (the THIRD ticket for this Trailblazer) in hopes to get its return expedited.

This morning, as soon as I get in at about 7: I check the logistics schedule. It is still not scheduled to be here until this evening.

7:30 am: send an email to customer stating the car isn’t here and it won’t be until Monday (bc we’re closed on Sunday because in the hellscape that is Indiana it’s actually illegal to sell cars on Sunday) and that he can either take care of the return today and we can get him his trade in back on Monday, or we can reschedule him.

7:45: im told im not longer doing this appointment or any of the other appointments I had scheduled, and am instead leaving to go do a delivery in Urbana, IL

8:00: leave for Urbana.

10:30: arrive in Urbana, start delivery process. While my customer is doing a test spin, i receive a call from my coworker who’s taking over for me on the return appointment asking me where the packet is, and if I’d heard from him. I hadn’t gotten a chance to truly check my email since I’d been at my appointment, so I check while I’m on the phone with her. I tell her I got an email that just said he’d be there from 4:15-4:30. Forward her the email. She takes care of the rest.

Sometime between 10:30-1:30: my coworker has to go to a delivery appointment herself. She passes off calling the return customer to our boss. Our boss calls the return customer to once again explain the situation, and figure out what to do next.

1:45: arrive back in Indianapolis, begin loading my second delivery vehicle, bound for Bloomington.

1:50: my coworker calls me again. She begins the conversation with “The AUDACITY of this man.” I immediately knew Some Bull Shit™️ had occurred. Coworker informs me customer was extremely upset and threatened to hire an attorney. For what, who the fuck knows. He gave us his trade in for the vehicle he was currently driving, and a simple logistics error had occurred and we needed to reschedule him. He was still going to get his vehicle back, but shit happens sometimes and that’s just how it is.

2:00: leave for Bloomington

4:00: unrelated, but I got kickass pizza from one of my fave pizza places

4:15: receive another call from my coworker telling me that not only did he get rescheduled, but our boss is personally taking the trade in back to him. Our boss isn’t really supposed to be doing anything customer facing so this is insane.

Anyway. customers are. Crazy and listen no offense but I highly doubt a dude who traded in an 04 Trailblazer for a 2011 Acadia can afford to ~hire an attorney~ bc he’s mad at us for a logistics error

[anxiouslyfred]

Moss Graffiti

Summary: Virgil was convinced his soulmate worked in nuclear power from the poem he got describing them. He’s about to learn how wrong that is, and how weirdly some corporations view graffiti.

/\/\

Virgil's soulmate had to do something in nuclear power. He was certain of it. Why else would his poem include the line 'Green pollution close to hand'?

Really he'd taken decades to reach that conclusion, trying to decide what it could mean. Pollution usually wasn't anything green at all, but from those Simpsons opening credits, to the glow shows always used for nuclear radiation, that had to be what was intended. Unless there was something else being done that corporations would try to claim as pollution, but that just opened too many trails for his thoughts to follow.

“Uneven floors present a trip hazard and either need indicating or fixing. That's the most important issue, I've found, shall we continue through the rest?” Virgil shook the momentary thoughts of his soulmate from his head, focusing back on the Health & Safety inspection he was doing.

The offices were just waiting for an accident to happen in a lot of places, and if he had to yell to actually get the manager to come over instead of the receptionist, he would be. There's no point booking him to conduct the inspection if they just wanted to ignore the issues raised in his report.

“Mr Furniss has requested you confirm if the pollution on the outer walls will need a specialist to remove.” The receptionist, Miss Mauby, asked, noting down his comments.

“I haven't noticed any pollution. Do you mind showing me the section he's referring to?” Virgil raised an eyebrow. There had been some graffiti on one of the walls near the entrance, but it hadn't looked like anything he'd need to take note of.

The wall he was led to pretty much guaranteed he would be storming back into the manager's office to give his report. Wasting his time demanding answers that a fool could tell was simply moss was absurd, despite the design and words showing it was all deliberately placed. Virgil already agreed that the company had a lot of issues it needed to be addressing, especially regarding the waste products being incorrectly disposed of at the factory site.

Turning to Miss Mauby he nodded, “I believe it would be best for me to give my initial review to Mr Furniss directly, and I'll send the report over in a matter of days.” He didn't wait for a reply, already returning to the building and the office that was indicated to belong to the site manager.

By the time Virgil was leaving the site, he'd begun to calm down and find it amusing. The manager of the place really did think that graffiti was pollution and not just unauthorised artwork. Perhaps they needed some language lessons to clear up the definition and impact of using the wrong terms. Science classes could help more though.

When he glanced back towards the moss words, he had to call over, “Better get away from there. I think Mr Furniss mentioned getting cameras set up to monitor their walls.”

“I'll find some other wall to protest on then. He can't monitor them all and ignores any emails or government mandates to follow the laws for disposal of contaminated waste.” The person called back, voice shrill and uncaring.

Virgil wandered closer, a little curious to know more. “How did you even manage it anyway? I didn't think you could control where or how moss grows.”

“I made moss paint and spray with water each afternoon. For this lot at least. I've got twenty other sites I do this too and commissions to take for peoples gardens occasionally.” Virgil began to worry he'd asked the wrong thing with the lack of energy compared to the person's original response before they jumped to face him, “I'm making nature fight back for itself when it can't speak. The moss, lichens and plants shall rise to destroy humanity with my aid!”

“Okay, cool, erm good luck with that. I'll leave you to it then.” Virgil backed away at the yell, startled and very concerned that if someone in the office came out to see him talking with the moss graffiti guy he could lose payment for his services.

It was only once he got home that Virgil thought whoever it was looking after that moss seemed to fill 3 of the 4 lines in his soul poem, especially with that companies boss claiming graffiti was pollution.

He checked while swapping his jacket for a hoodie and the idea only grew at the familiar lines:

Uncontrolled by any rule,

Dangerous Attitude, surface cool.

Green pollution close to hand.

Trust fleeting as the sand.

Virgil had gotten the poem as a tattoo as soon as he was old enough to. He didn't want anybody finding out what his poem was and the easiest way to ensure that was to keep the only record of it literally on him.

Perhaps they'd encounter each other again in the city. Virgil did have other gigs coming up for offices of corporations known to be major polluters.

/Over to the Graffiti Artist\

Remus had been curious about the guy who'd come over asking about his graffiti, but he got people running away from him. It happened often enough pretty much anytime he tried to make friends.

He pushed the curiosity out of his mind though, focusing on that morning's project. He was still cultivating the moss on the edge of an animal testing lab for a soaps company and needed to make sure he was using the right mosses so the creature yelling at the company was recognisable.

“Get Away from there! I'll call the police on you for doing-” The angry yelling cut off when the woman got close enough.

Remus smirked, not turning around, but well aware it looked like he was just painting water onto the wall with how diluted he'd made the moss-paint today. He'd expected someone to try and stop him and wasn't going to give away what he was doing, including the fact these were rare mosses that if it got out the company had removed would enrage some environmentalist charities.

“Well isn't this fun. Do you often greet contractors by yelling at someone painting the walls with water, or am I just special?” The curious guy from yesterday was back, and apparently ignoring Remus in favour of greeting the woman. It was an interesting way to try and stick up for him though.

None of the apologies she was now stuttering out got directed to him either, and Remus finally realised this was one of the managers of the building and the guy had to be some sort of contractor. Not that it mattered to him of course, guy got scared off by a tiny bit of excitement.

He was humming while working on an established moss garden that evening when the guy walked passed again, and seriously Remus was beginning to think some cosmic force wanted them to talk.

“How'd you get the different colours?” The guy actually stopped to ask, glancing over the patterns. Dull, boring spirals. Remus had a far more interesting moss garden on the outer walls of his apartment.

“Different mosses.” He replied, turning to get more water for his spray bottle. It wasn't necessary, but he didn't feel like watching someone try to escape him currently.

The guy stayed waiting there, long enough Remus couldn't avoid returning to his work. “I'm Virgil by the way. He/Him. Sorry about that bitch this morning. She really needs to focus more on adequate safety railings and less on how the building looks. Aesthetic is not worth health hazards!” He sort of ranted, definitely trying to make conversation.

“I'm Remus and you're already scared of me, so I don't think you want to hear my actual views. Bugger off to screw in a H&S approved fallout bunker or something.” Remus interrupted before he could say anything else.

“No need to be a jerk, and sorry I'm not interested in losing a paycheck because the boss of a building is an asshole. Yelling and getting attention when I've just finished a place that specifically tried to call your work a biohazard could easily have the company finding some way out of paying for aiding a vandal or whatever.” Virgil snapped back, glaring. “I just wanted to know more because your work looks awesome, but fine, I'll leave asking more for some other day.”

Remus scoffed, throwing his spray bottle to one side and turning, “Yeah, when you decide I'm invisible again because I'm near one of those building's that's contracting you to yell at them. Fantastic chance to ask questions when you won't even glance my way.”

His words must have trigger some confusing thought process for Virgil as his right hand jumped to covering his left forearm, almost brushing over it in an odd pattern. He watched for a moment before turning back to checking the outlines were still clear.

“I can't put my chances of making the rent at stake, but fine, next time I see you I'll find time to stop and at least say hi. I'm going to get to know you, Remus. You can trust me on that, whether you believe it or not.” The words were threatening, and Remus wanted to come up with some actual threats Virgil could have used, but still didn't want to watch him run away.

“Only the naïve trust people instantly. Or the people wanting to use you and twist you into a different shape. I'm neither of those and the only time someone else controls how I twist is when they're bending me over.” He dismissed the promise and started humming again, pretending to focus on his work.

If they spoke for much longer of course he'd say something to have this brittle connection thoroughly sever.

That night Remus was still wondering about Virgil. How concerned he sounded over losing pay, and some vague terrible happening that could follow it.

There was definitely something of his soulmate poem in how the man was speaking and acting, but it just felt like another thing for Remus to hope for and end up destroying.

He had to listen to that old song again, if only to confirm it couldn't be Virgil at all:

Lashing out just to be heard

Worry infusing every word.

Cautious but convinceable,

Dreams their friends invincible.

/Days passing by\

The warning Virgil had given on the first time they encountered each other had been proven right. That company had put up cameras over the footpaths on the buildings, with only a few sections left clear of surveillance.

Remus had refreshed his free-running skills enough to get up onto one of the ledges. He wasn't expecting to get yelled at to get down and that it wasn't safe while checking if there was another layer of moss-paint needed or not.

“Virgil, you're really going to attract attention if you don't quiet down.” Remus sing-songed, leaning to look down from the ledge he was stood on, and grinning at the glare he was being given.

He wasn't expecting Virgil to walk a few steps back before launching himself up the wall. “And you're going to do yourself a freaking injury. Is constantly climbing up here really necessary for you to get the message across?”

“Yes, they're going to keep having the message painted until the listen and actually sort out the waste disposal of the factory.” Remus nodded. Virgil had been speaking to him, and actually seeking out the places Remus would turn up ever since threatening to get to know him. “Besides, a suicide on the property with this message growing afterwards would definitely make the news, get public interest sparked over everything they're doing wrong. Sounds like the perfect storm for them to face.”

“Except the part where you die. Not allowed. You act like you're invincible and I wish to whoever's listening you were.” Virgil snapped, and snatched the brush from Remus's hands for some reason. “Come on, tell me where I'm painting this one, and I'll help. Sooner you get this done, the sooner I can get you safely down from here!”

Remus blinked at the change, wondering whether this was what 'cautious but convinceable' meant before shaking it off. “That's for the darker bits. Currently just look like some discolouring. I'll do the pale bits since the difference for those can't be made out yet. Why would you want me to be invincible anyways? Most people would be glad to see something break me, even if they wouldn't wish me dead. A sever injury, maybe causing paralysis, and they'd all sigh knowing where I am and thinking they could control how much trouble I cause.”

“Sounds like you know a ton of jerks then. You're my Friend Remus. Not many people can say that and I'm not going to let you jeopardise my friend's life all to make a point against horrible business practices.” Virgil lectured, already following the lines, although his shoulders were so tense Remus wondered how his movements with the brush could be so fluid.

In more interesting news that literally sounded like the 2 lines Remus had mentally been insisting couldn't relate to Virgil had fallen into place and suddenly fitted him perfectly. He was singing the soul poem without thinking it, performing a short dance when he realised Virgil was staring.

“So are you writing poems about me now or is that, you know?” Virgil muttered a few moments after he finished singing.

“My soul Poem!” Remus squealed and the only thing that stopped him bouncing was Virgil's eyes quickly falling to his feet. The edge was close behind him and he wasn't going to fall after deciding that Virgil was his soulmate. “Seems to be perfect for you, right?!”

Virgil just nodded, shoving up the sleeve of his jacket and holding the arm out to Remus. “Get away from the edge, read this and have a laugh at what the manager of this place called your art.”

The tattoo was brilliant, with letters that looked like they were bleeding, and thorns twisting together to frame it. Realising the poem actually did describe him only made it better.

“So we are simply meant to be.” Remus grinned.

At least he knew this health and safety inspector wasn't completely against breaking the rules occasionally, at least if it meant they could keep each other safe instead.

[ladyofmaidensandwine]

9 to 5

A request by @herfalsegod

“Hey, hon! I’ve been obsessed with Dean Smith, would you consider writing something for him?”

Absolutely, darling, Dean Smith really just satisfies all my normal life Dean fantasies, and who doesn’t fancy the business suit?

Characters: Dean Smith, Fem! Reader

Summary: Reader is a no-nonsense, business-oriented woman. Her boss is less concerned with protocol, and entirely too stubborn. Dean Smith has but one goal in mind- finally get his assistant to go out with him.

Wordcount: 2,107

                        You clock in for work with a smile and a nod to the secretary by the time cards, offering polite greetings as you hurry through your morning routine. You’ve been working for Sandover Bridge and Iron Inc. going on four years now, having climbed the ladder from secretary to personal assistant quickly, and you loved your job. Your life was built on routines and schedules, and you thrived when organizing the chaos of the world into manageable lists and calendars, helping your boss, Dean Smith, do the same. 

                     By nine in the morning, your tea is steeped to perfection, you’ve got your laptop running, and you’re already working on clearing the list of daily tasks. You have a reputation for handling the complicated things, known as a great negotiator and a woman with a one-track mind, kind but focused, and you have earned your seat at the table with the company’s higher-ups. They count on you to make ideas reality, to take care of the issues and details they don’t have time for, and to be on top of everything going on in the company so that you can ensure it runs as smoothly and efficiently as possible. Dean Smith was the sort of man with an ambitious drive but a scattered mind, meaning you had to pick up the pieces to keep his momentum going steady. He’d always been a fair and polite man towards you, but as his assistant, you’d gotten to look behind the curtains, and knew he wasn’t as business-only as he appeared.

               “Good morning, Mr. Smith. Your coffee, Sir.” You greet him, stepping into his office. Dean offers a quick smile, and you wait patiently for his call to end. “Morning, Y/N. Looking lovely as always. How many times do I gotta tell you to just call me Dean. We’ve been working together going on two years now.” Dean chides. “A few more times at least, Sir. You’ve got Andrea from Delaware’s architecture in ten, I’ve made a file for you to look over. She’s going to try to sell you on the price cut, but the long-term expense isn’t worth it, so either compromise on the royalties or no deal.” You advise, handing Dean a thick folder you’ve compiled on what angle to take with the negotiation and the relevant statistics. “Thanks, Y/N. What would I do without you?” Dean grins. “Probably spiral downwards.” You say with a sly smile. “What else is on the agenda?” He asks, sipping his coffee. “Your sister is dropping by for lunch, I’ve already got it on standby at the cafe on mainstreet, you have two more meetings, tech service at one and marketing at two, and I have a few things for you to look other whenever you’re ready. Oh, and a Lisa Braeden called, should I send a message?” “No, no, I’ll talk to her. Ex-girlfriend.” Dean explains. “Ah. Anything else I can do for you?” You offer. “Actually, yeah, mind joining the meeting? You know these numbers better than me.” Dean shrugs. “Of course, let me forward the phones first and I’ll let Andrea in.” You nod.

                  “Y/N, you are a life saver.” Dean says, sighing as he slumped into his chair. You smile wryly, shaking your head. “It’s just maths, Mr Smith.” You raise a brow, grabbing the files and the signed deal to put it in the neatly organized system you have. “Says you. Say, Y/N, you free for lunch?” He asks. “I am, but you’re not. Jo?” You remind him. Dean’s face falls slightly. “Tomorrow, then?” “I can schedule it in. We can go over the marketing data for this quarter.” You agree. Dean smirks to himself, but doesn’t say anything as you walk back out to your desk.

               “Jo.” You smile at the blonde as she walks over, waiting for you to tell Dean she’s arrived for lunch. “Hey, Y/N! ‘S been a while!” She smiles. “Too long. Please take your brother to lunch, I can’t work with him calling me in for every little thing.” You plead, joking like the pair of you always do. You and Jo had been fast friends, bonding over making fun of Dean, though she’s just as quick to tease you about the crush she thinks you have on her brother. “In that case I’d better steal him away quick.” Jo winks. You lead her to the office doors, Dean smiling the moment he sees you, and standing up to greet Jo.

                 “Don’t you take a lunch break, Y/N?” He asks as they walk by. “Mhm. I’ve got chicken tikka masala to heat after I finish filing these records.” You nod. Dean frowns slightly, but lets Jo lead him away.

                If there’s one thing about Dean you admire, it’s his persistence. The man truly didn’t give up- the company leaders agreed, giving him more projects to take on quickly. You hadn’t known that it would be a quality invested in you, however. Dean had flirted with you when you’d first started working together, but you’d made it clear that you weren’t going to put your position in jeopardy, and he’d seemed to drop the subject, though the occasional comment about your outfit or a patented Dean Smith lady-killing smile was unavoidable. Since he’d broken up with Lisa, Dean had returned his attentions to you, though his approach was far more sincere than the first time. 

               You remind yourself that no matter how charming he is, he’s technically your boss, and you can’t risk losing your job, not when you’ve worked so hard to climb the corporate ladder. You admit to yourself that it’s a difficult task, pretending Dean’s affectionate gestures didn’t leave you flustered. He truly was sweet- a bouquet of peonies, your favourite flower, on your desk one morning, lunch and tea from your go-to cafe, odd trinkets now and then. You asked him once about the random items he left for you, and his response was that he’d seen them and had been reminded of you, your heart flipping in your chest. Damn that Dean Smith, him and all his endearing qualities.

                “Hey, Y/N, I heard about this new restaurant down on fifth street, sounds pretty great. Maybe this weekend you and I could try it?” Dean offers, smiling hopefully at you. You pointedly ignore Nora from accounting as she stares at the two of you, and give him a gentle smile, shaking your head. “Thank you for the offer, Mr Smith, but I’m busy with these reports.” You reply, his expression falling slightly and tugging at your heart. “Yeah, sure, I get it. I, uh, better get back to it.” Dean says brightly, masking his hurt at the rejection. “I’ll be in with the statistics on customer satisfaction in fifteen minutes, Sir.” You nod, pivoting in your seat and focusing on the documents in front of you. Dean hesitates a moment more before retreating into his office.

                “Y/N!” Nora exclaims the instant he’s out of sight. “I cannot believe you, turning down that man again!” She sighs, shaking her head at you in disappointment. “You can’t tell me he’s not attractive, and he’s such a sweetheart towards you! What on Earth is wrong with you?” Nora demands to know. You pinch the bridge of your nose and swivel in your chair to face her. “Yes, Mr Smith is attractive and very kind, but he is also my boss, Nora, and I’ve worked too hard to lose it all now over a man, no matter how much I fancy him.” You say shortly. Nora is gaping slightly and you frown. “If that’s all, I have work to do.” You dismiss her, going back to the report you’d been reading. What you don’t notice is Dean Smith in the doorway, flushed in pleasant surprise with Nora staring at him wide-eyed.

                    A prompt fifteen minutes later, you walk into Dean’s office, neatly organized reports tucked under your arm. “Mr Smith?” Dean looks up at you, smiling softly. “Those the reports? Thanks, Y/N,” he says as you nod and take a seat, “but it’s Dean.” He adds. You smile wryly, but don’t correct yourself, Dean smirking slightly as he shakes his head. “I’ll start in chronological order from the oldest to the most recent.” You say, opening the first report. “Wait, Y/N, I wanted to ask you something first.” Dean halts you. You look at him quizzically. “I may have... overheard your conversation with Nora.” He admits. Embarrassment courses through you. “I’m so sorry, that was highly unprofessional of me-” “Y/N, you’re not in trouble.” Dean chuckles. “I think it’s fairly obvious that I like you, and I have for some time now. Obvious to everyone including Jo, who threatened to ask you on a date for me if I didn’t do it myself.” He shrugs. You fidget with your wrist-watch, eyes darting away from the warm jade pair fixated on you. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and if you’re really not ok with me flirting with you, I’ll stop, but I just want to know something.” Dean says, taking a breath. “If you didn’t work for me, would I have a chance? If I wasn’t your boss, and you still worked for Sandover, and I asked you out, would you say yes?” Dean questions. You furrow your brows, looking back at him. “I- I s’pose so, yes. You don’t make me uncomfortable, Dean, I just really can’t risk my career. I do like you.” You confess, looking away again. He grins at you. “What?” “You called me Dean. You always call me ‘Mr Smith’.” He says, still grinning stupidly at you. You balk, thoroughly flustered. “Well, I-” You cut off, unsure what to say. “Why are you asking me questions like this?” “Don’t worry about it. Go ahead with the reports, Y/N.” Dean smirks.

                  A week passes, and while Dean still flirts with you and is just as sweet and attentive as ever, the more obvious gestures are less. You do your best to pretend you haven’t noticed, nor missed, the lack of flowers waiting for you, or some strange object you laugh at but tuck away with a secret smile. Things seem to be normal- meetings, emails, reports, negotiations, business deals, quotas, and gossip, falling back into the routine you cultivated so meticulously. And then, like a stone tossed into a still pond, your life is disrupted, that constant swept away in the current, and none other than Dean Smith is to be held accountable for it.

                 You don’t bother to knock- you knew his schedule, and knew he wasn’t busy. The doors to his office are flung open, and closed just as dramatically while you storm into the room. He has the audacity to look amused, but you’re glaring at him. “What did you do?!” You demand. “What d’you mean, sweetheart?” He asks innocently, but you’re not buying it. “The company’s big-wigs called me into a meeting, Dean. They offered me a job as project manager for the contracting division, huge bonus off the bat.” “That’s amazing, Y/N!” He grins. “Cut the rabbiting, Dean! What did you do? Why? Was I doing something wrong?” You ask, tone significantly quieter. His expression changes, a frown forming. Dean quickly rounds his desk, taking your hands in his. “No, Y/N, c’mon, you’re the best there is. They were looking for someone to fill the position. All I did was recommend you, you got the job on your own.” He assures. “What?” “Yeah, I mean, I’ve told you before, you know the numbers better than me, and you’re one hell of a negotiator despite not being a lawyer.” He shrugs. “Oh.” You say, the anger draining out of you instantly. Dean laughs slightly. “Before you ask, I didn’t give them your name just because I fancy you either. You earned this job, and you’re a smart woman, Y/N, too smart to be an assistant your entire life.” Dean says with a fond smile. You nod your head, taking it all in, a wide smile growing. “But you do fancy me.” You state teasingly. He laughs. “I don’t buy flowers for just anybody, y’know.” He winks. “Well then, Dean Smith, I think there’s celebrating to be had, and I happen to know this restaurant on fifth street. Care to join me, this Friday perhaps?” You offer boldly. Dean’s brows shoot up in surprise. “You’re serious?” “Yes.” “Hell yeah. I’ll pick you up at seven?” “Perfect.” You beam. Before you can walk away, Dean tugs you towards him, leaning in slowly. You meet him halfway, grinning uncontrollably against his soft lips. “It’s a date.”

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[ryttu3k]

Night Road quote text dump, because I've been deluging a friend with quotes and want a place to keep them all.

We're a bit like that, yeah:

They direct you to a hulking Malkavian named Severian, and the sullen giant directs you in turn to Gibberish Mike.

Fortunately, it turns out that "Gibberish" Mike is just Australian.

Practical concerns:

"That's it!" Elena says, leaning over your shoulder. "That's his yacht. Oh, and this is all about him. Very useful." She snaps a picture of the email with her phone, then the two of you get out of there before the technician returns. You head down the elevator and then back to Elena's Datsun.

You're so pleased by how well that went that that it takes you a few minutes to remember you're in Arizona.

"His yacht?" you finally ask.

Fun with bungalow ownership:

After a day of fitful dreams, you throw on your leather jacket and engineer boots and get ready for another night. You step outside to check your Integra. A neighbor parks next door in her Ford Super Duty and gives you a friendly little wave. You've been practicing this. You're ready.

"Howdy, neighbor."

"Howdy!" she responds before heading inside.

Fucking nailed it. You're one of them.

This is legitimately how I got the Messy Critical achievement:

You grab a hoe.

You rip through the underbrush with savage efficiency, staying a few steps ahead of the pushcart as Julian scans. You work in a trance, chopping and hammering. Only when you hear Julian shouting do you realize that you're holding a busted length of wood.

The head of your hoe is buried in the beautiful round black door of Prince Lettow's Rolls-Royce.

Raúlblocked:

You head to Raúl's place, but he's not there. You find a note hidden above the door that reads, "Problems in Phoenix. (Jesus Christ has returned? Stole a car?) Contact me right away for major jobs and I'll come back. Already missing you." And there's a ProtonMail address with some of the security contact codes you agreed upon earlier.

But it looks like Raúl will be occupied dealing with the Lord and His automotive crimes, and he won't be able to wander around Tucson with you.

Pattermuster doesn't get paid enough:

"Hello? What? Well, the blood can't be 'everywhere.' Surely that's an exagger—okay—okay, fine. Okay. Okay, I'll get—okay. Five minutes. What? No, Sissy Spacek. No, Sissy—you're thinking of Rosemary's Baby. No, Carrie had the prom scene. With all the pig's—yes, it was Sissy Spacek, I'm sure. That much blood? Jesus. Okay, hold—five—okay, five minutes."

Valid question:

Do they teach ax fighting at Quantico?

Julian Meyer:

"Man, it's been a while," Julian says, leaning against your door frame. "I remember the nights we spent keeping that elder asleep with offerings of blood, the days curled up together in the desert. Wasn't it romantic?"

"That never happened, Julian. You made up our relationship and tried to sell it as a novel until the old Prince of Tucson threatened to execute you." '

"Vampire romance was big at the time," Julian says with a shrug. "And I changed our names. I still don't know why no one wanted to buy it."

Dammit I thought I was done with uni:

"Awful," Dr. Caul says with a little shudder. "But now your real studies can begin."

Your real studies consist of a syllabus (thirty pages) and a trunk full of books (35,000 pages).

"Are you disappointed, Rook?" she says with a little laugh. "Were you expecting something more mystical? A bolt of cosmic enlightenment? A conversation with your Holy Guardian Angel, who would reveal the answers you seek?" She bangs the trunk as technicians get ready to load it into your car. "Get reading."

An enthusiastic boss:

You reunite with Pattermuster down in the morgue, where he's pumping his fists as a thin-blood on a gaming laptop watches with a worried expression because she can't tell if he's incredibly happy or insanely mad.

"Rook!" Pattermuster shouts, his eyes full of Blood, "you did it! You brilliant child, you did it! We're safe. Oh, thank God, we're safe." He pulls you into an embrace, then punches a brick wall because he's so happy, showering all three of you in dust.

I thought that was Finland?:

You catch all sorts of whispered gossip as you cross the rooftop garden.

"Camp Scheffler?"

"Gone. That Outlander courier had something to do with it."

"I heard the Russians helped the SI burn it down."

"That's ridiculous. There's no such thing as Russians."

Pot, kettle:

"Julian," the Eagle Prince says, "you will locate Reremouse with the equipment Vane brought. Once we find him, we will strike shortly before dawn. I have prepared a stake sufficient to pierce even his old hide."

"That easy, huh?" Julian says.

"No, but—"

"Your plan is ridiculous, convoluted, and dangerous," Julian says.

"And you have a better one?"

"Absolutely," Julian says. "We use Stonehenge to teleport him to Mesopotamia."

The must-have appliance:

He's a black outline in the glow of a single yellow bulb... and then the bats descend.

And then the bats get torn to pieces, because Pattermuster pulls his two katanas out of nothing and turns into an undead Cuisinart for a few seconds.

But aesthetic:

Leave it to a vampire to bring a sword to a gunfight.

It is pretty cool though:

"Oh my God," Julian says. "You're going to use the car engine to fling Prometheus into Reremouse's heart."

"Dammit, Julian, I am not doing this because it's fun. I am scrambling for every advantage I can because we only have one chance to stop Reremouse, and if we fail, the Second Inquisition will descend on us like wolves on a wounded deer."

"It's still cool," Julian mutters.

A e s t h e t i c:

The Camarilla looks unkindly on vampires who dress like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, but what's the point of being dead if you can't look the part?

#JustToreadorThings:

You sleep badly and awaken to an aching and acute Hunger that crowds out other thoughts. But when you approach the Rolls-Royce, you find Lettow and Julian seated on a blanket, evidently in fine spirits. They're holding stainless steel mugs as they watch the last purple streaks fade from the western sky. There's something perfect about the composition before you: the two Kindred in their working clothes with their backs to you, the blue-black clouds, the faraway mesas framing the scene.

"I fear we've lost the Aesthete," Lettow muses. "Luka? Luka!"

It's just good sense:

A lot of keypads use 0911 as an emergency override for police and fire. That doesn't work, but a common default password causes the elevator doors to slide right open.

Change your defaults, people.

They draw the line at 31%:

Not all problems can be solved by putting a brick through a window, but at least 30 percent can.

Descriptive:

That's when your Nissan makes a sound like a bunch of typewriter keys dropped in a blender, and the whole truck lurches to a halt.

Munch munch:

"There are tags attached to all the payroll numbers," you say. "FNMA. PFC. What are they?"

"FNMA?" Antonio says. "That's Fannie Mae. The loan commission. Privatized in 1968. PFC…"

"Pavlodar Fried Chicken," Janet says. "Damn Commies."

Courier what did you do:

When you try to start your Mercedes, it vomits black smoke. That's not good. You kill the engine.

"Pop the hood," Julian says. "I'll get it up and running."

He checks the motor. There's a long pause.

"Did you melt a bunch of cheese in here or something, Vane?"

“I remember crawling out of a Nieuport 20 outside Gibraltar," Prince Lettow says. "The engine looked like that. Of course, ours had been on fire."

"Engine looks like Vane fed a bunch of sardine cans into a paper shredder," Julian says.

Almost!:

So Lettow is cute. I'm going to talk to him and see if he might be interested in a handsome young courier who almost has his own car.

Scientist life:

A beaker of cold coffee on her desk has a pencil in it; she flicks the pencil away and drains the entire beaker, then looks you in the eyes.

Domesticity:

"Wow, Vane," the Banu Haqim says, "did you finally settle down. Where's the wife and kids? Why don't you get me a beer, and we can talk about football and quote some Bible verses at each other?"

I really want to know where the fake werewolf came in:

"...so the whole fucking Cadillac is on fire, and I'm kicking and kicking, trying to get the window to break!" Dove says.

"Right, right, because —" You're trying to follow this story, and it isn't easy.

"Because I'm still handcuffed to the guy who was pretending to be a werewolf, right. And I finally kick through the window, rip half the dead fake werewolf's arm off to get free — I'm out of my fucking mind now, with all the fire — and I finally crawl out of the car."

"And get clear before it — do they blow up?"

"Escalades? I dunno, probably not," Dove says. "But anyway, I'm finally clear, so I run across the parking lot, laughing because I'm just thrilled not to have met final death chained up to that guy. And I barely have time to look up before Lettow comes screaming around the corner in a Ford Bronco with the lights off and runs me over. I was in the wrong Cadillac the whole time."

"No!"

"Two black Cadillac Escalades in the parking lot of the Marriott," Dove says. "How was I supposed to know which one — anyway, that's why I don't get to drive anymore. That's why Lettow wants assholes like you driving."

"Driving what?" you ask. "Because I need a car."

Dove shakes her ugly head. "I'll get you something. Give me a few hours to work on it, and I'll send someone to find you."

Cars are everything:

You still don't know how Julian plans to go from "divert a few funds and data streams from the Camarilla" to "transform the global information panopticon in a way that ends the Masquerade but keeps vampires safe," but he has a nicer car than last time, so he must be doing something right.

Guys please be nice to Raul:

"There appears to be a vampire hunter outside," he says, "investigating your electric vehicle."

"Send your bird to peck his eyes out," Julian says. "I'm not going outside until I find my sneakers."

Cheese?:

Over the next few minutes, you cough up a glorious wad of bullshit involving MKUltra, the Philadelphia Experiment, Star Wars (the movie), Star Wars (the Reagan-era government program), Jackson Pollack's CIA connections, the history of federal cheese, and the secret mastermind behind the seventies gas crunch.

In fairness it's a pretty rare sound:

You're way up in Limberlost, near the mall and the Walmart, when Riga settles on the roof of a Safeway. You reverse into the parking lot in case you need to get out fast and scan the cars at the pumps. It looks quiet. Then you hear a faint ringing.

The sound is musical, hypnotic. It reminds you of your childhood, and for a long time you just sit there in the driver's seat, remembering what it was like to be alive. But what is that sound? What memory from…?

Oh, right.

The pay phone next to the ice merchandiser is ringing.

It's a skill!:

Not every member of Clan Toreador joins their august ranks because of their great beauty or artistic genius. Some people end up vampires because of their extensive knowledge of Adobe After Effects.

Big Pirates of the Caribbean energy:

"I'd kind of like to give Lettow here a horse and a sword and let him tear through an entire police barracks," Julian says. "Tell me that wouldn't be fun."

"One thing I learned from Napoleon," Lettow says, "is that the most powerful cannon is useless if you cannot see your target. We know the location of one small encampment. That isn't enough to start shooting."

"You knew Napoleon?" Julian asks.

"Napoleon was my horse," Lettow says.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

modern reincarnated song lan/xiao xingchen first meeting with both their memories back 👀

KIDS IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I WROTE A FIC TO PROVE IT (I’mso sorry Les Mis fandom) BUT REINCARNATION FICS ARE STILL MY JAM and oh boy amI ever going to make it the Songxiao fandom’s problem.  It’s also been a while since I postedsomething for that five headcanons meme, but I’m on lockdown and except for goingto the grocery store a week ago I literally haven’t left my apartment in goingon five weeks, so like, I’m officially still doing that meme.  Not QUITE the prompt, but a cousin of theprompt, and it’s 3:18 AM so you’re not my boss.

ONE

Song Lan remembers the very first time he sees XiaoXingchen.  Xingchen is eighteen, a yearolder than he was when they met before, wearing a white shirt and a messy bun, andSong Lan takes one look at him in a grocery store and almost knocks over adisplay of oranges.  It’s—a lot to takein.  Xingchen looks exactly like himself,like Song Lan remembers him from—from before. He’s talking with a store employee, a basket in one hand and the otherholding up an apple.  He looks apologetic,with the mild smile that he always wore when he felt like he was imposing onsomeone’s time, and he’s saying something about being sorry, but please couldhe have some help choosing.

Song Lan’s ears are still ringing and his chest is still aching andhis hands are still shaking, but his voice is clear and steady when he hearshimself say, “I can give you a hand.”

Xingchen turns toward him, a startled look on his beautifulface, and Song Lan’s throat threatens to close up on him, because Xingchen’seyes are a clear light brown more familiar than anything in the world, and theydo not focus on him.  He has a white canetucked into the corner of his arm—blind, still.

“I couldn’t impose,” Xingchen demurs immediately, and Song Lanshakes his head.

“It’s no imposition.  I—I don’thave anywhere else to be.”  Song Lan castsaround a little desperately for an excuse, a good reason for Xingchen to lethim help, let him stay under the light of that smile, and says, “I’m supposedto be studying for an exam and if I didn’t get out of the apartment I was goingto tear up my textbook.  You’d be savingme three hundred and fifty dollars.”

Xingchen laughs, then, and Song Lan doesn’t know what hisface does, but the employee gives him a mildly pitying glance.

“Well, I suppose I had better, then,” Xingchen says, warm andamused.  “I normally come with one of myroommates, but one of them is sick.”  Heholds up the apple to Song Lan and says, “I’m Xiao Xingchen.”

I know,Song Lan almost says.  He doesn’t.  He takes the apple and says, “This one isbruised.  I’m Song Lan.”

TWO

Xiao Xingchen, for his part, doesn’t remember for three weeks.  It’s a piling up of little things that weardown the wall hiding the past, for him, but the last straw, the crack that bringsthe dam down, is nothing at all: his roommates are usually good about makingsure to keep all the silverware in their assigned places, so that Xingchen canfind them, but that day, one of them, a study-abroad student named Morgan,forgets, and he slices open his palm on a knife.  She’s horrified and sorry and he has to talkher down from calling an ambulance, and she still insists on bandaging his handfor him, which he appreciates.  It hurtsand pulls all evening, and when he goes to sleep, he has a terrible nightmare.

This is nothing new.  XiaoXingchen has had terrible nightmares all his life.  Sometimes he even sees in them, which hewould find academically interesting if it were happening to anyone else—all thecolors are right, every line detailed and familiar.  He can’t read characters, but he knows theengravings on the swords.

It’s not a seeing dream that night.  It’s a dream about darkness and lies anddying, and there’s blood drying sticky and hot on his hand and sleeve when he sobshimself awake, from where his hand is clenched into such a tight fist that itseeped through the bandages.  His handfeels like someone’s laid a match to the cut, and he has a headache likenothing he’s ever felt, a bone-deep spike of pain behind his eyes, and he needs—

His hands shake as he grabs his phone and manages to pull upSong Lan’s number.

THREE

Song Lan has the gift of waking up to a vibrating phone—which isto say, he worked in retail for three years before he got into teaching school,and still has anxiety about it.  Thephone is already at his ear and he’s saying “This is Song Lan” before he’s evenawake.

“Zichen?”

“Xingchen?”  Song Lan issitting up and doesn’t really remember how that happened, and he’s staringwide-eyed at his desk through the dim city-twilight creeping around his darkcurtains, and Xingchen’s voice sounds ravaged on the other end of theline.  “What’s wrong?”

“I—please, Zichen, I—”

“Are you hurt?” Song Lan demands, and he’s already on his feet,the phone pinned between his cheek and his shoulder as he grabs whateverclothes are near at hand.  

“No,” Xingchen says faintly. “Wait—yes.  My hands—no.  Just my right hand.”  He makes a noise that sounds like it might,theoretically, be a laugh, if he stopped crying.  “I cut it on a knife, Zichen.”

Song Lan thinks about the world-ending feeling of remembering XiaoXingchen, and tries not to love the sound of Xingchen’s voice saying Zichenagain, and that moment, when he’s already dragging on socks with his keys inhis hand, is when he finally, finally catches up.

He stops cold, one shoe on. “Xingchen—do you remember me?”

“Yes,” Xingchen whispers. “I remember everything.”

Song Lan shuts his eyes for a moment and really, really hatesXue Yang.  “I’m coming over.”

FOUR

Xingchen’s roommates are not going to appreciate him having his “weirdfriend with the scary face” show up at three in the morning and waking them upby knocking on the door, but on the other hand, Xingchen knows he probablylooks…bad.  He knows he has blood leakingfrom his hand, and he can feel that the cut is probably worse than he thought,and he can hear one of them make an alarmed sound as he wavers on his feet inhis bedroom door, but then Song Lan stops knocking politely and startshammering on the door with the side of his fist.  Xingchen makes a helpless gesture with his bleedinghand, and hears someone fumble the lock open and immediately scramble back toget out of the way.  They’re scared ofSong Lan for some reason.  

Xingchen can’t imagine being scared of Song Lan.

“Xingchen,” Song Lan says, Zichen says, and Xiao Xingchenknows, like he knows his own name, that Song Lan doesn’t like to be touched,but he can’t stop himself from reaching out. He stops when he can feel the warmth of a body beyond his fingertips anddoesn’t go any further.

“Zichen.”

Song Lan’s hand closes around his bare wrist without hesitation,and he forces Xingchen’s hand palm up, and says, “You’re bleeding.”

“Yes,” Xingchen says, starting to laugh.  He’s not sure why he’s laughing.  He thinks he might still be crying.  But Song Lan is here, touching Xingchen inthe measured, intentional way he always did, and it seems obscurely hilariousthat he expects Xingchen to care about something as petty as bleeding.  “Yes, I am.”

“All right,” Song Lan says softly, like he’s answering aquestion that hasn’t been asked.  “Comeon, Xingchen.  Let’s get a look at yourhand.”

Xingchen hates to be led around by the hand, like a child, buthe goes easily when Song Lan pulls him toward the bathroom.  Song Lan lets him rest his head against SongLan’s hip, while those familiar hands dab blood from his skin and peel away thesoaked bandages, and Xingchen listens to Zichen’s low voice, and tries tobreathe.

FIVE

So, Song Lan isn’t going to class tomorrow.  He send the emails from the emergency roomwaiting area, on his phone, with Xingchen sitting beside him and holding asmall pile of gauze to his palm.  Xingchenhas been quiet since Song Lan announced that they were going to the hospital,but he went without a fight, admitted that the laceration was worse than it hadbeen before—from the clench of his fist in his nightmare, apparently.  His hair is tied back into a braid that curlsover his shoulder, and he forgot his cane, and Song Lan washed the smearedblood from his face and didn’t throw up at the memory of watching Xue Yang dothe same, and—

“I missed you,” Song Lan says quietly, and Xingchen turns towardhim.  All at once, all the things thatSong Lan planned and imagined and dreamed of saying are piled up behind histeeth, trying to force their way out in a rush. “I’m—so sorry, Xingchen. Everything—it was all my fault, I was so cruel to you.”

“Zichen,” Xingchen says, and he sounds so tired.  His head tips toward Song Lan’s shoulder, buthe stops, just like he did before, just like he always has, a little distancefrom touching.  Xingchen always lets SongLan be the one to close that last gap, always lets him choose how and when andwhere he’s willing to be touched.  Hedidn’t need it explained to him when they first met and doesn’t need it thistime.  Song Lan has missed him so much.

“I’m not—I never had your gift with words,” Song Lan goes on, somefeeling rising in his chest that he can’t name, something nearly frantic,because he’s not Xingchen, has never been Xingchen, has never had the rightwords at the right time even when he needed them most desperately.  He wrote so many versions of thisconversation in his head, before, that he can’t pick one now.  “But I—I am so sorry, Xingchen.  I should have done better by you, I was—I wasthoughtless, and you suffered for it--”

“Zichen,” Xingchen says again, weary, and Song Lan shuts up.  “I only regretted being blind when it killedyou,” he says, in a low murmur.  “When itkilled all those—and that—that was not your fault.”

“But—”

“Enough,” Xingchen says.  “You’reforgiven.  You were always forgiven,Zichen.”  He smiles a little.  “Besides, I should be the one apologizing.”

“I won’t listen,” Song Lan says, trying for humor.  He never did have the talent for being funnywhen he meant to be, but Xingchen smiles a little more.

“I missed you too.  Allthe time.”

Song Lan thinks briefly about kissing him.  Maybe later. Instead he reaches up and tips Xingchen’s head onto his shoulder, andsays, “Keep pressure on your hand.”

“It’s not bleeding anymore.”

“Good.  Keep pressure onit.”

AndXingchen laughs, with his cheek resting on Song Lan’s shoulder, and Song Lansmiles a little himself.

[beca-mitchell]

we are the wild youth (3/5)

chapter 3: it's been so damn hard on my own

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Chapter summary: In an extremely shocking twist, Beca realizes that she had been falling for Chloe all this time.

Again, rated M/E for depictions and references to coitus. Chapter also has references to deaths of family members.

Chapter title is from A R I Z O N A’s “Let Me Know”.

Now there’s an “EP”/playlist!

Word count: 5,574

Read below or on AO3.

It is the morning that follows, a sleepy, cold morning, that Beca gets that long-awaited email from her boss. It is an email telling her that his contact in New York pulled through.

Beca is wide awake.

Sammy ended up sending his contact some of Beca’s original stuff, finally deeming it ‘good enough’ to be viable, and well—

A job opportunity—no, better. A job offer at a record label as a junior producer.

She finally gets to leave. She’s going to leave once she graduates and she’s going to finally pursue her dreams.

She drops her arm back onto the bed, suddenly more conscious and aware of her other arm, trapped beneath Chloe’s body as she snoozes next to her. Beca ends up lying awake until Chloe slowly awakens as well, stretching contentedly like a cat in sunshine against Beca’s side. There is a distinct youthfulness to Chloe’s features this early in the morning, Beca thinks—like for once Chloe isn’t plagued by her past, her present, or future.

“What?” Beca asks when Chloe stares at her with a content, sleepy expression on her face. It makes Beca nervous, but she can’t pinpoint why.

“Nothing,” Chloe says finally and instead surges up to press a deep, wanting kiss against Beca’s lips, eviscerating all other wake-up calls Beca has ever received in her life.

  — — x — —

 “I have a question,” Chloe says as they mull over formulas, proofs, and endless all-day breakfast at Carl’s later that day.

Without looking up, Beca sighs. “Chloe we just went over basic derivatives and you definitely—”

Chloe’s hand comes up to still Beca’s hand. Beca freezes.

“Do you and um,” Chloe hesitates. It’s the first time, really, that Beca has seen Choe somewhat flustered or nervous. Chloe seems to steel herself. “Do you and that uh, Jesse kid have like...a thing going on?”

It’s clear that this has been bothering Chloe to some extent, if the furrow in her brow and the questioning tilt in her eyes are anything to go by. If Beca weren’t mulling over how cute Chloe looked right then, she’d have burst out laughing right away. That being said, her laugh comes out short and delayed and entirely too awkward for her to really save anything about the situation.

Chloe is evidently taken aback and she leans back in the booth and crosses her arms, their homework forgotten. “I’m serious,” Chloe says, verging very close to a pout.

“I’m serious too,” Beca says, still laughing. “Where the fuck did you get that from?”

“I don’t know, you guys just seem…” Chloe bites her lip, looking more attractive than she has any right to be. “Close.”

“That’s what you get when a guy like Jesse forces his way into your life and somehow sticks around for three and a half years.”

“Is that what I did?” Chloe asks, her tone decidedly different from just a few moments ago. “Force my way into your life.”

"No," Beca says immediately. 

It's something closer to fate. Maybe destiny.

But it's not like those things are real anyway, so Beca can't really do much than meet Chloe's questioning gaze head-on.

  — — x — —

 Chloe just checking that we’re ok Bec?

A part of Beca threatens to burst—like she could really just spill everything she’s been feeling to Chloe right then and there. Her fingers long to type out an excessively long message, just to get her point across and just to expunge all of the emotions she currently feels.

Like the emotions dangerously resembling a dumb, gross crush on Chloe Beale.

She's sure Chloe knows by now. Chloe is the kind of girl who knows these things, likely from experience. Even more likely that she just has a better grasp on other people's emotions compared to Beca's own emotional bandwidth.

Beca Yeah, we’re ok

 "God, she definitely knows," Beca mumbles.

Chloe and you’re still coming for dinner w/ my parents?

There it is.

Beca swallows, having momentarily forgotten about it. She isn’t sure why the nerves seem to bubble up in her more than they normally would.

Beca Yeah

It isn’t like Chloe is her girlfriend and she’s meeting her parents for the first time. Just her tutoring subject. Beca is a tutor first and foremost.

Nothing wrong with that.

She’ll just make sure to maintain some distance between now and then.

  — — x — —

 So it turns out that distance is good, but Beca hadn’t thought about how distance would be completely eviscerated considering she is quite literally at Chloe’s parents’ house. Distance should be good. Or it would be if Beca weren’t such a chump and ringing the doorbell to Chloe’s massive house. Her father’s massive house.

Beca always thought her own father had a big house, but she supposes when Chloe’s father is a doctor-doctor, there’s a little bit more money than an English professor. Like a literal real doctor who has probably saved lives. That’s more than Beca can say about her father and his books.

She’s never going to give her father trouble for the size of his house again.

Chloe greets her at the door with a relieved expression. “I’m glad you came!” Chloe exclaims. She reaches out for Beca’s hand and laces their fingers together. The shock of holding Chloe’s hand makes Beca’s reply come in a lame, delayed fashion.

“You were the one who invited me,” Beca says quickly. “Of course I was going to come.”

“I know you were thinking of standing me up,” Chloe singsongs, still holding on to Beca’s hand as she drags her through a massive foyer and into the kitchen.

Beca can’t really say anything to that because it’s kind of true. She had been thinking about that, even though each instance of that thought sent sweeping guilt through her chest.

Chloe’s hand is soft and warm, unlike Beca’s cold, clammy hand. It feels nice. That’s kind of true, too.

“I’m glad you came,” Chloe repeats, more sincere than she had been at the door, not that Beca thought that was even possible. “I just...my dad’s been a lot recently. The lab is kind of struggling with funding so...yay,” she drawls. “And um,” Chloe’s eyebrows draw together. “Nothing, nevermind.”

Beca, knowing only vague things about Chloe’s father’s business, shrugs. “I’m sure it’s...it’s not as bad as you think and there isn’t anything to worry about.” She nudges Chloe. “And you’re set to take over eventually, aren’t you?”

Chloe’s expression shifts marginally before she composes herself and she shrugs. “I guess so, it’s just—” Chloe cuts herself off and sighs, shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”

Before Beca can inquire more into that, soft footsteps sound behind her. “Oh,” a woman’s voice sounds from behind them. “I didn’t realize we had a guest.”

Chloe sighs and turns to face who Beca assumes to be her mother. “Mom, I told you I was inviting Beca over for dinner because dad wanted to meet her.”

Her mother smiles faintly. “That’s nice, dear. Nice to meet you, Becky.” She reaches for a wine glass from the cupboard. “I hope you like steak.”

“I do,” Beca says as pleasantly as she can, not bothering to correct her.

“Chloe, if you can, dear, please run and buy a couple bottles of red before dinner. We’re running low. You’ll indulge, won’t you, Becky?”

Before Beca can fully nod or respond, Chloe’s hand comes to grip her wrist again. Beca clamps her mouth shut and instead watches on silently as Chloe’s mother shuffles away again, humming to herself.

A million questions run through Beca’s mind. She had been under the assumption that Chloe’s mother was a researcher of some kind—another powerful figure in the medical field. It was essentially a well-known fact that Chloe had been born into all kinds of privilege, intelligence and money being only two of them.

It seemed that a stable family life was not on the table.

“Are you okay?” Beca asks instead of the million other questions she wants to ask. It comes out softer than she intends. More delicate.

Chloe nods, but otherwise doesn’t respond before turning to face Beca again.

“It’s just hard being twenty-five and all of…” she gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “This.”

“Are we going to go to the store?” Beca asks hesitantly.

Chloe bites her lip. “You think I shouldn’t,” she assesses. Correctly, too.

“Chloe, it’s—” none of my business “—up to you. I’ll just do whatever you want me to do.”

The more serious conversation that needs to be had likely doesn’t involve Beca at all, if Chloe’s mother has an alcoholism problem. She feels badly enough that Chloe has to go through this on top of likely being embarrassed that Beca saw anything at all.

“Is it weird that I kind of wish we were studying right now instead of this?” Chloe asks, sounding more cheerful than the expression on her face belies.

It isn’t weird at all, Beca thinks. “Show me your room,” Beca suggests instead of the thousands of more appropriate things she could possibly say at that moment.

It seems to do the trick however because Chloe smiles.

  — — x — —

 “How is tutoring going, Beca?”

Beca struggles to swallow the huge gulp of water she had just taken while maintaining eye contact with Chloe’s intimidating father. “It’s…” she clears her throat. “It’s going well.”

“And Chloe isn’t giving you any trouble?’

Beca glances at Chloe who has gone rather still. “No, she’s been a model student.”

To Beca’s surprise, he scoffs. Chloe continues to say nothing, but begins to push her food around her plate. “Can you believe that she’s been in school for seven years and she still doesn’t have a degree to show for it? And to think that she graduated high school early. All that potential...”

It’s the beginning of a rant if Beca’s ever heard one. Beca blinks back the sudden sharp sting she feels behind her eyes, the hurt she suddenly feels on Chloe’s behalf. “That really doesn’t mean anything,” she says before she can stop herself. She glances at Chloe’s mother who has not said a word. She merely swirls her wine glass and gazes despondently at her own plate.

Dr. Beale’s gaze cuts to her and she quickly looks back down, feeling chastised. “Your father is a professor, is he not?”

“Yes,” Beca says to her plate.

“He worked hard to get to where he is, didn’t he?”

“I’m sure he did, but—”

“And I guess he doesn’t want you wasting your time. He doesn’t want you wasting your life. You’re set to graduate aren’t you?”

“Uh, I—”

“Wish I could say the same for Chloe here,” he says lightly like he’s sharing a splendid joke. Beca clenches her fist in her lap.

Chloe sighs loudly.

“You know, Chloe,” Chloe’s father says, swirling his glass. Whiskey, probably, Beca notes. “If you tried a little more, maybe you wouldn’t be such a fucking disappointment.”

Beca startles at that, not expecting such harsh words in such a calm tone. She looks up hesitantly, eyes flicking back and forth between Chloe and her father. It almost feels like she had imagined the moment because Chloe continues to move food around on her plate and her father continues to hold his gaze intently on the side of his daughter’s head, arched eyebrow and a precariously-held glass of amber liquid to the side.

It’s surreal to say the least. Beca would have never imagined this moment happening.

“It’s literally just two classes, Chloe,” her father continues. “Two classes and you can stop sucking money out of us like a damn leech and actually do something worthwhile with your life. You already have a damn job ready for you, but you refuse to step up to just take it.”

It’s hard to imagine that these words are coming from the mouth of the man who had been such a generous giver to their school—the same that many students aspired to be. Atlanta, while not small or tucked away by any measure, was still no New York or Los Angeles. Yet thousands of students still flocked to their school and city for this very reason. This man, berating his daughter in full view of his daughter’s tutor.

Beca swallows.

Beca tries not to think about Chloe’s bright smile, helping children through dance steps at the studio.

She tries not to think about it because this isn’t any of her business. She tries not to think about it because she’s just a tutor.

A friend, maybe. A tutor, definitely.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe says quietly, a far cry from every version of Chloe Beale that Beca has been privy to thus far.

Chloe’s mother sniffs at her glass—white wine—and sighs before taking a long drink.

Beca isn’t supposed to be privy to this at all, she’s sure of it. She isn’t supposed to feel so fiercely protective over a student she’s meant to take money from so she can finally get out of this town. So she can finally move to New York. So she can finally make music which people care about.

She isn’t meant to care about what Chloe thinks of her music—isn’t meant to feel guilty for taking money for a job she does well.

This is all temporary.

  — — x — —

 When Chloe texts her to meet her at the diner, Beca heaves a breath. She thought Chloe was hellbent on ignoring her after that episode at Chloe’s house—horribly awkward and horribly tense. Chloe hadn’t spoken to her the rest of the time in her bedroom while they worked through a calculus assignment...except when she had quietly asked Beca if she wanted to have sex.

Beca had politely declined, not really feeling like taking advantage of Chloe in her state, but Chloe’s lackluster response, her quiet acquiescence, had been enough for Beca to quickly pack her things up.

Before she left, she hovered awkwardly by Chloe’s shoulder and felt like she ought to kiss her on the head or hug her.

Instead of doing either of those things, she had squeezed Chloe’s shoulder and half-heartedly murmured a goodbye with the promise to text her to set up another session.

And it ended up being Chloe who texted first anyway.

Now, sitting in front of Chloe, Beca realizes that she had missed her over the past few days. The past few days of not seeing Chloe’s infuriatingly innocent smile (a smile usually paired with something suggestive—suggestive enough to make Beca balk and completely fumble with her pen) had taken more of a toll on Beca than she expected.

It was because she was invested in Chloe as her student. Her tutor-subject-person. That was it.

“Hi,” Beca greets when Chloe takes out a novel and her notebook. “Are we...what are we doing today?”

“I thought we could just have breakfast for dinner,” Chloe says simply. “Then you can pretend like you enjoy tutoring me.”

It’s said so lightly and casually that Beca almost doesn’t catch it. “Hey,” she says finally. “That’s not true. I don’t pretend like I enjoy doing anything.”

Chloe relaxes and giggles. “Sorry, I just…” she sighs and shrugs off her leather jacket. Beca tries not to look at her bare shoulders. “It’s been a lot. With...you know. Especially around this time of year.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Beca says.

And with that, they don’t speak, at least for a little while. Beca orders a burger and coke because it amuses her to see Chloe’s furrowed brow when she chastises Beca for not ordering breakfast as per ‘tradition’ at the diner. Chloe orders a stack of pancakes bigger than her head.

It is not until Chloe is halfway through the pancakes and Beca is halfway through looking at Chloe’s recent homework assignment that Chloe speaks again.

“I had an older brother,” Chloe says quietly.

It is absolutely not what Beca expected to hear. The word choice isn’t lost on Beca. She slowly puts down her pencil and watches Chloe from across the booth.

“Okay,” she murmurs, gently as to not scare Chloe off.

“I...his name was James, but I called him Jamie. I guess most people did, except dad. And mom when she was mad at him.” A thought seems to bring a smile to Chloe’s face. A fond memory, Beca hopes.

A part of her wants to reach out to hold Chloe’s hand, but the more rational part tells her that Chloe would more than likely shut down if she did that. She sits on her hands to resist the temptation.

“I...we were close,” Chloe continues before clearing her throat. “I don’t know, I guess he kind of accepted that he would always work for dad’s clinic. He was in his second year of med school when he…” Chloe hums, looking thoroughly embarrassed at her own tears and hastily averts eye contact with Beca. “It was an accident. I was almost done with my last year here. I’ve felt stuck this whole time.”

What did you want to do? Beca longs to ask, she doesn’t get the chance. The words die in her throat when Chloe looks back up at her.

“I don’t want to work for my father,” Chloe murmurs. “He’s not the best person but I know he’s still family. I just...I can’t do it. I can’t see myself giving up my life like that. But not doing what Jamie was working towards feels like cheating his memory a little. Even though I know he wouldn’t have wanted that for me either.” Chloe laughs hollowly. “With how many extra years I’ve taken on here, I could have two degrees. But I just don’t…” Her voice cracks. “I don’t know how to leave.”

“I’m sorry,” Beca says when she realizes Chloe is spent. “I...don’t know what to say. I didn’t know about your brother. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t really talk about it,” Chloe admits. “Aubrey knew because we were best friends when it happened, then she graduated and I guess I just...didn’t. It’s been a few years, but I still think about it. I guess I can’t forget about things as easily as my parents can.”

“I’m sure they didn’t forget about him,” Beca tries to say, but her voice feels weak and unused.

“Well, they’re doing a good job of making it seem that way.” She smiles wryly. “Didn’t see any family photos in my house, did you?”

Beca shakes her head, mouth too dry to speak. She wants to do nothing more than to slide into the seat next to Chloe and hold her—to at least sap some hurt away for the time being even if temporary solutions are barely sufficient for something like this.

Beca conceptually understands that people deal with grief differently, but the cold air in the Beale house had been unmistakable and immediately-apparent. She doesn’t say as much however because Chloe is right and nothing more needs to be said.

“Chloe,” Beca murmurs instead. She has no words, not really. It’s clear that Chloe is hurting—or had been at least. This impromptu study session in the dingy 24-hour diner just off-campus isn’t quite turning out how Beca initially expected.

Chloe shrugs. “I don’t...expect you to say anything. I know I’ve been kind of sucky the past few weeks and...I didn’t want you to think that it was…” Chloe licks her lips nervously, finally meeting Beca’s eyes. “Well...nothing that you did.”

Beca smiles at Chloe’s attempt to comfort her when it definitely ought to be the other way around. How are you real? She thinks to herself in wonder. “Want to know a secret?” Chloe nods, a curious look finding its way across her face. “I totally know you’ve been faking it, you know.” At Chloe’s incredibly confused expression, Beca fumbles with her napkin. “Not—not like that. I know you’re uh. Not. Faking that.”

“All those smarts and you can’t even say sex.”

“I meant,” Beca continues, pushing through the hot flush that burns across her cheeks. “That I know you’re faking this whole...not knowing calculus thing.”

Chloe smirks. “What gave it away?” she asks, the air between them losing some of the heavy feeling and tension.

Beca relaxes. Grades and homework, she knows more about. How to deal with Chloe flirting with her? Not so much. “Just...the blatantly wrong way you go about writing out some proofs. It really takes somebody who knows what’s going on to get every step wrong. Or, you know, getting all the steps right but getting the final answer wrong.”

Chloe casually leans up to flick some hair out of her eyes, taking the opportunity to swipe at her own eyes as discreetly as possible. Beca pretends not to notice and looks intently into her glass of Coke as the moment passes.

“Okay, fine,” Chloe concedes. Beca glances up to see that Chloe looks entirely too pleased with herself. “But the sex is still good, right?”

  — — x — —

 Yes, the sex is still good, Beca thinks. If thoughts could breathless, that’s exactly what’s happening in Beca’s mind as Chloe’s tongue does sinful things between her legs.

If somebody were to tell Beca when she entered college that she would thoroughly enjoy having a girl’s tongue between her legs, flicking incessantly at her aching clit, she would have run away screaming. Or at least blushed furiously to the point of passing out.

Now, she still feels on the verge of passing out, but for entirely different reasons. Better reasons. Now, she can’t imagine doing anything but tightening her grip in Chloe’s hair and keeping a steady enough hold so that Chloe can’t stop.

Not that it seems like Chloe has any plans on stopping. Her hands grip Beca’s hips with near-bruising force as she presses Beca’s hips down into the mattress.

“So good,” Beca chokes out, trying to loosen some of the pressure in her chest. Another moan escapes her and as if the sound pleases Chloe, she hums, circling Beca’s clit once with a precise tongue before latching on with her lips and sucking.

Beca cries out, arching her back against the pressure and comes hard against Chloe’s lips, tongue—her wonderful, wonderful mouth.

When she regains some semblance of sanity, she opens her eyes to Chloe smiling at her, glistening chin and all.

“You’re so good at that,” Beca murmurs lazily. “I want to be good at that for you,” she says before she can stop herself. Words keep slipping out of her mouth at an alarming frequency these days.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll teach you,” Chloe promises. “Later,” she murmurs, leaning down to capture Beca’s mouth in a lazy kiss. Her hand skates down the flat planes of Beca’s stomach, taking its time.

Later, Beca thinks when Chloe pushes two fingers into her. Later sounds perfect.

  — — x — —

 Somewhere down the line, Beca realizes the devastating truth that Chloe might actually be one of her closest friends. Jesse’s still there, sure, but everybody’s gearing up to leave. Beca wants to go to New York. Jesse wants to go to Los Angeles.

Everybody leaves eventually.

But somehow time feels like it doesn’t quite exist when she’s lying in her cramped bed with Chloe by her side, calculus all but forgotten.

“My mom died when I was a kid,” Beca murmurs, leaning up on her elbow so she can see the invisible figures she’s tracing on Chloe’s back.

Chloe’s eye cracks open, visible just barely beneath a mess of tangled, red curls. She sucks in a breath, but says nothing more, so Beca continues.

“I don’t really remember her. I mean, I guess I do. I have these memories of my favorite hugs. A soothing voice. But it never really feels tangible.”

Chloe rolls over slowly, breathing steadily as she continues listening intently. Beca feels nervous suddenly. “I’m not...I guess I was just thinking about what you told me about your brother. And I’m not trying to say I know exactly how you feel, but it’s just...I do get it.”

“You do get it,” Chloe whispers in agreement. Her eyes look softer than usual. “I...thank you for telling me. I’m sorry that you lost your mom.”

“I don’t think we ever really know how to deal with grief,” Beca explains quickly. But it helps having other people to share it with. “But I just thought I’d share that too. Not to, um, take away from your...pain, but just...”

As always, it seems like Chloe fares better with words than Beca does. “We don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to,” Chloe says gently. “But I don’t mind hearing more about her.”

Beca sucks in a breath. Chloe looks incredibly young then. Like all the world’s traumas have lifted from her shoulders in that moment—that moment of her extending her hand to Beca in a show of support. It makes Beca giddy with a kind of childlike delight, but also sweeping pain. As the two emotions war within her, she can do nothing more than to reach out and hold Chloe’s hand—figuratively, but she does reach out to brush an errant strand of hair from Chloe’s face.

“I know talking helps,” Chloe continues when she realizes Beca is yet to speak. “Not letting their memories fade away. I don’t...want that to happen to me. And I don’t want that to happen to you.”

I wish I knew you back then, Beca thinks forlornly. Three years ago. Two years ago. Any time but now, when their time is so limited.

“Okay,” Beca agrees quietly, already slipping into a sleeping state.

You are so much more than you know.

“You make me better,” Chloe murmurs. “I hope you know that.”

  — — x — —

 Jesse Movie night w/ Amy? Benji had to bail

Beca Ugh fine

Jesse Bring your girlfriend

Beca My what?????

Jesse Chloe?

Beca What the fuck, she’s not my gf

Beca Shut up, i can hear your smirk But shes really not, jesse i swear

Beca ok i can literally hear you laughing across the library idiot

  — — x — —

 Fat Amy Bumper told me tell you that jesse told him that you have a gf and you’re not sharing her with the rest of us

Fat Amy Is she that super hot chick you’ve been tutoring and totally-not-at-all sleeping with?

Fat Amy Beca???

  — — x — —

 Maybe they are kind of dating—kind of, sort of dating. Beca’s sure unlabeled things are all the rage these days.

(“All the rage?” Beca asks. “Who says that?”

Chloe scowls at her, somehow making the unpleasant expression more pleasant than it ought to be on anybody’s face. “Shut up, I’m studying.”)

But, the fact of the matter is: They’re not dating. They’re not dating, which is why Beca agrees to go with Chloe to an end-of-semester party. Exams are almost entirely over and Beca’s confident Chloe passed this time around.

The shift between them and in Chloe’s general attitude are stark changes. Beca would have to be blind not to notice.

But the fact is, she isn’t blind. She can’t be, not when Chloe makes her want to pay more attention than ever.

Though sometimes she kind of loses track of Chloe - where Chloe loses herself in her own her head, or loses herself to the masses. It’s hard, crushing on Chloe Beale, only daughter of Doctor Richard Beale, an incredibly intelligent and powerful medical researcher with his own medical research corporation to boot.

It’s hard, knowing all of that weighs on Chloe’s shoulders and Chloe seems to want no part of it.

But tonight, Beca loses Chloe at a literal party, which would be funny if Beca’s own heart weren’t doing that super weird pounding thing.

She’s nervous.

Beca finds Chloe outside of all places. It is odd considering Chloe was the one who asked her to attend the party and then she had essentially hidden herself away.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Chloe, still leaning against the railing of the balcony, tilts her head back towards Beca. “I’ve been waiting for you to come find me.” She grins. “Gotcha.”

“Oh,” Beca drawls, feeling bold. It’s the alcohol coursing through her veins. It’s the brisk chill. It’s the high she gets from being near her crush. “So you planned this,” she continues, moving so she can stand just behind Chloe. She leans forward, letting her lips ghost the side of Chloe’s neck.

Chloe sighs, a happy little sound with only a tinge of melancholy. Beca draws back immediately, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. She drops to sit against the railing opposite Chloe. “I’ll just…”

“Don’t be.” Chloe twists to face her. “It’s really dumb, but I had a big crush on you for like...the entirety of my second senior year.”

Beca freezes. She gazes up at Chloe’s silhouette in the darkness. “You what?”

“I had a crush on you,” Chloe says simply.

“But why? And how?” And you had a crush on me? Past tense?

Chloe sighs. “I don’t know, I guess I had seen you around when you were a freshman, but I knew you better because we had the same Advanced Topics in Philosophy seminar that year. You did not strike me as a philosophy major.”

“I’m not,” Beca replies distractedly. Her brow furrows as she combs through her memory for some kind of enlightening flash of red in her mind’s eye. A memory of sorts.

“I sat like right at the back,” Chloe clarifies.

Beca scoffs. “So did I. I would have remembered you.”

Chloe looks exceptionally pleased at that. “You would have?”

“Obviously, I mean…” Beca gestures at her. She feels nervous suddenly, like the ground is shifting beneath her feet. “Look at you,” she mumbles quickly. “You’re gorgeous. And like...super hot.”

Chloe’s smile dims a little. “Haven’t I heard that before,” she mutters, turning away from Beca.

Beca scrambles from her seat, moving to where Chloe is standing by the railing. She feels numb, suddenly, like she’s missing something crucial. It’s hard to think with the budding headache she feels, the rush from standing up too fast, and the incessant music from the party going on behind them.

She reaches out to touch Chloe’s elbow before she really knows what she’s going to say. Chloe turns her head slightly to face her.

“You’re so pretty,” Beca murmurs, keeping her eyes trained on Chloe’s expression. “But—but—” she quickly reaches up with a trembling hand to cup Chloe’s jaw, the tender movement stunning Chloe into silence as she opens her mouth to protest. “You’re so much more than that. You’re kind and you’re special and I know you’re insanely smart even though you feel like you’re stuck in this…” Beca shrugs. “I would have remembered you.”

She isn’t sure how she gets through all that because her body feels kind of numb afterwards. She doesn’t have much of a chance to say anything more however because Chloe is turning and swiftly pulling her in for a soft, tender kiss. The way her lips brush against Beca’s so gently and slowly, despite the urgency Beca feels in the grip Chloe has on her waist.

“You drive me crazy,” Chloe murmurs, breath hot against her mouth. “You make me feel all these stupid things that I shouldn’t—not now when we’re—”

“Shh,” Beca shushes, pulling Chloe in again for another kiss. She is addicted to this woman, all professionalism be damned. “I just want to be with you.”

Beca has no idea where any of this is coming from, like all the unwritten lyrics she has to the songs that remind her of Chloe Beale. They well up inside her like the best and worst emotions, quickly spilling out into the world; quickly spilling into the minuscule spaces left between her and Chloe’s body.

Chloe whimpers into her mouth at that, immediately ramping up the intensity of her kisses. Tilting her head, her tongue glides delicately over Beca’s lower lip like a gentle request for entry. Beca can’t deny her, not once.

“I saw you once,” Beca murmurs, pushing back against Chloe’s chest slightly. Their breathing, labored, is loud and deafening against the ringing in Beca’s ears. “In my freshman year, at the activities fair.”

Chloe laughs, a sad, hollow laugh, and presses her forehead against Beca’s. “You should have said hello. I feel like you would have somehow made collegiate a cappella fun.”

“I was too intimidated. I’m still intimidated.”

“Don’t be,” Chloe urges, voice low and hoarse. “I...want you so much that it scares me. And I feel like such an idiot for not telling you sooner. I’ve never felt like this about anybody before.”

Beca inhales sharply, struck by the sudden force of Chloe’s words and the emotion behind them.

“Somewhere along the line I—”

Beca knows what Chloe will say. It unlocks a world of possibilities, each more uncalculated than the last. The possibilities, with Chloe, seem endless, but they are unexplored and untested. Unproven.

“Don’t,” Beca chokes out, cutting Chloe off before she can finish. “I can’t, not now.”

Chloe pulls her close, into a hug that Beca immediately sinks into. She sighs, head tucked against the crook of Chloe’s neck, feeling all kinds of warmth for the first time since December started.

“We’ll figure this out in the morning,” Chloe promises, voice thick with emotion.

Right, Beca muses as Chloe’s lips meet hers again. Because we have all the time in the world.

She really believes it.

/end ch. 3

[milligramspoison]

A rant because I need to rant :)

So, hi. This’ll probably be long, but I got a lot of time on my hands, I’m currently recovering from a surgery I had today. Thank you for your prayers and all to ones who I’ve told and in advance to the people finding out from this post. :)

Since some of us are being quarantined and working or doing school from home, we’re having our own problems, right? Either teachers not teaching or your bosses and coworkers are not being nice or fair. Trust me, I’ve had problems with school. I’m in 9th grade, a freshman in high school. And I’ve had my problems with this one teacher and his class. So if you’re all ready to stick around, thanks for the stay :)

Obviously for privacy reasons, I’m going to keep his name sealed. Unless you all want his name, just dm me or even ask me in a public chat if I’m in it with you. He’s a chorus teacher. But this all pretty much started around October, about a week or two before my childhood dog passed away. Obviously in my bio, I wrote that I sing. And I do! And I used to love my voice a lot. So when I had to sing something (Caro Mio Ben to be exact), these two boys (one of them eventually became one of my close friends and we’ve forgotten about it) started laughing at me. It didn’t bother me then, but now it bothers me a bit now. My chorus teacher stopped them and lectured the whole class. And that was pretty much the only nice thing he’s done for me, the rest of things I’ll mention are things that have happened to me and my friends who are in chorus.

So in November 2019, he called my dad. And it caused my dad to get super mad at me. But guess what? My chorus teacher lied to him. Lied to him. So, naturally, I got mad. He claimed that I didn’t do any of my assignments, yet, I had grades for them. He then kicked me out of our winter concert, which was the following month. He also called me out for sending a wrong recording, but I emailed him when I realized it and asked him if I could send the correct recording. He never responded. I was forced to send it without confirmation from him. And he still gave me an F.

Then a month later, December 2019, our winter show occurred. The show was December 13th, 2019. 2 days before the concert, he let me back into the show. And what’s sad was my poor family had to rush around and get me jewelry and find stuff to tailor my dress with. I only sang two songs. The intro and the outro. People who were in this thing called caroling completion got to sing more than one song. And people who got a good grade on their aria (which is the Caro Mio Ben thing I mentioned previously) got to have a solo. Mind you, my aria was 3 days after my dog of 9 years passed away. I never told him, but I wasn’t even in the right headspace. Luckily I told my friends, but it was already too late.

Then in January 2020, he started preparing us for this competition called MPA (I believe it stands for Music Performance Assesmemt). So I sent him a recording, which wasn’t my greatest, but I didn’t know how to sing the song correctly, I tried my best to sing it correctly. In solfege too. The song was O’ Praise The Mighty Lord. So the morning after I sent it, he called me and about 10 other students into his office. He kicked 3 boys out of MPA because they had an F in his class, he never gave them the chance to bring their grade up and to possibly join the competition again. Then he threatened the other people that if they sent another late recording, they’d get kicked out. And as for me, he was mad at me. He was mad that I had my pitches wrong. He threatened to kick me out of the competition if I sent another bad recording. He never helped me. I never sent a recording after that because I was scared to, in all honesty. He never helped me correct my pitches. Isn’t a teachers job supposed to help you? I never got help.

During the course of practicing MPA, one of my close friends got kicked out of the competition. And you want to know why she got kicked out? She didn’t know a lyric. A lyric. He never helped her. He yelled at her in front of the class for not knowing a lyric and he ripped up field trip form in front of the entire class. Her parents were beyond mad.

So, that left me and her, along with five other students to learn an aria called Per La Gloria D’adorarvi. And we were supposed to learn off of YouTube. And by the way, YouTube doesn’t help much, especially with singing. He never helped us until March 9th, 2020, which was 4 days before the actual performance. 4 days before. YouTube barely helped us. So the day he helped us, he only helped 4 of us, me and my three other friends. Two people never got helped form him and one person showed up late, so they got their lesson on another day.

The first person who went was my friend that got kicked out of MPA for not knowing a lyric. And her lesson went fine. The second girl who went, also my friend, was very nervous. And you know what he told her? He told her to stop acting like a pretty girl. And there’s proof of it too, if she still has it, she recorded the whole thing. The third girl who went, who’s been my friend since middle school, was told to change her attitude if she wanted to stay in chorus for the following school year. Then it was me, I was the last person to get help. Mind you, YouTube didn’t help me much. I couldn’t get past the first page. And he got very mad that I couldn’t get past the first page. Remember MPA from earlier? He asked me if I felt left out and he said I should’ve felt left out. What teacher says that? I have a recording of him saying that to me too, if I didn’t delete it.

Then March 13th came and I didn’t sing at all. But I had a reason. Not only did I not learn the lyrics (because how are you supposed to learn pitches and lyrics in less than 4 days?), my throat was also hurting. And you cannot sing when your throat hurts. You could possibly hurt yourself that way. So I got an F for that. And that same week, he gave me a referral without warning. You’re supposed to get a warning.

And now with the virtual school, he’s lying (again) by saying I’m not doing anything, yet he’s given me grades for the assignments I apparently haven’t done. He’s been doing voice lessons for the last 2 months but I haven’t attended even one lesson because I’m genuinely scared to. No student shouldn’t be scared.

He wants chorus to be your top priority. He wants his class to be your top priority, not your other classes.

So, if you stayed this long, thank you for listening to my rant. I know it’s pretty lengthy, but this has been the last 7 months of my life. And other students too. It’s been hell. It’s truly a nightmare.

And, if any of my followers or if any random person sees this and lives in the Miami area, I DO NOT recommend going to the chorus program at Robert Morgan Educational Center. I’ve had a terrible experience and so has other students. Though we are in the middle of a global pandemic, this teacher deserves to lose his job for the way he treats his students. He treats his favorites with so much respect, and the other students who aren’t his favorites, he’s either nice (but not as nice as he is to his favorites) to them or he’s just simply rude. Again, I recommend not joining it. He and his class are the reason why I hate my voice so much now, I used to love it.

Thank you all for reading and listening. Reblog and like if you want. Who knows, this could spread awareness or something. Stay safe out there everyone!

~ Lexi ♥️

[lost-your-memory]

Supercat prompt: stuck in an elevator together. Bonus if Kara starts to feel a bit claustrophobic at some point and Cat , in her own unique way, helps her through it.

It’s not exactly as short as I thought it’d be and it’s a little … out of characters, maybe, I’m a little rusty, but it’s something! Thank you for the prompt darling!TW : panic attack —

“Kara! Finally! Where are you? Andrea’s looking for you and she’s like hell on heels, even more so than usual!”

“Crap …” Kara swore, dodging a few people on the street as she ran. “I blew my powers, I’m running at a desperately human pace … I’m on my way though, try to stall for just a little longer, please?” 

“You blew your powers? Oh god, this is not good …” Nia was whispering but, despite not having her super-hearing right now, Kara could hear the panic and the worry in her voice.

“I’m okay, don’t worry,” Kara retorted, taking a turn and crossing a road. A few horns went off as she ran in the middle of a busy avenue. 

“Kara!” Nia exclaimed on the line. “You’re human now, don’t forget to look both ways before crossing a road … or you know, just wait for the light to be green! I’m pretty sure your boss won’t like it if you die on the way or worse, if you end up in the hospital …”

Kara chuckled and sped up on the sidewalk, making her way toward the CatCo building. She was out of breath already but as she crossed the lobby, she let out a relieved sigh. 

“What’s so funny?”

Kara waved the receptionist hello as she moved to the elevators hall. “You make her sound like some kind of Miranda Priestly …”

“You’re no Andy though, that would be me” Nia laughed and then paused. “Isn’t she though, in some ways?” 

All of the lifts were busy in the higher floors and she was running out of time. After some seconds of hesitation, she decided that, for once, she’ll take the private elevator. She ran to it and pressed the button, the doors opening almost right away. Looking at her watch to check the time, Kara entered the elevator and turned around to be ready to exit it as quickly as possible. 

“Oh no she’s not. You never worked for Cat Grant but I can assure you, Andrea Roja is just a tiny purring and clawless kitten next to the former queen of all medias … If someone should be compared to Miranda, it would be Cat.” 

“Why, thank you, I’ll take the compliment.”

Kara jumped a good five inches in the air and dropped her phone, already turning around.

Cat Grant, in all her glory, was standing in the back of the elevator. 

Wrapped in a daring blue power pantsuit, she was perched atop a pair of vertiginous black heels that matched the leather vest thrown across her shoulder, held on by only one finger. A black purse was hanging by her elbow at her other arms and she was toying with one branch of her huge sunglasses with her free hand. Her hair was a little shorter now, of a lighter shade of blond that highlighted the sun-tan of her skin. 

Her trademark smirk was floating on her lips, her piercing green eyes solely focused on Kara.

“Which made you my Andrea Sach, I suppose, for quite some time … Although I never got to witness the wardrobe update, until today …”

Cat’s gaze traveled from Kara’s face to her figure and all the way down to the shoes, before coming back up, ever so slowly. 

“Kara? Kara is everything alright? Did you fell? Do you need any help?” 

Nia’s voice came through the phone on the floor, distant and muffled, but Kara was too shocked to move. 

“Are you going to answer your friend?” Cat asked, arching an expectant brow. “She sounds worried, whoever she is …”

Kara eventually bent over to pick up her phone and brought it to her ear. She felt out of her own skin, as if she was some kind of gosht looking at the scene from another angle of the elevator. 

“I … gotta go. Bye,” Kara mechanically said to her friend and she instantly hung up, without listening to the protests on the other end of the line. 

“What … what are you doing here?” Kara managed to ask without stuttering too much. 

She still couldn’t believe Cat Grant was here, in National City, in the CatCo building and moreover, in her former private elevator. Today, of all days. 

A migraine started to pound behind her eyes and she could feel her heartbeat, erratic and frantic, drum against her temples. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Supergirl?” Cat smirked again, before a frown appeared above her eyes. “Although I’m guessing you’re not so Super today …” 

Kara didn’t even try to deny it. 

She’d figured Cat already knew about her alter-ego, probably has known for quite some time already. She had even suspected it was one of the reasons behind Cat’s sudden leave of absence but Alex had told her, in not so gentle terms, that it was probably just wishful thinking.

“I’m powerless these days, yes,” Kara nodded, still struggling to come to terms with what was happening. 

She was mostly answering out of habit because Cat Grant still had that commanding aura of authority surrounding her and she’d never been able to resist it. Not that she’d tried very hard, in the first place, Kara absentmindedly thought.

“A regretful aftermath of this … crisis on infinite earths, or whatever name you superheros gave to this ridiculous crossover that put all of you on the same planet, I assume?” Cat mused, casually making her glasses swirl around her hand.

Kara gritted her teeth and looked away, forcing herself to suck in a deep breath. 

She mentally counted to five before opening her mouth to answer but at the exact same moment, the elevator abruptly stopped.

The brutal move made her lose her balance and she instinctively reached for the handlebar, preventing herself from ending on the floor. The lights went off and for a few seconds, total darkness reigned in the elevator. Then, a generator kicked in and the emergency lighting in the ceiling took over, brightening the space with a dim blue aura. 

“That’s certainly new,” Cat’s voice echoed in the lift. “I’m guessing no one ever bothered with maintenance, after my departure …”

Kara glanced at the former queen of all medias. 

Cat was still standing against the back of the lift but her leather jacket, her purse and her sunglasses were on the floor. She’d wrapped both her hand around the handlebar, on either side of her silhouette. She didn’t look scared though, merely annoyed. 

Cat’s seemingly anodin words suddenly hit Kara. As far as she knew, no one ever rode the private lift anymore. She wasn’t even sure it had been used since Cat left, which meant their current situation could very well be a serious and dangerous issue. 

Her heart skipped a beat and then raced again and she felt it pulsing in her head, in her fingertips and against her ribcage. The migraine behind her eyes migrated to her forehead and then spread everywhere as sweat started to form at the base of her hairline, above her lips and in between her shoulder-blades. 

“Kara? Are you alright?” Cat’s voice echoed again, worried this time. 

They were standing next to each other but to Kara, the words sounded distant, as if coming from very far away. She shook her head and tried to focus, but white stars were starting to cloud her vision. A heavy numbness was taking over her body, making her feel like she was floating and sinking at the same time.

“No one … the lift … it hasn’t been … used …” Kara tried, forcing the words out of her mouth and focusing on what she wanted to say. “You left.”

“I did, yes,” Cat replied, sounding entirely too casual for Kara’s liking. “Almost three years ago, but who’s counting …”

Her legs were starting to shake and Kara slowly let herself slide against the side of the lift,  until she was sat on the ground. 

She knew she was having a panic attack, it wasn’t the first time but this one seemed like it was going to be a really strong, intense one. Usually, some breathing exercises and a few Kryptonian litanies would do the trick and calm her down but she could tell it wasn’t going to work this time.

“I am,” Kara eventually replied, slowly turning her head to focus on Cat. 

Since the former queen of all media was still standing up, Kara had to look up and the move made the white stars in her eyes grow. The migraine in her head drum rolled against her temples and so Kara closed her eyes and looked back down, bringing her knees to her chest and circling them with her arms. She rested her forehead against her knees and started to count. 

“I know you are. You’ve been sending emails and letters, almost every months since I left,” Cat said, her words sounding even more distant now. “Carter was always so happy to hear back from you …”

The mention of Carter made Kara feel a little better, warmer. They’ve been corresponding pretty regularly over the years and they even talked to each other on the phone a few times. 

Kara remembered Carter used to have panic attack too. She’d been the one to reassure him, to help him out and to tell him panic attacks were nothing to be ashamed off, that she had them too. They found out together, during one of his most intense attacks, that reciting the various dinosaurs species was his personal trick to calm down. 

Cat’s voice echoed again around the lift but Kara was too unfocused to understand. 

She still caught the words “situation”, “hurry”, “unemployment” and “waiting” and her brain connected the dots. She figured Cat had called for help, using the emergency button of the elevator’s board, and threatened whoever had answered if they didn’t hurry to get them out. 

Glancing up to feel her surrounding, she saw that Cat had sat down in front of her, against the other side of the life. Somewhere in a corner of her mind, a voice told her she must be dreaming because there was no reality in which Cat Grant would ever sit on the floor. It almost made her smile, but the migraine took over and it made her wince instead. 

“I know my son recites the dinosaur’s species to calm down. What do you recite?” Cat asked as she caught Kara’s glance. She was speaking slowly and articulating every word. 

Kara anchored herself into Cat’s green eyes and took some time to gather the words she needed to answer. Her brain was all muddy and slow, she was struggling to just breathe but she knew she has to focus.

“The planets in Rao’s system,” she eventually replied. She’d been repeating them over and over and over in her mind but it wasn’t working. “It’s not … working.”

“You need to say it out loud,” Cat replied, gently. ”I think I now know about 25 kind of dinosaurs, just by listening to Carter recite them …”

Kara sucked in a deep breath and then exhaled. 

She couldn’t discern the color of Cat’s eyes in the relative darkness of the elevator but her memories were still intact and it was as she could see the golden specks swirl into the hazel irises. 

“Out of … thousands, it’s not … much …” Kara breathed, her voice coming out laboured and short.

Cat arched a surprise brow and it took some time before she muttered “I don’t know if I should be offended or impressed that you are able to be sassy in such a situation …” 

Kara wanted to smirk but her body wasn’t answering to her anymore. Her head was throbbing like hell, her limbs were numb and heavy, almost paralyzed, and there were still some white stars in her eyes. 

“Tell me about Rao’s system?” 

Cat tilted her head to the side, like she did when she expected Kara to hand over whatever she’d previously asked for. 

Kara suddenly remembered giving away one of her own latte because of this look. She also remembered that Cat had drank the cinnamon flavored drink, even if it was nothing like her regular order, without making any comment whatsoever. 

Kara shook her head, very slowly because she didn’t want to worsen her migraine, and said “You … first. What are you … doing … here?” 

Cat’s lips twitched and then a smirk made it appearance. 

“The last time you were this brazen, you were under the influence of some kind of weird substance …” Cat reminisced. “Seeing that you can pull it off in the middle of a panic attack … I’m definitely impressed now.”

Kara still couldn’t smirk but she wanted to. Instead, she mimicked Cat’s posture and tilted her head.  

“Fine, I suppose I can tell you …” Cat heavily sighed, making it clear that she was admitting her defeat. She didn’t look too bothered though, Kara distractingly noticed through her migraine and the sweat that rolled down her face and clouded her eyes.

“I’m here to buy CatCo back,” Cat announced, her voice clear and lined with steel. “This company has became a running joke ever since I left and it’s about time I take over, before this clawless, purring little kitten run it into the ground.” 

Kara didn’t move but her skepticism must have showed somehow because Cat chuckled.

“I’m late, I’m aware, yes. James, Lena, Andrea … I probably should have come back a long time ago, but I didn’t. I don’t have any excuse really, I’ve enjoyed my life in the meantime but now I’m ready to claim my throne back.”

Kara was breathing a little easier but a fanfare was still marching in her head, sweat was soaking her hair and her shirt and she still couldn’t move a finger. She mulled over Cat’s words. Something suddenly came back to her.

“You … promised… you’d be … back,” Kara breathed, still managing to sound accusatory.

“Yes, and here I am. Better late than never, as the saying goes …” Cat instantly replied, without any hint of guilt or regret in her voice.  

Kara wanted to protest but she knew it’d be wasting energy she didn’t even have. 

Three years or so might have gone by but Cat Grant was still the stubborn piece of work she’d been when Kara was her assistant. 

“Rao … it’s … it was … the sun,” Kara started, only realizing how much of a bad idea it was.

It was her first panic attack since the crisis happened and it suddenly felt like she was losing her world all over again. She knew that it wasn’t exactly the same but to realize that, across every universe in the multiverse, Krypton had disappeared everytime made her anxiety spike up, drastically so.

Cat seemed to understand.

“Alright, so maybe not this litany. Do you have something else?” Cat asked, gesturing with her hand for Kara to focus on her. “I mean, I can’t imagine Kara Danvers having a panic attack in public and reciting some planet names no one ever heard of … It would have attracted some attention, back in the old days when aliens weren’t public knowledge …”

Kara wanted to let out the hollow laugh that resonated in her head, through the pain of her migraine. She couldn’t, though. Talking was requiring a lot of effort and she had to save her energy to stay conscious, at the very least.

“Alex … the cars. We … we used to … fix … cars,” Kara answered, hoping Cat would be able to make out what she meant. 

“Really? That’s … unexpected,” Cat smiled, sounding intrigued. “Although I met your sister once or twice, I can totally see it but you?”

“I liked … mechanics. It was … something … to focus … on,” Kara explained. “We fixed … a Chevy Impala, once.” 

Cat let out a slight whistle and the sound made Kara wince. 

“Sorry,” Cat instantly apologised. “What year, the car?”

Kara looked at her former boss with surprise and again, it must have showed because Cat smirked and then shrugged. “I like cars, yes. So what year?”

“‘67, I remember … Of a deep … bottle green … color. Took us … almost … two years … to get it … to work,” Kara retorted, trying to focus on the memories. “Alex took it for … a road trip afterward and … she brought me … along. Lasted two … months.” 

Cat nodded “Sounds like a good memory. Where did you go?”

This time, Kara managed to offer half a smile. She felt her lips twitch upward and stretch, which meant progress. 

“Arizona. Utah. Colorados. New Mexico. Texas …” Kara took a deep breath and focused. “Oklahomas. Kansas …”

That made Cat snicker but she didn’t comment. 

“Nebraska. Both Dakota. Montana. Wyoming …” Kara trailed off and frowned. Her body was starting to obey her again, she noticed. She kept going. “Idaho. Oregon. Nevada … and all along the California coast, back to Midvale.” 

“Sounds like a very long trip,” Cat commented. “You visited quite a few states … where was your favorite spot then?”

Kara thought back on the road trips and the many landscapes she discovered during this summer. She’d liked everything back then, every big city they drive through, the Grand Canyon, Wyoming’s plains and Kansas regular fields, Oregon’s dunes and so on but in the end, there was only one place that topped them all. 

“I don’t have … one. My favorite spot was … riding shotgun in … Alex’s car.” 

Cat didn’t reply right away but Kara saw the gentle smile that floated on her lips for a few seconds. It disappeared rather quickly though and, despite her particular state, Kara still felt a little disappointed.

“You mentioned the cars, plural … what other car did you fix with your sister?” Cat eventually questioned, showing that she was still a journalist at heart. It made Kara want to chuckle because no matter what, Cat never got sidetracked. 

“A Cadillac, serie ‘62, convertible,” Kara replied and this time, she didn’t wince when Cat whistled. The former queen of all media looked impressed and slightly envious. “Alex’s masterpiece but… the color… sucked.”

“Oh really? Well, it couldn’t have been so bad … It’s such a fine car! A little … has been, nowadays, but such a classic …”

“It was … Barbie pink.”

Cat made a face Kara could only describe as outraged. Kara had only saw this expression on Cat a handful of time and one of them had been because someone had compared her to Lois Lane. 

“You can’t be serious!” Cat protested, as if the mere idea of such a color was a personal affront. “That’s not even …”

Kara tried to move her head and when she noticed she could, she slowly nodded. 

“It’s not a color, I agree … yet, the car was … as pink as  … one of Buffy’s lipstick.”

“Such a fine car … It’s criminal. Although, Sarah Michelle Gellar could certainly pull it off just fine, back then. Not so much today though and someone should let her know …” Cat shook her head and pursed her lips, like she always did when someone committed a fashion faux-pas. 

“You know … the actress?” Kara asked, clearly sounding a little dumbstruck. 

Of course she knew Cat was extremely famous and that she evolved in a lot of different circles and yet somehow, she always managed to forget about it. It took weird occurrences like these to get a reminded. 

“Oh yes, we have drinks once or twice a year. Aside from her tendency to live in the past when it comes to fashion, she’s a sweetheart,” Cat waved her hand in the air, a dismissal gesture that told Kara the topic was closed. “What other cars did you and your sister managed to get your hands on?” 

“We fixed a Mustang Fastback, 1967. Maybe my favorite,” Kara said with a small smile. “A red one, it was a wreck when Alex brought it in … Took us a little less than a year to put it back together.” 

“How comes your sister managed to have such fancy, expensive cars to fix?” Cat asked with a frown.

“In Midvale, we have a garage that specialises in this kind of automobiles … Alex used to work there every summer … Started when she was 14 years old and still today … she helps around whenever we go for … vacations of just for a few days.” Kara explained, instantly noticing she could form longer sentences now, despite her still laboured breath. 

“Makes sense, I suppose …” Cat nodded. She seemed about to say something else when a voice came through the elevator’s line, asking if they were still there.

“Actually no, we went out for a drink, we’ll be back a little later … Why do you think!” Cat sassed, her voice sharp and cutting as she stood up to get closer to the board. 

The man on the other side of the line coughed a little and then apologized, before explaining that help was on the way and should arrive in ten to fifteen minutes. 

“About damn time,” Cat growled and Kara, force of habit, felt a little bad for their interlocutor. 

The emergency lighting suddenly flickered. It lasted a few seconds, before it disappeared altogether.

It’s all it took to make Kara’s anxiety ten times worse. 

The numbness in her limbs, which had been slowly reducing during her exchange with Cat, started again and spread even faster this time. She couldn’t feel her legs, her hands nor her face anymore. She could still hear her breathing though, extremely fast and laboured. She knew she was on the verge of wheezing.

“I have a confession to make,” Cat’s voice echoed through the closed space. Kara couldn’t see her but she had this strange feeling she was close. Closer than she’d been before. “When I told you I needed to leave in order to dive, I didn’t tell you the truth.”

Kara wanted to retort with a sassy reply, something along the lines of ‘no kidding’ but she was unable to speak. She was focusing on her breathing, going over and over and over the cars she’d just talked about, in her head. 

Still, when Cat spoke again, she listened.

“I mean, it was part of the truth, I needed to do something else, something new but in the end …” Cat paused and Kara felt something move next to her. “I was … running away.”

Kara was grateful for the fact Cat wasn’t touching her. In her current state, it would only make things worse. They were sat down side by side on the elevator’s floor, in total darkness, but there was still some space left in between them.

The sound of Cat’s voice, piercing the obscurity of the space, was somehow soothing. Kara choose to focus on it instead of trying to reign over her panic, which was only making it worse.

“I have to admit,” Cat let out with a dry chuckle “This wasn’t exactly how I planned to tell you about this particular topic but since there’s not time like the present and you clearly need a distraction …” 

Again, Kara wanted to snap back but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“I promoted you to this journalist position you were destined to occupy. I gave you an office, put you in Snapper’s team and then watched you rise to the opportunity … In the middle of it, I realized that … I was missing you.”

That got Kara’s attention, efficiently distracting her from her anxiety just long enough for her to croak a disbelieving “What?” 

“Oh, you speak now!” Cat said, somehow managing to make it sound like a cutting criticism. “You heard me. I was missing you but what’s striking about it is that I wasn’t missing my assistant, however competent and efficient you were in this role.” 

Kara blinked. 

She thought maybe her anxiety has gotten so bad at this point that she was hallucinating, imagining Cat saying all those things she’d once wanted to hear so badly. 

Wishful thinking, Alex had said, dismissively. 

“I was missing you, Kara Danvers,” Cat breathed, her voice a little lower this time. It sounded like an admission, a little shy but there nonetheless. “The constant questions you used to ask that pushed me to be a better version of myself. The subtle soothing smile you did when someone would get on my nerves and that prevented me from going ballistic. The reprobative eyebrow when I was too sharp, too blunt or just too mean to someone who didn’t deserve it. The way you listened, truly listened, when I talked, especially when it was about Carter. Your ridiculous rambling about one thing or another, the pure wonder in your eyes when you learned something and for God’s sake I was even missing those awfully colorful cardigans of yours.”

Kara’s mind was spinning but this time, she was pretty sure her anxiety has nothing to do with it. Cat’s words echoed in her mind, beating a rhythm along with her receding migraine. 

“That’s when I realized something. I had … developed feelings, for you,” Cat said with just a hint of annoyance in her voice, something that proved Kara wasn’t imagining things. 

“Inappropriate, unwanted, unrequited feelings. I’m not proud to admit it but I got scared.” Cat was whispering now but the darkness in the lift amplified her voice. “I had been pondering about my future for quite some time already but then the timing was right and I took to opportunity when it presented itself. I left CatCo, and you with it.” 

Kara didn’t say anything. She didn’t even know what to say. 

She’d been hoping for something like this for well over three years now, despite her best efforts to try to move on. 

She’d tried, with Mon-El, but then Cat came back for a few days. She didn’t even stay a whole week, but it had been enough for Kara to realize she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with the Daxamite prince. 

“I know you can’t talk now and I realize it’s very unfair of me to drop this on you while you’re having a panic attack, but I do wonder …” Cat trailed off, suddenly sounding unsure and small.  

Kara didn’t think. She willed her hand to move and when it did, she reached out through the obscurity and found Cat’s hand. 

The skin was soft and warm underneath hers, real. 

She brushed her thumb across Cat’s knuckles and heard a soft gasp, it made her smile. 

She could get used to this. 

She was still struggling to breath but it was somehow getting better and the paralisis in her limbs had disappeared. She slowly moved her legs, to extend them in front of her, and sat up a little straighter. 

“We need to talk about this,” Kara managed to say, pleasantly surprised that she didn’t choke on the words. “Preferably in broad daylight and in a big, vast, open space.”

Soft fingers squeezed hers and it sent a flutter down her stomach.

“How about my penthouse then, big enough for your taste?” It was still pitch black in the lift but Kara would bet her weight in potstickers that Cat was smiling. “Dinner tonight? Carter would be thrilled to have you and then we’ll talk.”

“I would love to,” Kara replied with a smile of her own. “Tell me something, though …”

The hand in hers stilled but she didn’t let go. 

“Why now?”

Cat let out a sigh Kara didn’t know how to decipher. It sounded like relief but she wasn’t sure. 

“Again, I’d like to point out this wasn’t how I had planned to tell you about all of this but as for the timing …” Cat explained. Kara rolled her eyes before she remembered Cat couldn’t see her. “I grew tired of running away. It’s as simple as that. I told you once to pull on your big girl’s pants and to own it … It was about time I followed my own advice. I’m incredibly late, by over three years, but then again ….”

“Better late than never, you’ve said it already,” Kara supplied with a chuckle. 

She was not surprised by Cat’s answer, not in the least. She knew that her former boss had a lot of emotional baggages and aside from when it concerned her son, Cat was easily skittish when it came to feelings. Paired with her stubborn, independent and perfectionist temperament, Kara thought it was some kind of exploit that it didn’t take any longer. 

“Am I too late?” 

The question floated around in the elevator, thick and heavy with meaning. 

It was a good one, a legitimate one even, Kara realized as she closed her mouth to hold back the “no” she’d been about to reply. The word, so small and yet so important, sat heavy on the tip of her tongue. A lot had happened over the years and despite Kara wanting nothing more than to act as if it didn’t, she knew it wouldn’t be fair. 

She opened her mouth to say something when a man’s voice on the other side of the doors made them both startle.

“Hello in there! I’m going to try to pry the door open, should take a few minutes …”

A rumble indicated he was rummaging around to find some tool. Eventually, grunts and metal bending replaced the previous noise.

Kara squeezed Cat’s hand and leant over to whisper her answer.

“A queen is never late. Everyone else is simply early …” 

It earned her a laugh, a surprised but genuinely affectionate laugh. Cat intertwined her fingers with Kara’s and held on for a few seconds before letting it go. 

The doors opened, slowly, liberating the way to the tenth floor. Light finally spilled into the elevator. 

Cat and Kara stood up and gathered their belongings, in silence. 

The man in deep blue work overalls that stood in front of the lift looked very apologetic and he helped them out while expressing how sorry he was.“I’m sorry it took me so long, there was some traffic downtown … I know it must have been hard to be trapped in there, I’m sorry for being late …”

Cat glared him at her, towering on her heels and for a few seconds, Kara thought she was about to lash out. She arched a reprobate eyebrow and caught Cat’s eyes. Whatever Cat had been about to say, she swallowed it back and then did her typical dismissive gesture with her hand.

“It’s alright. I suppose it’s better late than never, after all …” 

After what Cat strolled away toward the end of the elevator hall and toward the stairs. Before she disappeared into the stairways, she threw one last glance at Kara and smiled.

“Dinner is at 8. Oh and Kara …” Cat smirked, in such a predatory way Kara’s knees wobbled a little. 

“Yes?” Kara replied, trying not to sound too affected. 

“Don’t be late.” 

[lyssismagical]

but this is how it goes, the end credits they roll

Febuwhump Day 9 & 10 – Lose You & Farewell Forever

Read on AO3

{Major Character Death}

There was a chair left empty at Academic Decathlon, the spot reserved for someone that would never show up.

Even Flash knew not to take it, sitting on the edge of the stage and kicking his feet. They don’t have enough players to compete in any competition or event, but MJ still hasn’t made the call for Flash to join the team as anything but an alternate.

Their teacher didn’t bother to show, writing some bullshit email to the group about feeling sick but that they could meet without him. Nobody mentioned the extra emailed person that didn’t need the emails anymore.

MJ stands tall at the head of the table, pushing her sunglasses further up on her nose and running a stressed hand through her hair.

“Alright, let’s practice,” she says, voice rough and low. She grabs the stack of cue cards off the table like it’s a normal practice.

It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve been a player short, but this is the first time it’s been a permanent absence.

The room is quiet, nobody knowing the answers to half the questions she asked. The empty chair, the missing player, the extra email address, he would’ve known them all. He was always the one to carry them to victory at the competitions.

Nobody says it though.

Not even Flash, who sits quiet and patient, legs kicking rhythmically.

Another six questions pass without an answer, not even a guess.

And Betty finally speaks up, “I’m getting tired, MJ. Can we just- Can we call it a day?”

MJ’s shoulders square, jaw clenching, but she waves her hand anyways. “Fine. Go home. I don’t care.”

Nobody moves to get up. Not even Ned who would rather be anywhere but sitting next to an empty chair.

“Listen, MJ-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Flash,” she snaps, nose crinkling like she’s trying not to cry behind her sunglasses. “Let’s keep going if nobody’s going home then.”

And so they continue, trying their best to work around the obvious absence between MJ and Ned.

“MJ, look-” Zach speaks up quietly, he looks visibly nervous at saying anything, but there’s a kind of sympathetic pain shining behind his eyes. “Peter, he’s… he’s gone, MJ. We can’t just pretend he’ll be back next meeting or back in time for the competition. We can’t pretend-”

Ned stands abruptly, chair kicking out behind him. He doesn’t say anything, jaw clenched and eyes watery.

He slings his old backpack over his shoulder and shoves his chair back into place. There’s a quiet second where he touches the back of the vacant chair, quiet and eyes closed like he can’t even bear to look at it. And then he turns and walks out of the room.

“Meeting’s over,” MJ says, sending a glare at Zach over the top of her sunglasses. She grabs her bag and the cue cards, eyes focused on the vacant chair. “I expect everybody to study twice as hard and be prepared for next meeting.”

Flash stands, eyes lingering on the chair. He doesn’t ask MJ to give him the spot on the team. He doesn’t want it, not as much as he wants Peter back.

“You too, Thompson,” MJ says as an afterthought.

It’s not perfect, it’s far from it, but it could be considered as the first stepping stone towards acceptance. It happened and there was nothing anybody could do to turn back the clock.

* Happy sinks down on the couch next to Pepper, offering as best of a smile as he can.

“You doing alright?” he asks. He already know the answer is no. There’s nothing that could change that, nothing that could make her feel alright.

Peter had been Tony’s kid long before Pepper’s, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t Pepper’s kid. Peter was and Pepper loved the kid like he was her own.

But now?

Now everything’s different.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says slowly, sipping her tea with shaking hands. “I don’t know if we can do this anymore.”

Happy opens his mouth to offer support, advice, anything, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know what to say.

Pepper touches her stomach with a sad smile, blinking back tears. “We just lost Peter… I don’t know if we can-”

With a sigh, Happy gently rests his hand over Pepper’s arm. “I know it’s hard, but this is what Peter would’ve wanted, isn’t it?”

He remembers all those days watching over the kid, driving him to and from school, taking him out for fast food on the way to the tower, listening to the rambling voicemails about anything and everything.

It’s hard to believe that the kid is just gone.

Pepper’s trembling, tea nearly sloshing over the edge of her mug. “I don’t know if Tony can do this without him.”

There had been matching shirts with Best Big Brother and Best Little Sister written on them for when they told Peter. There had been a cake and a party and a weekend set aside for Peter to help them build the nursery.

Peter was going to be apart of their baby’s life just as much as Tony or Pepper was going to be.

And now he’s gone.

Gone forever.

“How’s he doing?” Happy asks. “Tony, I mean. How’s he holding up?”

Pepper’s face falls just a little bit more. “I haven’t seen him in three days. He won’t leave the lab, total lockdown. Won’t let anybody in.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know how to make it better. There’s no way to make this heavy pain that’s resting over Queens go away.

“How’s May?” Pepper asks instead, taking another slow sip of her tea. Happy steadies her hands on the mug when a little bit of the tea spills over the edge.

Happy’s been staying with May while Pepper stays with Tony. They figured it would be easiest to try to keep an eye on the two of them.

Shrugging, Happy sighs again. “As well as can be expected, I guess… She likes working a little too much for her own good. She’s been picking up as many shifts at the hospital as she’s allowed to. I think it makes her feel better to know she’s helping others, but she sleeps in Peter’s bed every night. Cries herself to sleep whenever she can sleep at all.”

Pepper nods like this is what she expected, like she knew exactly how May felt. Happy supposes she does know, she’s going through a parallel of what May’s going through.

“I just…” Pepper sighs and sets the mug down on the coffee table, sniffling. “I really miss him.”

Happy nods, blinking back the tears that threaten once again. “Me too, Pep, me too.”

* MJ stalks through Stark Towers, glaring at everybody who tries to stop her.

It’s been four months.

Four fucking months and she’s sick of feeling useless.

“I just… I don’t know. It feels like I should’ve done something, you know? I should’ve tried to help at least,” Peter had said, turning his head to look at her.

They were lying out in the football field behind the school, skipping history as a protest. She wasn’t sure if Peter even knew what he was protesting, all she knew for sure, was that Peter hadn’t even hesitated to join her.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He had looked back up at the clouds, curly hair framing his face like a halo, the grass around him making him look light and beautiful.

“I believe everybody deserves compassion. That everybody around us has their own ideas, thoughts, beliefs, and that their actions don’t necessarily reflect who they are as a person or the person they want to be.”

“So?”

“So, I wish I could’ve done more for Flash. I wish I could help him. After hearing about what’s going on at home, I just… I wish I could help him.”

“Even after everything?”

Peter shrugged, looking over at her with a soft smile. He looked like an angel under the sunlight, all dimpled smile and soft eyes and radiating kindness.

“Even after everything,” he said. “I know Flash does what he does for a reason, and now we know why. I’d be angry too if my family didn’t pay attention to me. I’d be angry if I felt like nobody cared.”

MJ didn’t believe in much, but she always believed in Peter.

“Tony!” she calls out, knocking on the lab door loudly. She’s been to the lab exactly one time before. When she had been hanging out with Ned and Peter when Peter got hurt doing a dumb heroic thing and he’d taken them back to the tower to get himself fixed up.

“He hasn’t let anybody down in three months, honey,” Pepper murmurs, coming up behind her. Her belly is swollen underneath her shirt and there are dark circles under her eyes. “Trust me, I would know. He only comes out every few weeks.”

MJ, for her part, doesn’t give up. “Peter wouldn’t’ve wanted this! He wouldn’t want you to shut yourself out! He would’ve wanted you to be happy!”

“Friday?” she says.

“Yes, Miss Jones?”

MJ steels herself, expression hardening. “Unlock the door. Let me in.”

There’s a long few moments of silence where MJ’s sure she failed, that she’ll never get through to Tony, but then the door unlocks.

“I’m worried for Boss,” Friday explains quietly. MJ remembers Peter rambling to Ned about how he snuck into Friday’s code behind Tony’s back and started reprogramming her to be more careful about Tony’s health. This must be that programming coming into play.

MJ offers a half-smile to Pepper, a silent ask to be let down by herself, and then she heads down the stairs, shoulders squared and jaw clenched.

She falters when she gets to the lab, though.

Tony’s laying across the couch, a blanket across his legs that MJ recognizes as one of Peter’s. An old Iron Man blanket with holes and losing its once-vibrant colors, just like the real Iron Man laying on the couch is.

He’s tucked in an old hoodie and pajama pants, eyes glazed as he watches the TV. It’s Star Wars, MJ’s not too surprised, she’s caught Ned doing the same more than a few times over the past couple months.

There’s a stuffed animal clutched in his grip, one that MJ also knows is Peter’s. It’s a teddy bear, one of it’s ears missing and the plush worse for wear. It was from his childhood, from his parents that he’s kept ever since. She remembers him saying that he keeps it at the tower now.

“Tony?” MJ starts, nowhere near as confident as how she imagined she’d say it. She sounds small now, like the child she is.

The billionaire’s eyes flicker over to her before landing back on the screen. It’s the third episode, she only knows it because of how much Peter talked about Star Wars.

“Hey!” she snaps more forcefully, crossing the room to him.

She’s met the man a few times before whether it was at Academic Decathlon practices, hanging out at the tower with Ned and Peter, or whenever he’d pick Peter up from school. But whenever she saw him, he was always dressed immaculately, hair perfectly styled, the picture-perfect image of Tony Stark.

But now?

Now he looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks. Dressed in old pajamas. Now he looks run down and miserable, tear tracks visible down his gaunt cheeks. He looks like he hasn’t been eating enough. He looks like he hasn’t slept well in months.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice rough and hoarse with disuse. He doesn’t bother pulling his eyes away from the TV.

“I swear!” Peter laughed, so bright and loud like Life was filling him to the very brim and he couldn’t help but to let some of it seep into the air around him, making Ned’s face brighten before he even knows why Peter’s laughing.

“What?” MJ asked, eyebrows furrowing and biting back a smile. Peter’s happiness was infectious.

“Mister Stark was wearing Spider-Man pajama pants when I got up for breakfast!” Peter exclaimed gleefully. “He turned so red when he realized, but he said I was his favourite Avenger.”

Ned had laughed then, nowhere near as easily as Peter had, but nobody could ever exude that kind of easy happiness.

“That’s crazy!”

Peter laughed and laughed and laughed through the story of Breakfast at Stark’s, until his face went pink and his arms wrapped around his stomach and joyous tears fell from his eyes.

MJ tears the blanket off Tony, taking the stuffed animal from his arms and putting them just out of reach from him. Sure enough, the pajama pants are the old Spider-Man ones.

“What I want is for you to stop moping down here when you have people who want to help you. I want you to stop pretending like you’re the only one who cared about him. I want you to stop acting like you’re allowed to isolate yourself when you have a pregnant wife upstairs, torn apart by this and has to take care of herself and the company. I want- I want-”

I want Peter back.

She can’t say that, mouth snapping shut audibly as the emotions bubble inside her chest. She knows she’s lashing out at somebody who doesn’t deserve it. She knows she’s being harsh and unfair. But she cares. Ned cares. May, Pepper, and Happy care. Betty, Zach, Mister Harrington, Abraham care. Hell, even Flash and Brad care.

Some sort of parental instinct must spark inside Tony because he’s on his wobbly legs within seconds, gently touching her shoulder.

He smells kind of gross in a way that proves that he hasn’t showered in a little while. He looks exhausted, his hair is greasy, eyes bloodshot. He’s nowhere near the Tony Stark the world knows, not even close to the Tony Stark Peter knew.

But he’s there, his eyes are awake with a flash of life and he’s looking at MJ like he needs to help her.

“I’m sorry,” she says before she can stop herself.

“I’m so sorry!” Peter gasped. MJ rolled her eyes on instinct because Peter was always apologizing for things he didn’t need to.

“I stepped on your foot… And you’re apologizing?” Ned said, a smile on his face.

Peter shrugged, flushing shyly. “My foot was in your way?”

Tony’s face falls, a soft look touching his features. “I know this has been hard on you and everyone else, and I’m the one who should be sorry for abandoning everybody in a time of need.”

It’s said in such a carefully crafted way that MJ can’t help but wonder how many times he’s had to say it before. To Peter or anybody else.

Tears spring to MJ’s eyes before she can stop them and she goes to rub at them, to blink them back, to turn her head to the sky to stop them from falling, but Tony stops her, head tipped to the side with an almost parental look in his eyes.

“You’re allowed to cry,” he murmurs, one hand gently touching her cheek almost like her mother had a few days earlier when she found her crying over a television ad for the kind of shoes Peter always got. “You’re allowed to be upset by this. It’s worse if you try to bottle it all up.”

He gestures back to the couch almost carelessly with his free hand. “It’s what I’ve been doing, so I should know.”

Once the first tear fall, the rest follow suit, days’ worth of held back tears escaping the back of her mind where she’d locked them.

Tony, after asking if he could, draws her into a hug, keeping his arms wrapped around her safely like he can somehow protect her from the horrors of the world.

“I just want him back,” MJ cries into his shirt, Peter’s shirt.

She’s never felt capable of being vulnerable, never really learned how until Peter came along wearing his heart on his sleeve. She opened up to him occasionally like the day they laid down in the football field while skipping history. Or after the incident at the Washington Monument.

But here?

It’s a safe place where the grieving can cry without any repercussions. Where Tony holds her together even as she falls apart. Where he hugs her in a way he must’ve learned from having Peter around. Where they’re allowed to act however they want to act because they’re hurting.

Tony doesn’t seem to bother hiding his pain either and they sink to the floor, hanging onto each other like they save each other, like the power of their love for Peter can bring him back.

“I just really miss him,” Peter mumbled, leaning against Ned’s side.

The grass was dying and the air was cold. Peter didn’t cry, reaching out to just barely touch the gravestone.

“I know,” Ned said, letting Peter curl up against him.

MJ slowly sat at Peter’s other side, the vulnerability of the situation making her heart pound. But she offered out her hand for Peter to hold onto.

Peter’s not coming back. It doesn’t matter how many people pray for him, how many people miss him, how many people love him. It doesn’t matter. He’s gone and there’s nothing they can do to bring him back.

“I should’ve told him,” MJ says, words muffled and thick with tears, fists curling into Tony’s shirt. “I had this whole plan for our field trip to Europe next year. I was going to tell him how I felt. I was going to kiss him on the Eiffel Tower in Paris.”  

Tony lets out a watery laugh, arms tightening around her. “He had the same plan. He had it all thought out. It didn’t matter how many times I told him to just tell you, he wanted to do it right. He sold all his Star Wars memorabilia to buy a necklace for you. The Black Dahlia or something.”

“I shouldn’t have waited so long… Maybe then- Maybe then I could’ve-”

“I should’ve told him I loved him,” Tony says, voice just as heavy as MJ’s. His chest trembles beneath MJ’s hands and she hangs on tighter. “I should’ve made sure he knew, but I didn’t.”

It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have mattered if Peter knew, had a girlfriend, had an established father-figure. It wouldn’t have made a difference. Peter still would’ve gone out that night. He still would’ve never made it back.

They both know that. They know that Peter knowing they loved him wouldn’t have changed anything.

But that doesn’t change the regret that hangs from their bones.

“I miss him.”

Tony nods, taking in a shaky breath. “Me too, kid, me too. But it’ll be okay, right? That’s what everyone seems to be saying to me these days.”

“Will it?”

Arms tightening, one hand coming up to rest on the back of her neck like she’s seen him do for Peter dozens of times, Tony says with more confidence than MJ expected, “Yeah, it will be, kid.”

* Ned walks into the penthouse, MJ and May behind him, determination echoed on each other’s faces.

“What are you doing here?” Happy asks, standing from where he’d been sitting on the couch. “Tony and Pepper are at a doctor’s appointment.”

Happy had taken Pepper to the past few months of appointment’s while Tony was locked in the lab, but after a much needed shower, a full meal, and a night of rest, Tony was up and ready to take on the world as much as somebody grieving could.

The paint can in Ned’s hand is brought up into view. MJ and May gesture at the large box they’re carrying between them.

“We heard there was an unpainted nursery that needed to be done,” May explains.

Peter was meant to be the one helping, but Ned had the weekend booked in his calendar to make sure he remembered. Ned acted as Peter’s secretary half the time to make sure the forgetful boy didn’t miss anything important.

And he just hoped the three of them would be enough to make up for Peter’s absence.

But Happy’s shoulders slump and he offers a weary smile. “They’ll be home in a few hours so we better hurry.”

MJ and Ned paint the walls a pale yellow, the color Peter had picked out. He had one of those paint strips pinned on his wall months in advance. May and Happy sit on the floor and build the crib, laughing at their own struggles to read the Ikea instructions.

It’s not perfect.

The absence in the room is noticeable. It makes the yellow feel too dim, the laughter just a bit too forced. It’s painfully obvious that it’s only been four months since it happened and they haven’t gotten used to how to hold conversations without him.

But it’s nice.

It’s nice to be together, the four of them, and do something.

Paint-covered and exhausted, they all sit on the floor, admiring their work.

“Peter would’ve liked this,” May murmurs. Her voice stays strong, eyes dry, a sad smile on her face. “He would’ve laughed and laughed and laughed about how we couldn’t put the crib together.”

“He would’ve stood on the ceiling to paint and he would’ve gotten it everywhere,” Ned says, voice small. “He would’ve gotten the baby an Avengers mobile and a Star Wars stuffed animal.”

They all laugh just a little bit, just enough.

The sun shines through the window and the clouds pass, the yellow paint is streaked and messy, the crib looks like it’ll fall apart at any second, they’re all stained in paint and their feet ache, but not as much as their chests do.

There’s a cavity in the room, the spot left between Ned and May, sitting against the door, the right size for Peter to fit between them. There’s a third paintbrush sitting unused in the bucket. There’s a spot in their hearts that sits empty and cavernous without Peter.

But it’s enough.

* MJ nudges Ned in the arm, leaning over the empty seat between them to do so.

Ned’s grinning from ear to ear, a lightness in his eyes that hasn’t been present in too long.

“Yeah?”

“D’you ever think he’s watching over us? Think he’s proud of us?” MJ asks quietly.

Everyone’s crying around them for May and Happy’s wedding. They were surprised at how quick Happy popped the question and how quickly the wedding came, barely six months after It Happened. But all May had to do was murmur that sometimes you don’t know how much time you have left with those you love, and everybody understood.

Ned’s expression softens. “Course he is. This is what he’d want for all of us.”

Tony throws them a smile from where he’s standing at Happy’s side as the best man.

“All Peter would’ve wanted is for us to be happy,” Pepper says from where she leans between the seats. “I don’t think he would’ve minded having Happy as a step-father or whatever it counts as.”

“Can you imagine how much he would’ve complained?” Ned says, letting out a quiet laugh. “That’s all I would’ve heard from him for months.”

May’s smiling almost too big to kiss Happy when the priest, Rhodey who got ordained online a few weeks in advance, finalizes the marriage.

It’s been a long time since anybody’s seen this many smiles among them.

Pepper’s right, so maybe that’s why when the party begins, Ned steps aside and calls Flash.

“Hello?” he sounds awful and a wave of guilt rushes over Ned. He should’ve at least tried to talk to Flash after what happened.

“You doing okay?” Ned asks, trying his best to channel the kind person Peter was. “I know it’s been a long six months…”

Flash sniffles, obviously miserable. Ned wonders how hard Flash must be taking this. He wasn’t cruel and before It Happened, Flash was able to apologize to Peter.

Peter and him were almost friends before It Happened. Peter was changing Flash for the better.

“I just- I-” Flash takes a long breath, tears evident in his voice. “He only got sixteen years and I spent a quarter of that making his life hell. I- He didn’t deserve that. He was such a good person and I just- If anything it should’ve been me, right?”

“Hey, don’t think like that. Peter was too nice for his own good, but he always wanted to make sure he was okay. He never hated you. There was a reason he never fought back, Flash, he cared. He worried. He knew there was a reason why.”

Flash’s crying, breath hitching. “I just- I wish there was something I could do. I wish I could make this all better, but I don’t know how and I just- I hate myself. I’m a coward. I- I fucking-”

“You’re none of those things. Peter never held a grudge, so neither should you. And listen, Flash, what happened, happened. Nothing you could’ve done, would’ve changed the outcomes. There’s no point in hating yourself for what you did when you’ve changed, you’ve apologized.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Flash admits, more vulnerable than Ned has ever heard him.

And Ned sighs, soft and easy, looking up to the sky where the sun shines down on them and the clouds drift by. “It’s not your fault, Flash. Peter would’ve wanted you to be happy too.”  

* At their next Academic Decathlon Competition, they leave an empty chair at the head of the table, but Flash sits strong at the end of the table.

Before the competition starts, MJ and Ned look towards the crowd of families. MJ and Ned’s families smile at them, but the new additions to their family are grinning at them too, cheering them on.

Happy and May are sitting shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, grinning from ear to ear. May’s still in her nurse’s blue shirt, the ring on her finger shining under the lights. Happy presses a kiss to her temple, murmuring unheard words which makes May’s eyes flicker to the empty chair.

But it doesn’t make her as sad as it once would. Moving on works in strange ways and even if the grief and the pain isn’t gone, may never be gone, moving on doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Tony’s whole face is alight with happiness and pride, snapping pictures of them on stage like the picture-perfect image of a proud father.

Pepper at his side, waves at them before turning back to the newest addition to the family, cradled in her arms.

Parker M Stark, the two-month-old baby girl, smiles toothlessly up at her mom, mouthing at her own fingers.

It’s not perfect.

It’s enough.

It’s good.

It’s what Peter would’ve wanted for them, happiness.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 2: The Gallery

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Nadya’s first formal event goes about as well as to be expected. At least there are pretty girls to look at.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“You know, these are the kinds of events that incite supervillains and large gangs of jewelry thieves.”

“Are you a supervillain?”

“I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

“Do I not pay enough?”

“Being a supervillain has crappy benefits. Raines Corp. dental, though? Top notch.”

Nadya doesn’t want to imagine what she’d be doing if Adrian weren’t here. Or — even worse — if he wasn’t able to match her joke-for-joke. He could very well have been the type of boss who was enjoyable in private but had to shove the proverbial stick up his butt when it came to public events like these.

But nope. Adrian Raines, one of the top bachelors in New York City, is skirting the wall near the chocolate fountain right along with her.

Sure, he did his rounds when they first entered the ballroom of the Gallery. “If you want I can introduce you,” he had whispered before the first wave of Estee Lauder and old money came their way, “but these types… they don’t really expect the assistants to talk.” He’d been ashamed — maybe not for himself but for society.

But that was fine by her. “I don’t like being introduced anyway.”

So for each newly greased palm or sharp-cut suit that came their way she took a step back, zoned out for the brief-but-polite conversation, and made sure to give the alarmingly attentive college kid who always seemed to have one extra refill glass of champagne just for her a tip that would make the oldest crone here wither and fall into an early grave.

Every once in a while Adrian would point out a prominent figure here or an only-famous-in-Europe artist there. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed at the number of famous faces in the same room as her.

“That’s Adam Vega. You’ve heard of him, right?” Adrian points to a set of too-white pearly whites attached to the Senator across the floor.

“Presidential hopeful next election, yeah,” she shrugs, “he’s not given a clear stand on his support of the queer community yet, though, so Lily and I are leaning towards Representative Hartley from California.”

His eyebrows raise; visibly impressed. “I agree. Politicians hate giving direct answers. Vega especially.”

There’s a hint of a personal vendetta there that Nadya notices but doesn’t bring attention to. It wouldn’t surprise her if Vega’s campaign had asked for donations from the company — or if, after tonight, she would see that very email at work Monday evening.

Off to the left corner — where she remembers seeing some marble sculpture, something to do with Venus maybe — it looks as though every photographer allowed into the event flocks around an obscured figure.

“Mademoiselle! Over here!”

“Wonderful, absolutely stunning!”

“Look this way next, Miss Lacroix! Over here!”

Standing on her tip-toes does nothing to help reveal the hidden subject, but that doesn’t stop her from trying.

“Don’t bother,” mumbles Adrian under his breath. “feeding her vanity is the last thing anyone should be doing.”

“Feeding whose vanity?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Have you tried one of these pineapple slices in chocolate?”

Before Nadya has a chance to respond a voice comes purring behind her.

“You could at least try and be unpredictable, Adrian. This is the third event you’ve spent sulking by the sweets.”

Though Adrian brightens considerably at the woman who lurks behind Nadya, her reaction couldn’t be more opposite. Chills down her spine and the air in her lungs catching in her throat — desperate not to be let out in the same space as that familiar tone. She’d heard the woman named Kamilah only twice since the meeting-that-shall-not-be-named and both were phone calls. No name, no caller ID, just Nadya’s usual greeting of “Raines Corp., desk of Mr. Raines speaking, may I help you?” and the curt reply: “he’s expecting my call.” It was as though Adrian had been waiting with his ear to the door — the line transferred before she even had a chance to ask the woman to hold.

And now in person the voice was as unmistakable as it was beautiful; a soft yet commanding tone with a slight accent that curled on the tip of her tongue. If she hadn’t first been introduced to Kamilah by snooping on a meeting that may implicate her boss in murder, she’d be smitten. But falling for killers was morally wrong.

Though that was a moral stance that goes right out the window the moment she turns to meet Kamilah face-to-face. If Amazons existed, they were modeled after her. The statue of Venus across the ballroom would probably start weeping if it laid eyes on her. Nadya’s entire female celebrity hotness scale, which went from sweet Lady Hana Lee to sexy AME star Bianca Sandoval, was thrown horrendously off-kilter.

Is she gaping? Oh crap, she’s gaping. But there had to be laws against dresses that form-fitting on such attractive people. And if there weren’t then she needed to have a talk with Senator Vega at some point that evening.

Then Adrian’s arm is around her shoulder and he’s squeezing her gently against his side. Her name might have been thrown somewhere in there.

“And this, Nadya, is Kamilah Sayeed, CEO of Ahmanet Financial and a very close personal friend of mine.”

Kamilah’s nose scrunches up ever-so-slightly and she rolls her eyes.

“Adrian you make it sound so… tawdry,” she scolds, “when honestly the very thought of you very close and personal with me threatens to ruin my evening meal.”

There’s a private laugh between the pair — something Nadya is witness but not privy to — but it’s enough to wake her from the stupor of sudden racing thoughts concerning her sexuality.

“Uh—n-nice to meet you. I’m Nadya, Nadya Al Jamil.” She offers Kamilah her hand. Kamilah ignores it.

“Yes, though I suppose we’ve met before.” The comment sends her blood running cold; leaves Nadya gaping like a fish for excuses, apologies, anything that would keep them from silencing her for what she knows.

Adrian looks between them — chuckles through his confusion. “What? When?”

When all her floundering is for naught, Kamilah takes the reins.

“On the phone. If you’d call that a proper meeting, that is.”

Her exhale is a little too long, a little too relieved. Adrian’s used to the quirks that she’s made of; stacked like a game of Tetris abandoned near the end. But Kamilah — she notices. Combining the lights overhead and her makeup; Nadya could swear her pupils narrowed into slits.

“Something the matter?” She doesn’t even pretend flippancy and that Adrian notices. The way he looks between them makes her erupt in goosebumps.

Nadya shakes her head hastily. “Just not used to these sorts of things, right? Am I right?” But before she can drink for something to do Adrian’s hand snakes the champagne flute from her grasp. It lands delicately on a passing serving tray and is whisked off into used-stemware oblivion.

“Maybe that’s enough for you, tonight.” He’s teasing but the concern is genuine. Nadya watches a look pass between the mutual moneymakers — hopes to dear god whatever isn’t being said isn’t about her.

When a greying gentleman takes the podium up front the entire floor goes into a hushed silence. His first words, “I’m sure I don’t need to introduce myself,” are followed by snooty, nose-up polite laughter and that’s all anyone feels obligated to say while he drones on about donations to the Gallery, funding, and various sponsored artists featured tonight. The silence in the room is so thin a dropped pin might send the roof crumbling down on them — so there go Nadya’s hopes of asking Adrian what the man was talking about. One chocolate strawberry turns into two, and by the time the room breaks into restrained applause and the man takes his leave, her fingers meet an empty tray.

Doors open off to the side to the Gallery’s displayed collection. Large canvases filled with blurry vibrancy that, even from her distance, Nadya can tell is skill unparalleled.

She’s already several paces towards the beckoning beauty when she notices she’s alone. Turns with a frown — until she spots Adrian speaking to Kamilah in hushed tones.

“Adrian, you coming?” calls Nadya — when she catches the slightly desperate crack in her voice she wishes she hadn’t.

His infallible smile reaches her even at their distance. “You go on ahead. I’ve just got a bit of business to discuss first.”

That’s when she notices the portly man in a too-tight tuxedo behind the glamorous pair. He’s average, curly hair and beard shaved just a little too short on the right side. But he moves in a strange, graceful way — like Adrian and Kamilah. They congregate and then like statues remain still, close; secretive. Despite the movement towards the exhibition around them.

It brings a chill down her spine. “Are you sure?”

Something in Kamilah’s brow furrows; her annoyance clear. Adrian remains nonplussed.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he nods, gestures for her to follow the crowd, “I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

At risk of her own neck Nadya leaves them, despite every bone in her body screaming at her not to turn her back.

At first Nadya was surprised at all of the faces shown at the event. It gave her a little hope that art was still appreciated in the world. Hope that she found dashed when she realized the truth: that the majority of people looking at the blown-up photographs in all their high-definition only cared about the people looking at them.

The majority of attendants skirt around the edges of the works; file strangely in the middle of the gallery’s hall like some opposite-day weirdness. Every once in a while someone will step forward, alcohol in hand, and air a compliment or observation that their party agrees with in nods and murmurs and subtle toasts. Gallery workers, all identified by their matching ties and lapel pins of the Gallery’s logo, stand here and there with clipboards at the ready and wearing rolls of stickers like fashion statements.

One woman stands passive beside a beautiful canvas of a sprawling rocky valley. The grey of the sky is dark but the grass underneath it shines bright like the sun was just out of view. Nadya approaches — notes her high-and-tight blonde bun and is briefly reminded of how grateful she is Adrian didn’t invite Nicole along — and offers her a friendly nod.

“Hello.”

The woman arches a brow but says nothing.

Twenty-eight agonizing seconds of awkward silence pass. She tries again.

“This is a really pretty piece.”

The woman’s jaw sets at pretty, features then easily schooled into a complacent smile. She’s seen people look at garbage with kinder eyes. “Indeed, miss.”

“Where was this taken?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, miss.” The worker’s responses grow terse; clipped. A flush of shame floods over her cheeks.

“Oh. Of course. I—”

There’s a familiar click-clack of stilettos that stop just behind her. Nadya sucks in a breath but before she can continue a crisp voice interrupts.

“Wow, you’re serious right now?”

Nadya whirls around but the woman and her shock of vibrant violet hair are trained on the Gallery worker.

Who seems to have found the only person in the room she likes less than Nadya herself. “Pardon me, miss. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Violet-Hair raises her glass of wine — near empty — and points a nail at the piece.

“Pretty sure I was speaking English, was I speaking English sweetheart?” She looks to Nadya; who nods dumbly. “Right. Yup. English.”

The worker’s patience is wearing thin. “Indeed you were, miss. What I did not understand was your… exclamation.”

Violet-Hair laughs; loudly, unabashedly, not caring that she’s drawing the attention of at least a dozen people standing nearby. In fact she seems to relish in the attention. “Oh! Right! Silly me. I guess I was just, I dunno, like, super surprised to hear that you work here and you don’t know where this shot was taken.”

She’s spoken just loud enough that anyone else having a conversation either has to wait until she’s done or abandons it altogether for something more interesting. Two women loudly arguing with a Gallery employee must never happen at one of these things, Nadya guesses, that or they figured it would happen later on in the evening. But it’s safe to say they’re the current stars of the proverbial show.

“I mean isn’t that what you’re trained to know? Jeez, at least stand next to a big old hunk of art you’re familiar with.” With the crowd at her advantage the woman jerks her thumb at the employee, now flush with offense, as if to say ‘get a load of this.’

The half-moon around them murmurs around one another and it’s the final straw. “Of course I know — these are some of the most detailed photographs of the Scottish Highlands ever taken. I’m offended at your insinuation, miss.”

If she had a dictionary on hand Nadya was suddenly sure that the face of the violet-haired troublemaker would be the picture definition of ‘cat that got the cream.’ Her eyes narrow, painted lips turned down into a sultry frown, and there’s a poisonous edge to the sweetness in her voice.

“Wow. You don’t say?”

“Despite this being one of the most acclaimed shots taken by the photographer, to think I would not know the piece I’m auctioning off is — well — it’s affronting to say the least.”

She sips the last of her wine; forces a pregnant pause on those looking on. Then her hand falls on Nadya’s shoulder with nothing short of intimacy.

“Then why’d you tell my friend here you didn’t know?”

If she had the courage or the voice, Nadya would try to smooth the situation over as best she could. Instead she just stands there, a statue, and wishes she hadn’t eaten two dozen chocolate strawberries.

“P-Pardon?” asks the worker; eyes flicking between the pair.

“If you knew, why didn’t you just tell my friend where it was?”

“Well, I—”

“Why’d you have to be such a stubborn bitch that I had to get involved?”

“Your language is—”

“I may curse like a sailor but at least I’m not a cunt.”

“Miss!” she gasps at the curse, thrown for a loop. Unsure of what to say next. She looks ready to call for security, but the violet-haired vixen made sure to tear down her confidence first. She’s left hanging and Nadya is absolutely awestruck.

“But you know, I think I’m gonna be generous today. I should be generous today, right,” she glances briefly at Nadya who nods like it’s somehow her decision, like she’s culpable in the absolute slaughter of the worker’s self-esteem, “yeah, I’ll be generous I think. I won’t tell your boss you were being horrible to a potential buyer just because she looks like she bought her dress on a clearance rack.”

Nadya could object. She doesn’t. It’s not entirely false but still hurts to hear it.

Then she steps forward and coaxes down the gallery worker with one perfect finger. Wordlessly bats away the woman’s hesitance and whispers something in her ear that lasts long enough for the attending crowd to mill back into their own circles of conversation and for Nadya to watch the blonde woman go absolutely pale — almost sickly green with what she can only assume is fear.

She passes something like a business card between them and Nadya watches while the worker scribbles something down on her clipboard and places a bright orange dot underneath the plaque bearing the photograph’s title. Orange, she recalls, means a purchase. No bid worth it, apparently.

A tender hand on her arm brings Nadya out of her thoughts, looking up into the eyes of her apparent rescuer and her tender-yet-sultry smile.

“Come on, let’s get out of the snake pit.”

She didn’t know she needed the fresh air until it hits her in a chilly wind. She follows the woman onto some outside terrace overlooking the Gallery’s gardens; a strange and fragrant floral oasis in the middle of a bustling metropolis.

“Katherine, by the way, since you forgot to ask.”

Katherine’s hand is offered in a polite way — soft skin hiding a surprisingly firm grip when Nadya takes it.

“Nadya.”

Her new friend wanders to the balcony’s edge and leans over. There’s no invitation but somehow she feels expected and plants herself beside.

“I just hate people like that, you know? People who think they’re better than everyone else because maybe they had more opportunities, or got lucky and were born with money, or whatever. Man, let a girl look at a fucking picture and think it’s cool!”

Nadya silently agrees to Katherine’s whole rant. “I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland. Nearly went on a year abroad in England during college but, uh, something came up, exams, maybe… and I had to cancel the trip.” And she hadn’t thought about it since. Not until she caught sight of those craggy sloping hills that looked so much like the photos in the brochure she kept on her pin board for all four years of her degree.

Katherine leans back on her elbows; her smile almost pitying. “There’s nothing special over there, hon. Trust me.”

“You’ve been?”

“Too many times.”

“I’m still jealous.”

There’s no one around to refill their drinks — either they aren’t supposed to be out here or the free booze is limited to the indoors. Katherine’s definitely sad about her empty wine glass but the scent of the garden down below is enough of a high for her.

“So…” she fumbles to try and fill the silence, “you come here often?”

Katherine’s laugh is demure and restrained. She can’t help but think the woman is containing herself from something. Brick by brick an invisible wall is being formed to keep them at a distance. It makes no sense but Nadya isn’t one to judge. Well — out loud, anyway.

“No, not really. Didn’t know if you could tell but I hate these rich people types.”

“So why are you here?”

“Meeting clients.”

“Oh? Are you an artist?”

She pauses like it’s the most important question in the world. Finally shakes her head and releases Nadya’s bated breath.

“No. No, I’m not.”

“Why do you —”

The door opens behind them and a sudden breath of relief catches their attentions.

“There you are, Nadya, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Adrian emerges into the night and though his face is the picture of casual calm she could have sworn there was the briefest flash of panic in his eyes — now hidden far and pushed down deep.

“Here I am.” She teases, offers him a casual shrug. Hoping, praying to any listening god that there isn’t a weird flush in her cheeks at the way he talks. “Just needed some air.”

“Of course.”

He brushes a stray bit of hair from her shoulder — a passive, familiar touch that means her shiver has nothing to do with the outside breeze — and in his smile everything seems alright again. He’s just one of those people blessed with a disarming charm.

“A-hem.”

Katherine’s fake cough doesn’t fool anyone. Draws Adrian’s attention away from her and to their guest. It’s an irritation Nadya’s only seen on his face a few times in the months they’ve known each other but it doesn’t settle well regardless.

“Can I help you?”

Katherine looks at Adrian the way all women look at Adrian: like he’s a prize. Her eyes comb through the polished shield of him and linger on his face with predatory accuracy.

“Well you’re kind of interrupting girl time, so —”

“Katherine,” scolds Nadya in a single word, “this is my boss.”

“Hm. I see. Well hello, boss.”

The tension doesn’t dissipate. Fight-or-flight mode kicks in and leaves Nadya looking between them frantically. “Erm… Adrian, this is Katherine. We met on the floor. Katherine, this is my boss: Adrian Raines.”

If she had seen him only as a hot man in a suit before, now she knew his name — and it shows. Something changes in Katherine’s stance — all ease gone. But rather than focusing her energies on Adrian, her eyes flick to Nadya — suddenly hot under the collar.

“W-What? Something on my face?”

“No, sweets, you’re perfect. Just… small world, it turns out.”

Nadya frowns. “What do you mean?”

When Katherine and Adrian shake hands they meet eye-to-eye. She catches sight of their white knuckles and wonders why they’re trying to have a competition over a handshake.

“Well I’m obviously not here because I like the crowds, kitten,” Katherine speaks to Nadya but her eyes remain trained on Adrian, “since the real reason I’m even here is to meet with, well, you Mr. Raines.”

She doesn’t give Adrian the chance to ask, “I’m Ms. Sayeed’s private contractor.”

That invisible brick wall slots into place with a thundering silence. Locks Nadya on one side and Katherine on the other — Adrian caught with her. She can’t remember a time she felt so invisible, so utterly removed from a moment in time. It makes her sick to her stomach.

Adrian’s voice is low when he finally replies. “We’ve been waiting for you for over an hour.”

“I showed up, didn’t I?” quips Katherine.

“Not a very good way to impress your potential employers.”

“If it’s my punctuality you want, and not my skills, then you hired the wrong girl.”

“Perhaps we have.”

The silence is considerable before, within seconds of one another, Katherine and Adrian remember they aren’t alone. Adrian looks to her, flustered, but Katherine’s cool is never-ending.

“I’ll catch you some other time, Nadya. Mama’s got business to take care of.” Her passing wink, easy to miss, is Katherine’s only farewell.

Now the terrace seems stifling — the breeze blocked by all the things Adrian isn’t saying.

“I—well, you see…”

He stops when Nadya holds up a hand. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Adrian,” her sincerity is true; and thick enough to hide her hurt, “I’m just your secretary after all.”

If he says anything she doesn’t stick around long enough to hear. The heat of the bodies milling around the photographs makes her skin crawl but Nadya forces her way back into the event like nothing strange happened. Like strange isn’t her life’s new normal.

It would have been nice for her to turn and see Adrian following her through the displays — a silent apology was better than none at all. But a brief glance over her shoulder tells a different tale. Across the room she catches the sight of Katherine’s shock of violet hair and the pretty mauve of Kamilah’s dress.

Probably something you don’t want involved with anyway, she tells herself.

Nadya continues on.

The event starts winding down around one in the morning — she suspects half the guests have secondary parties already plugged into the navigators of their limos. She walks around the emptying gallery for half an hour; partially enjoying the fact that she no longer needs to look at the pieces from a distance but also on the hunt for Adrian, Kamilah, Katherine, anyone.

Two laborers are in the middle of dismounting the purchased photograph of the Highlands when she gets Adrian’s text.

[TEXT]: Had to move a business discussion to Ahmanet Financial. Car waiting outside to take you home whenever. Sorry for leaving you high and dry. I’ll make it up to you Monday. Promise.

Sincerely, Adrian.

At first his official-sounding texts — which he always signed ‘Sincerely, Adrian’ like he forgets assigned contacts are a thing — were funny, charming even. Now she just looks at his name in LED pixels on her work-issued phone and wants to throttle him. Not for abandoning her — okay, maybe for abandoning her — but also because it seems like a cathartic release of her pent up frustration.

But making her way to Ahmanet Financial, which was hella far across town, would cost her energy she simply didn’t have. Wouldn’t life be nice if she could buy energy packs like in Lily’s games…

Just like Adrian said there’s a car waiting right in front of the Gallery when she makes it to street-level. Like, right in front — she doesn’t even want to think about how long he had to wait or the fights he had to get into for such primo vehicular real-estate. She recognizes the driver — Benjamin, William, Robert, something old-fashioned like that — from late nights escorting Adrian to the car for his meetings outside the office. The familiar face relieves her in a way she wasn’t expecting.

Maybe-Benjamin smiles and opens the back door for her. “Have a good time this evening, Miss Al Jamil?”

She glances back at the looming figure of the Gallery; now ensconced in shadow and the faint lights of buildings on either block. It looks like a dead thing stuck in the middle of a party. Like taxidermy.

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

He closes the door behind her. The darkness is warm, inviting. Nadya throws propriety to the wind and lays down on the buttery black leather seats. She’s out before they pull away from the curb.

[karaj]

whenever i think about jewish women who escaped the nazis, who escaped the flood, who got out of egypt, i think: i would need to cut my nails. i got my last manicure for awhile five fridays ago--a school day that had been abruptly cancelled when school was cancelled, indefinitely--while alice was at the home of her best friend. the mom and i take a jewish parenting class together, and twenty years ago, we were colleagues at a fashion magazine: i got promoted, but couldn’t make the transition from assistant who walked the boss’s dogs to actual writer until i found my own replacement. i convinced my editor-in-chief that she was the one by showing him a picture of her in a fancy, now-defunct publication that had just named her one of the hundred most eligible bachelorettes in new york city, and told him that she was friends with the hilton sisters. they used to dance on tables at our parties.

“we rehearse for this all the time” is the headline that ran in a jewish newspaper in march. the story, about how holocaust survivors are dealing with the coronavirus, was--funnily enough--written by another friend from my fashion magazine days. we worked together the summer i started grad school on the special issue of us weekly that was funding my radical feminist education: she would tell me about the documentary she was making about her mom, a holocaust survivor who died without telling her daughter she had escaped a concentration camp, and about sending her three children to a jewish school. then we would discuss whether we preferred the photo of drew barrymore with short or long hair. sending alice to a jewish school has been the highlight of my adult life, and not just because it reunited me with fashion people, who i still find funny, more so in small doses. it has been a joy to watch her act out exodus the same way she acts out frozen 2 (“i’m god, dad,” she told marc. “i’m the pyramids. build me.”). it has been a joy to watch her become a person in the context of her own moral and educational tradition, and to mine it myself to rethink past feminist intellectual critiques--of linear time, philanthropy, individuality, agency, the nuclear family, institutions themselves--that, once radical, had become stale. to aerate key feminist concepts, like freedom. 

the night after i got my nails done we left for the house that marc, far more sober about money now that he’s a parent, has spent the last few years threatening to sell. here, we did a virtual shabbat with alice’s class; emailed with our rabbis; watched our friend rebecca host a children’s service on facebook live. she told the kids to bring their teddy bears, and brought her own three-year-old’s teddy bear, saying isn’t it cool how we are all like bears now, staying home and hibernating until it’s time to go back into the world. yesterday i watched the school director teach alice’s class over zoom during passover break--a week she was supposed to have off, a holiday about freedom and its costs, about feeling the way the pain of others reduces our own joy, about the necessity of passing our history on to our children. she and her husband are both the children of survivors.  

during a virtual playdate i heard her friend ask, “alice, are you doing shabbat tonight?” “mom,” alice yelled from the other room, “are we doing shabbat?” “yes!” i yelled back. i don’t remember ever thinking about her mom being jewish during those years we worked together and i am willing to bet that neither one of us was staying inside on friday nights blessing candles; but it is heartwarming, to say the least, to watch our daughters celebrating shabbat together during a global pandemic. during a global pandemic, i am very happy to have shabbat to celebrate.