#boiled electronics

[trans-phone-eater]

Is this funny to anyone

[beanbagbuddies4life]

Silver and Silver II fixing my espresso machine

(photographers note: don't try this at home and don't let your beanies try either.)

[the-acid-pear]

Was thinking of the possibility of THC existing in DT (bunch of other people and properties do so why wouldn't it?) and I do realize to make a centipede out of object heads is objectively more gruesome than the actual thing. Probably higher survival change though? I couldn't being to speculate on typewriter anatomy tho and the possibility of complete face change is off the table imo since it's a single surgeon doing this in a single day it wouldn't work. Much to think about...

[lesenbyan]

Yeah Schrodinger's cat was him trying to make fun of quantum mechanics but if he wanted to properly display the absurdity it wouldn't just be "can't know if a cat in a box is alive or dead unless you open it" but continue on to add "and once you do automatically whatever result is in this box, the opposite is in a box on the other side of the planet"

[vpjdrums]

Just did a remix of @diivnyc's 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡-𝙣𝙚𝙩 this past week. Check it out if you’re so inclined. Many thanks to my cuz, Vram Kherlopian (Gustaf / Tea Easter) for mastering it. My approach to this was what if Massive Attack and Morphine handled the production on this song.

[hyaciiintho]

🌸｡*ﾟ+. THIS IS A TEST POST !! This is not an actual inbox call, I just wanted to test and see how the graphic would look posted to tumblr ;; ;; Might use this when doing inbox calls and then a copy/paste text body.

With that being said-- how do people feel about a "permanent" inbox call post? Just for my own reassurance so I don't feel like I'm bothering people but don't wanna like... constantly make a new inbox call post. Basically just a list of people commenting below a post, one that maybe specifies whether people prefer random IC interactions or want asks leaning more to IC questions/ooc headcanons stuff?

I know it's silly because if we're mutuals, we shouldn't be afraid to reach out to each other, BUT !! I also know some people do not like random asks, so... it would just be for the sake of... "You have permission to send random things whenever you feel like it" but of course it's not like I'm expecting you to answer things immediately after I send them either.

But yeah, just a thought! If it seems too silly I'll just keep making individual posts each time ♡ c':

[quantummindclassicalheart]

Y'all. We have thermoelectric generators that turn heat directly into electricity. We have photovoltaics (solar) that turn light directly into electricity. Heck-- one could argue that hydropower is turning gravitational potential energy into kinetic energy into electricity (and no, we didn't just move the boiling earlier in the water cycle-- evaporation and boiling are two distinct phenomena). WIND TURBINES turn wind (kinetic energy) into electricity.

I am begging you (generic Tumblr user) to think about modern energy production for like a minute. We have like 5+ other ways to turn other forms of energy into electricity that don't involve steam.

nuclear power is impressive until you get up to why. "we use the most precisely engineered machinery ever created to split atoms to release energy" oh yeah how come? "boil water to turn a fan" get the fuck out

[trans-phone-eater]

[artemisgirlbossingflossing]

I am so fucking mad right now, I want to kill someone, I want to commit genocide, I will open up gulags and torture chambers. I am going to fund education programs regarding electronics, then I will fund welfare to get everyone a computer to build. Just so someone that is so insane, delicious, horrible and rotten like you will NEVER exist. Thank you and please end your miserable existence

[biology-geology-beaches-india]

The Science Research Notebooks of S. Sunkavally. Page 289.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

For example, butanoic acid (table 23.2) has a higher boiling point than either pentan-1-ol or pentanal.

"Chemistry" 2e - Blackman, A., Bottle, S., Schmid, S., Mocerino, M., Wille, U.

[jcmarchi]

MIT physicists capture the first sounds of heat “sloshing” in a superfluid

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/mit-physicists-capture-the-first-sounds-of-heat-sloshing-in-a-superfluid/

MIT physicists capture the first sounds of heat “sloshing” in a superfluid

In most materials, heat prefers to scatter. If left alone, a hotspot will gradually fade as it warms its surroundings. But in rare states of matter, heat can behave as a wave, moving back and forth somewhat like a sound wave that bounces from one end of a room to the other. In fact, this wave-like heat is what physicists call “second sound.”

Signs of second sound have been observed in only a handful of materials. Now MIT physicists have captured direct images of second sound for the first time.

The new images reveal how heat can move like a wave, and “slosh” back and forth, even as a material’s physical matter may move in an entirely different way. The images capture the pure movement of heat, independent of a material’s particles.

“It’s as if you had a tank of water and made one half nearly boiling,” Assistant Professor Richard Fletcher offers as analogy. “If you then watched, the water itself might look totally calm, but suddenly the other side is hot, and then the other side is hot, and the heat goes back and forth, while the water looks totally still.”

Led by Martin Zwierlein, the Thomas A Frank Professor of Physics, the team visualized second sound in a superfluid — a special state of matter that is created when a cloud of atoms is cooled to extremely low temperatures, at which point the atoms begin to flow like a completely friction-free fluid. In this superfluid state, theorists have predicted that heat should also flow like a wave, though scientists had not been able to directly observe the phenomenon until now.

First sound, depicted in a simple animation, is ordinary sound in the form of density waves, in which normal fluid and superfluid oscillate together. 

Second sound is the movement of heat, in which superfluid and normal fluid “slosh” against each other, while leaving the density constant.

Images: Courtesy of the researchers

The new results, reported today in the journal Science, will help physicists get a more complete picture of how heat moves through superfluids and other related materials, including superconductors and neutron stars.

“There are strong connections between our puff of gas, which is a million times thinner than air, and the behavior of electrons in high-temperature superconductors, and even neutrons in ultradense neutron stars,” Zwierlein says. “Now we can probe pristinely the temperature response of our system, which teaches us about things that are very difficult to understand or even reach.”

Zwierlein and Fletcher’s co-authors on the study are first author and former physics graduate student Zhenjie Yan and former physics graduate students Parth Patel and Biswaroop Mukherjee, along with Chris Vale at Swinburne University of Technology in Melbourne, Australia. The MIT researchers are part of the MIT-Harvard Center for Ultracold Atoms (CUA).

Super sound

When clouds of atoms are brought down to temperatures close to absolute zero, they can transition into rare states of matter. Zwierlein’s group at MIT is exploring the exotic phenomena that emerge among ultracold atoms, and specifically fermions — particles, such as electrons, that normally avoid each other.

Under certain conditions, however, fermions can be made to strongly interact and pair up. In this coupled state, fermions can flow in unconventional ways. For their latest experiments, the team employs fermionic lithium-6 atoms, which are trapped and cooled to nanokelvin temperatures.

In 1938, the physicist László Tisza proposed a two-fluid model for superfluidity — that a superfluid is actually a mixture of some normal, viscous fluid and a friction-free superfluid. This mixture of two fluids should allow for two types of sound, ordinary density waves and peculiar temperature waves, which physicist Lev Landau later named “second sound.”  

Since a fluid transitions into a superfluid at a certain critical, ultracold temperature, the MIT team reasoned that the two types of fluid should also transport heat differently: In normal fluids, heat should dissipate as usual, whereas in a superfluid, it could move as a wave, similarly to sound.

“Second sound is the hallmark of superfluidity, but in ultracold gases so far you could only see it in this faint reflection of the density ripples that go along with it,” Zwierlein says. “The character of the heat wave could not be proven before.”

Tuning in

Zwierlein and his team sought to isolate and observe second sound, the wave-like movement of heat, independent of the physical motion of fermions in their superfluid. They did so by developing a new method of thermography — a heat-mapping technique. In  conventional materials one would use infrared sensors to image heat sources.

But at ultracold temperatures, gases do not give off infrared radiation. Instead, the team developed a method to use radio frequency to “see” how heat moves through the superfluid. They found that the lithium-6 fermions resonate at different radio frequencies depending on their temperature: When the cloud is at warmer temperatures, and carries more normal liquid, it resonates at a higher frequency. Regions in the cloud that are colder resonate at a lower frequency.

The researchers applied the higher resonant radio frequency, which prompted any normal, “hot” fermions in the liquid to ring in response. The researchers then were able to zero in on the resonating fermions and track them over time to create “movies” that revealed heat’s pure motion — a sloshing back and forth, similar to waves of sound.

“For the first time, we can take pictures of this substance as we cool it through the critical temperature of superfluidity, and directly see how it transitions from being a normal fluid, where heat equilibrates boringly, to a superfluid where heat sloshes back and forth,” Zwierlein says.

The experiments mark the first time that scientists have been able to directly image second sound, and the pure motion of heat in a superfluid quantum gas. The researchers plan to extend their work to more precisely map heat’s behavior in other ultracold gases. Then, they say their findings can be scaled up to predict how heat flows in other strongly interacting materials, such as in high-temperature superconductors, and in neutron stars.

“Now we will be able to measure precisely the thermal conductivity in these systems, and hope to understand and design better systems,” Zwierlein concludes.

This work was supported by the National Science Foundation (NSF), the Air Force Office of Scientific Research, and the Vannevar Bush Faculty Fellowship. The MIT team is part of the MIT-Harvard Center for Ultracold Atoms (an NSF Physics Frontier Center) and affiliated with the MIT Department of Physics and the Research Laboratory of Electronics (RLE).

[charyou-tree]

I need people to understand that Uranium is an eldritch horror

I'm not talking about radiation, or nuclear weapons, or anything that you can do with uranium, I mean its mere existence on Earth is a reminder of cosmic horrors on a scale you can barely conceive of.

When a nuclear power plant uses Uranium to boil water and spin steam turbines to keep the lights on, they're unleashing the fossilized energy of the destroyed heart of an undead star.

Allow me to elaborate:

In the beginning, there were hydrogen and helium. The primordial fires of the Big Bang produced almost exclusively the two lightest elements, along with a minuscule trace of lithium. It was a start, but that's not much to build a universe out of. Fortunately, the universe is full of element factories. We call them "stars".

Stars are powered by nuclear fusion, smooshing light elements together to make heavier elements, and releasing tremendous amounts of energy in the process, powering the star and making it shine. This goes on for millions to billions of years depending on the stars mass (although not how you might think, the bigger stars die young), the vast majority of that time spent fusing hydrogen into yet more helium. Eventually, the hydrogen in the core starts to run low, and if the star is massive enough it starts to fuse helium into carbon, then oxygen, neon, and so on up through successively heavier elements.

There's a limit to this though:

This chart shows how much energy is released if you were to create a given element/isotope out of the raw protons and neutrons that make it up, the Nuclear Binding Energy. Like in everyday life, rolling downhill on this chart releases energy. So, starting from hydrogen on the far left you can rapidly drop down to helium-4 releasing a ton of energy, and then from there to carbon-12 releasing a fair bit more.

But, at the bottom of this curve is iron-56, the most stable isotope. This is the most efficient way to pack protons and neutrons together, and forming it releases some energy. But once its formed, that's it. You're done. Its already the most stable, you can't get any more energy out of it, and in fact if you want to do anything to it and make it into a different element you're going to have to put energy in.

So, when a massive star's core starts to fill up with iron, the star is doomed. Iron is like ash from the nuclear fire that powers stars, its what's leftover when all the fuel is used up. When this happens, the core of the star isn't producing energy and can't support itself anymore and catastrophically collapses, triggering a supernova explosion which heralds the death of the star.

What kind of stellar-corpse gets left behind depends again on how massive the star is. If its really big, more than ~30 times the mass of the sun and its probably going to form a black hole and whatever was in there is gone for good. But if the star is a bit less massive, between 8-25 solar masses, it leaves behind a marginally less-destroyed corpse.

The immense weight of the outer layers of the star falling down on the core compresses the electrons of the atoms into their nuclei, resulting in them reacting with protons and turning them all into neutrons, which creates a big ball of almost pure neutrons a couple miles across, but containing the entire mass of the star's core, 3-5 sun's worth.

This is the undead heart of the former star: a neutron star.

If, like many stars, this one wasn't alone but had a sibling, it can end up with two neuron stars orbiting each other, like a pair of zombies acting out their former lives. If they get close enough together, their intense gravity warps the fabric of spacetime as they orbit, radiating away their orbital energy as gravitational waves, slowing them down and bringing them closer together until they eventually collide.

The resulting kilonova explosion destroys both of the neutron stars, most likely rendering the majority of what's left into a black hole, but not before throwing out a massive cloud of neutron-rich shrapnel. This elder-god blood-splatter from the collision of the undead hearts of former stars contains massive nuclei with hundreds to thousands of neutrons, the vast majority of which are heinously unstable and decay away in milliseconds or less. Most of their decay products are also unstable and decay quickly as well, eventually falling apart into small enough clusters to be stable and drift off into the universe becoming part of the cosmic dust between the stars.

However,

Some of the resulting massive elements are merely almost stable. They would like to decay, but for quantum-physics reasons decaying is hard and slow for them, so they stick around much longer than you might expect. Uranium is one such element, with U-238 having a half-life of around 4.5 billion years, about the same as the age of the Earth, and its spicier cousin U-235 which still has a respectable 200 million year half life.

These almost-stable isotopes were only able to be created in the fiery excess of energy in a neutron star collision, and are the only ones that stick around long enough to carry a fraction of that energy to the era where hairless apes could figure out that a particular black rock made of them was emitting some kind of invisible energy.

So as I said at the beginning, Uranium is significant because it stores the fossilized energy of the destroyed heart of an undead star, and we can release that energy at will if we set it up just right.

When you say it like that, is it any shock that the energy in question will melt your face off and rot your bones from the inside if you stay near it too long?

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Other Girl Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Whenever your world has fallen, your neighbor has been there to save you, but now it's your turn to do the same for him.

Words: 6k (I get crazier with each chapter).

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of murder, injuries, violence, alzheimer, daddy issues, death. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I know it takes me a long time to publish the chapters but they all have a lot of emotional charge (in this one IS A LOT) and to get it 100% right I have to rewrite them little by little, it is complex because I am a perfectionist😞 BUT thank you all for the support, patience and love you have given me.

I'm also planning to upload an extra of this poor babies for Valentine's Day💕 It'll be a prequel to the series and is mostly fluff yum.

You still remembered the first time you climbed the stairs to your apartment.

At the time, it hadn’t been a choice but a necessity. The elevator had been out of order in the middle of moving week, and the building management had shrugged off your complaints with little more than an apologetic glance, a vague promise, and a string of excuses that never quite panned out. The idea of waiting for them to fix it seemed absurd, especially when you were already overwhelmed with boxes, tape, and the dull ache of exhaustion that settled in your bones after hours of unpacking. So, with your arms full of the fragile, mundane objects that made up your life—books, plates, electronics, and furniture—you had trudged up the stairs, one step at a time. Sweat slicked your back, dampening your clothes as each heavy step took its toll. The weight of your belongings had felt far less heavy than the weight of the exhaustion, the impatience, and the frustration that boiled just beneath the surface.

And yet, after all of that, you made a promise to yourself: as soon as the elevator was fixed, you would never do this again. You’d never climb these endless stairs in such a haphazard rush, sweat dripping down your face, your legs aching with every painful movement.

But as the days passed, the promise began to feel less like a statement of intent and more like a fleeting thought. The elevator was still out of order, and each time you ascended those stairs, something strange happened. The ache in your muscles, the deep, satisfied burn that had originally seemed like an unbearable weight, started to feel different. It wasn’t just the physical strain of moving boxes. It was something else, something subtle but undeniable. You were becoming accustomed to it. The repetitive rhythm of your steps, the quiet solitude of the stairwell, the knowing sense that this space, though public, was somehow yours. No one else was down there, nobody was watching, and nobody expected anything of you except that you climb. You weren’t running into awkward neighbors. No one was talking about the weather or the laundry room door that wouldn’t close properly. The stairwell became something more than just a space to get from one floor to the next; it became a moment of stillness, of pause, a small sanctuary from the chaos of the world outside.

Then your favorite neighbor noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Not until one evening, when you reached the bottom of the stairwell, your legs trembling from the exertion. You were trying to stretch your calves and soothe the burning in your thighs, cursing yourself for the lack of grace you were showing. You were already preparing yourself to leave when a voice, warm yet casual, interrupted your thoughts.

“You know, taking the stairs regularly can improve cardiovascular health, increase muscle endurance, and even help with cognitive function. There have been studies.”

You froze mid-stretch, eyes widening. Slowly, you turned to find him leaning against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, work bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he had been standing there for a while, watching you struggle up the stairs far longer than you had realized.

“Spencer,” you panted, still catching your breath, “I just like avoiding awkward elevator conversations.”

A flicker of amusement passed across his face, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, knowing smile. But he didn’t argue. Not that day. Not yet.

“Oh…that’s a good idea, I guess.”

But after that, it became a habit of his.

He started slipping little facts into conversation, always casually, always carefully, like he wasn’t trying to impose, just…offering something. He mentioned the importance of pacing yourself, of stretching, and of drinking water. He spoke of breath control, the way inhaling through your nose and exhaling with each push off the step could help regulate energy and heart rate. He never said it like a lecture, never demanded that you listen. He simply planted ideas, little seeds of knowledge, and let them take root on their own.

Then, he started timing his arrivals. You’d reach the bottom of the stairs, exhausted from your climb, only to find him standing there. He’d walk with you down the flights, his stride long and effortless, as though gravity didn’t pull on him the same way it did you. With each step you took, you found yourself straining to match his pace, to keep up.

One day, after you had finally reached the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing to catch your breath, he spoke again, voice low but insistent.

“You know,” he mused, watching you with that quiet, observant gaze of his, “you’d get even more benefits if you focused on your breathing pattern. Inhale through your nose as you step up, exhale when you push off. It helps with energy flow and helps regulate your heart rate.”

Another time, he raised an eyebrow as you finished stretching, his lips curling into a small frown. “Your posture could use some work. If you lean too far forward, you’ll strain your lower back.”

You had paused, mid-stretch, and shot him a look. “Are you coaching me?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer, not even winded, just smiled that small, knowing smile of his. “I prefer to think of it as…guiding you toward better habits. So you live longer.”

There was something in the way he said it, something so utterly genuine, that you had no response. You just rolled your eyes, pretending his words didn’t settle somewhere deep in your chest.

Because he really did want you to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always next door.

Even if you didn’t realize it. Even if you just saw his words as a harmless nuisance, a quirk of his endlessly curious mind.

And somehow, the strangest thing? It worked.

You found yourself drinking more water throughout the day, stretching before and after walking, and adjusting the way you climbed to avoid unnecessary pressure on your joints. The things he told you weren’t drastic changes, just subtle shifts, quiet reminders. But somehow, they made a difference. And what had started as a mindless habit became something else. You noticed the difference, not just physically, but mentally. The clarity of thought after a climb, the way your body felt lighter, more in tune. And somewhere along the way, it became yours and his.

It wasn’t something you spoke about outright. There was no label for it, no need to analyze it. But it was there, woven into the fabric of your days. The quiet companionship. The unspoken rhythm of two people walking in sync. The way he filled the silences with facts, you pretended to roll your eyes at, even as you secretly liked how much he enjoyed your reactions.

It became normal.

Until, of course—

He disappeared.

No explanations. No warnings. No final conversation that you knew was final, no understanding of why. Just an empty, silent absence where he used to be. No more random nutrition facts, no more health tips disguised as casual conversation. Just gone.

Still, you did it anyway. Every day, without fail. Because habits don’t break just because people do.

And now, walking up those stairs alone felt heavier than it ever had before. The silence that had once been a comfort now suffocated you. And the idea of living a long, healthy life when no one seemed to care whether you did or not? Well. That was kind of a bummer.

But this morning, the stairs felt different. Lonelier. Less like a ritual, more like a weight dragging behind you, pulling you under. Your mind was stuck on last night. The chaotic blur of it looped in fragments, like a dream you couldn’t shake. A nightmare too sharp to be fiction, but too unreal to fully believe. And yet the bruise on your cheek wasn’t a dream. It greeted you in the mirror as soon as you woke, a dark, swollen reminder of everything you wanted to forget. Pain settled deep in your bones, not just from the stairs but from what had happened. What you saw. What you heard. What you couldn't avoid.

And now, as you reached the bottom step, everything felt wrong. Your chest was too tight. Your limbs were too heavy. The door to your apartment, just a few paces away, felt miles out of reach.

You stopped. Just stood there. The peeling paint on the wooden steps seemed to hold all the time that had passed, all the moments you wished you could undo. You stared at them, at the cracks, the faded edges, as if they might offer answers. As if they might take some of the weight away.

Then, you saw her.

At first, she was just a figure, an unfamiliar silhouette standing at the threshold of your door, her back turned toward you. She scanned the apartment numbers, her hand hovering uncertainly. Her movements were slow, tentative, almost fragile, and it wasn’t until you took a few cautious steps forward that something clicked in your mind. There was a faint spark in her eyes, something familiar.

Spencer’s mother. You were sure of it.

Although you had never seen her face-to-face, you had seen enough photos to recognize her without hesitation. He had told you about her often enough for you to know as much as you could. But it was her eyes that confirmed her identity to you; they mirrored those of her son in a way that made your heart ache. The same sharpness in her gaze, the same small, thoughtful movements, the same undercurrent of quiet intensity that seemed to follow every action.

But you can see something else in her, something that wasn’t him.

A weariness, a loss. You could feel it in the air, thick and heavy around her, almost like an invisible fog clouding her mind. She was lost in more ways than one, and her presence was a reminder of everything he had tried so hard to shield himself from.

Swallowing, you kept your voice gentle.

“Hi,” you said, careful not to startle her. “Are you looking for someone? Can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, she finally turned.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze met yours, and you saw the confusion settle in, subtle but unmistakable. Her brows knitted together, her lips parting as if forming a question she couldn’t quite grasp.

“You…you’re…no. You’re not…No, I thought…” Diana’s voice trailed off, barely more than a breath, lost and small, as she sighed, a sound heavy with defeat.

Your heart clenched.

“I think I know who you’re looking for.” You softened your tone, offering her a small, steadying smile. “Spencer, right?”

Her eyes flickered at the name, the briefest flash of recognition breaking through the fog. A tether, however fragile. She nodded slowly, her hand falling to her side in a motion that seemed more instinct than intention. Her eyes then drifted back to the door, and for a long moment, she seemed lost again, looking at the numbers as if they held the answers she was searching for, her thoughts adrift somewhere far away.

“I just want to see him,” she murmured. “I can’t miss his birthday again.”

Oh no.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Spencer’s birthday wasn’t for another couple of months. You knew that with certainty, but hearing it from Diana, the way she said it, with such unwavering certainty, made your chest tighten. She wasn’t just lost in space. She was lost in time itself. And the realization, sharp and painful, settled in your stomach, a stone that refused to be dislodged.

You glanced at her again, her fingers twitching at her sides, lips pressed together as though trying to hold on to a thought, a memory, something that kept slipping away from her. The confusion was thick, almost palpable, and it filled the space between you, leaving you with the distinct sense that you were intruding, stepping into a moment too fragile, too fleeting to hold on to.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

You weren’t supposed to meet her yet.

Not like this. Not without him.

You exhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in your voice. “He’s not home right now, but I can call him for you. Maybe we can wait inside?”

Diana’s gaze darted back to the door once more. For a moment, she seemed suspended in two realities: the one in her mind and the one in front of her. The world she remembered and the one she now stood in.

“No…I—I should go.” Her fingers curled at her sides, her voice fragile, distant. “I just wanted to see him. I just…”

You felt a lump in your throat. Spencer had told you about those moments, but he never went into a lot of detail because he was afraid of scaring you. But he'd given you enough to understand how much they hurt and how much they terrified him. He never said it directly, but you could tell when he talked about her. You could hear the tension in his voice, the way his hands started to shake every time he got a call and thought it might be from the nursing home she was in, how he spent his time reading huge books and researching ways to help her with her illness, and most of all, in how he had delayed letting you meet her for fear that you would be frightened to see his possible future.

But now, here you were, standing before her anyway, facing the woman who had given the world someone as brilliant and kind as Spencer, yet who now stood stranded in fragments of a past that no longer fit.

“Diana,” you said, your voice firmer now, gentle but insistent. “It’s okay. Spencer would want to see you. Let me call him. He’ll come.”

She hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly. Searching.

“You know my son?” she asked softly.

“I do. He’s—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. What were you to him? A friend? A neighbor? Something else? The definition had never been clear, but it didn’t matter now. “He’s important to me.”

Something in her expression shifted, though the confusion never fully left her eyes.

“I have a key to his apartment,” you added carefully. “He gave it to me in case he wasn’t here.”

Diana’s gaze dropped to your hand, where the key glinted under the dim hallway light. She studied it for a long moment, her thoughts drifting somewhere you couldn’t follow.

Then, finally, she whispered, “Okay.”

You guided her inside, the familiar scent of his apartment wrapping around you both like something solid, something safe. She sank onto the couch with a weary sigh, looking small, fragile, as if the very act of being here took more effort than she could afford.

“I’ll make some tea,” you said softly, trying to fill the silence with something tangible, something grounding.

Moving toward the kitchen, you kept her in your sights, watching as her gaze flitted around the apartment. Her eyes were looking around, at the walls that had seen Spencer's life in all its quiet moments over the past few years. After watching her for a moment, you noticed that she seemed to be especially focused on the various pictures hanging on the walls. You had painted some of them, and he had bought the rest in his attempts to discreetly help you monetarily. Most of the paintings were landscapes, one or two inspired by the books he always told you about and how you imagined them, plus even a portrait of Mittens playing on the balcony.

Until that moment, you hadn’t realized just how much of yourself had become part of his home.

Something in your chest tightened, but you pushed the thought aside, stepping away to dial his number.

The line rang once.

Then twice.

Then—

“Hey, are you okay?” Spencer’s voice, quiet and concerned, almost as if he had been waiting for your call. “I wanted to talk, but—”

You exhaled, relief and uncertainty tangling together at the sound of his voice. “Hi. I’m fine. Um…your mom is here.”

Silence.

Then, the shift, something you had come to recognize when he was processing information at a speed faster than most people could follow. “She’s—wait, she’s where?” His voice was sharper now, alert.

“She’s safe,” you reassured him quickly. “We’re in your apartment. But…” Your voice softened. “She thinks it’s your birthday.”

Another pause. A breath.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost a whisper. “I’m coming. Please don’t let her be alone.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I won’t.”

“And…” His voice faltered, then steadied. “Thank you.”

The call ended.

You turned back to Diana, whose hands were wrapped around a cup of tea. The liquid swirled gently as she lifted the mug to her lips, the warm steam rising in a delicate plume. She looked at the tea, but her eyes weren’t focused. They were far away, somewhere beyond the moment, distant as though she had left this room a long time ago.

“Spencer’s coming,” you said softly, as if the quiet of the moment demanded it. You knew how much she hated noise. “He’ll be here soon.”

Her eyes flickered for a brief moment, a slight shift in the dullness that had clouded them. She blinked, and for a split second, it felt like she was with you again, her gaze a little clearer. But then, just as quickly, the fog returned, and she glanced up at you with a faint smile, one that was both familiar and distant, like a stranger trying to be someone you once knew. She took another sip, the sound of it like a small exhale in the room.

Carefully, you lowered yourself onto the couch across from her, keeping your movements slow, deliberate, as if any sudden shift might shatter the fragile tether that kept her here in this moment with you.

“You painted these,” she murmured, more statement than question after her eyes drifted back to the paintings on the walls, lingering for longer this time.

Your breath caught for a second. How did she know?

“Some of them,” you admitted, glancing at the familiar brushstrokes, at the colors you had chosen, the emotions you had poured into each piece. “Spencer liked them. He, uh…kept buying them even when I told him he didn’t have to.”

Diana’s lips twitched, just the faintest hint of a smile.

“He’s always been like that,” she said softly, her gaze distant but warm. “Always finding ways to help without saying it outright. As a boy, he would leave little notes in my books. Facts about things he thought I would like, little reminders of things I would forget. He never wanted me to feel like I was slipping away.”

For the first time since you had met her in the hallway, she didn’t seem frightened. She wasn’t lost, drifting between past and present. She was here. Grounded. Aware of the space around her.

It felt like magic.

But then, just as quickly as it came, something in her shifted again. Her brow knit together slightly, and her fingers smoothed absently over the fabric of her sleeve.

“But I still did, didn’t I?” Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I slipped away.”

There was no easy answer to that. No a good one.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “He loves you,” you said simply.

Diana’s hands, which had been moving idly over the fabric of her sleeve, stilled. Slowly, she turned her head toward you. And for the first time, she really looked at you, not in passing, not through the haze of misplaced time, but deeply, as if seeing you for exactly who you were.

Something shivered through you under the weight of her gaze. You wondered what she saw. The faint smudges of paint still clinging to your sleeves? The way your makeup, carefully applied, hid the faint traces of a bruise in your cheek? The cup in your hands, her son favorite, still bearing the faded imprint of your lipstick, because Spencer always refused to wipe it completely away?

Something unreadable passed beneath the surface of her expression, something quiet but powerful. Then, after a moment, her features softened.

“He talks about you,” she murmured.

Your pulse jumped.

“He does?”

“Not in long speeches. Not in obvious ways. But I know my son.” She exhaled, her gaze flicking back to the paintings, the bookshelf, the little details scattered around the apartment. “I know the way he holds on to things that matter.”

Her eyes found yours again, gentle but knowing.

“And you…you’re in the details.”

The words settled in your chest, warm and heavy all at once.

Your breath caught as her gaze flickered around the apartment. Not just at the paintings now, but at the bookshelf, where your art books sat nestled beside his. At the little traces of you woven so seamlessly into this space. The familiar hoodie draped over the armrest, too big to be yours but still carrying your scent. The unopened package of your favorite tea sitting on the counter, bought without a second thought.

Everywhere.

You were everywhere.

The realization pressed against your ribs, something warm, something steady, something undeniable that made you nostalgic.

Before you could find the right words to respond, the sound of the front door opening cut through the stillness.

Spencer stepped inside in a rush, his eyes immediately locking onto his mother, scanning her with that same mix of relief and worry you had come to recognize. His bag hung off his shoulder, his coat still half-buttoned as if he hadn’t even stopped to fix it in his hurry to get here.

“You?” Diana asked suddenly, her voice small, uncertain. “What are you doing here? You are not invited to his birthday.”

He froze, and so did you.

His mother was looking at him, but she wasn't really seeing him. She was seeing someone else, someone from her past. Someone whose hair and eye color he had inherited. Someone he had accused of being a murderer years ago. Someone who was the first to leave him and say goodbye with a letter. Someone who forced him to be the one to take care of the rest since he was a kid. She was seeing his father.

You saw it in his face, the way something inside Spencer broke into a thousand pieces. And only then did you realize the pain he carried every day. Because just when you thought you had Diana anchored in the present, she slipped into the past and dragged an unwanted memory with her. That was the worst part, going from having everything to having nothing. To go from having your mother to having a stranger.

The silence hung heavy between you, and then Spencer did something you hadn’t expected. Slowly, carefully, he sank to his knees in front of her. It was a gesture of both humility and desperate tenderness. You could see it in his body language, the way he made himself small, as though trying to reach the part of his mother that still remembered him.

“It’s me, mom,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, breaking the stillness with the weight of everything unsaid.

Diana’s gaze flickered, her fingers tightening slightly around her sleeves.

“I’m here,” he said again, his voice soft but firm. “I’m Spencer…your son.”

You stayed quiet, watching as something in Diana’s expression shifted. She blinked once. Then twice. Her lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing.

And then, finally her gaze cleared just enough.

“Spencer,” she whispered.

The weight in his shoulders lifted, just barely, just enough for you to see the breath he had been holding.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Her fingers twitched in his grasp before settling. A long, slow exhale left her lips, and she leaned forward, just slightly.

Your heart ached at the intimacy of it, at the sheer relief in his expression, at the way his mother finally saw him.

You didn’t move.

You just let them have this moment.

Your heart still carried the weight of everything you had witnessed earlier that day. The ache in your cheek from where you had pressed your hand to your face was almost unbearable, but it seemed so insignificant now. The pain felt almost like a distant echo compared to the one you could see in his eyes, the raw, and unspoken hurt that had been etched into his life for so long. Every time you thought about him, about what he’d endured, it was as if your chest tightened, the reality of his struggles pressing in on you from every side. What had you seen today? A broken cycle of love, loss, and confusion. And Spencer…he had lived it over and over again.

After his mother had finally recognized him, there hadn’t been many words exchanged. The silence between them felt like the weight of a thousand unsaid things, thick with all that had been left unspoken for years. He had explained gently that it wasn’t his birthday today, that it was still months away, but they’d celebrate together when the time came. The sadness in his eyes even as he reassured her, and the tenderness with which he helped her back into the present, spoke volumes. You had stood there, a silent observer, an outsider in their fragile moment. You had smiled at Diana, said your goodbyes softly to her, and watch they two left, knowing there was nothing more you could say.

And when the tossing and turning in your apartment began to make you and your cat dizzy, you retreated to the couch on the first floor, right in front of the front door, and watched every person who entered. Your mind was filled with a million thoughts, but none of them seemed to make sense. You waited for Spencer, not knowing how much longer you could sit there, but not wanting to be anywhere else.

The minutes stretched, thick and heavy, suffocating in their silence. What could you say to him when he came back? Was there anything you could say that would make even the smallest difference?

Then, at the seventh sound of the door opening, the cold air rushed in, followed by that unmistakable, familiar scent of him. Spencer. Your heart lurched in your chest at the sight of him, the weight of his exhaustion and sadness hanging from his shoulders like a heavy cloak. His face was drawn, his eyes tired in a way that made it feel as if he’d aged ten years in just a few hours. He looked so broken.

“You’re here,” he said, a flicker of surprise crossing his features when his eyes landed on you, as though he hadn’t expected to see you standing there, waiting.

You gave him a small, automatic smile, trying to make it light, but it felt flimsy, like a mask that wasn’t quite right. “I was…looking for my correspondence,” you said, the lie slipping out with the ease of a long-forgotten habit, but it tasted hollow in your mouth, as if the words themselves were trying to escape. It felt like a flimsy excuse, a weak justification for why you hadn’t been somewhere else, anywhere else, but here, with him.

As you walked beside him into the hallway, you did your best to keep the air light, to make your steps unhurried, as though everything were fine, even though the very air felt heavy, full with things unspoken. You glanced at him, trying to break the silence with something simple, something safe. “How’s your mom?”

The words hit him like a blow. His entire body seemed to stiffen, the tension rolling through him like an electric current. You immediately regretted asking, wishing you could take the question back.

“She’s better now,” he said, his voice tight with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. “I stayed until she fell asleep.”

You nodded quietly, taking in the weight of his words. His world, and his life, was full of unpredictable chaos, of moments like this, moments that no one should have to endure. You didn’t need to hear the details to know how much it hurt him. You stepped into the elevator as he held the door open, the tension between you thick and suffocating. The doors closed slowly, the sound of them closing almost felt like the world itself was pressing in, leaving you both suspended in a silence that was heavy, too full.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” you whispered after a long moment, the words tasting like something too small for the weight of the situation.

“Thanks to you,” he replied softly, and there was so much unspoken in those four words that it hit you like a punch to the chest. The sincerity in his voice, the gratitude mixed with something more, something raw, caught you off guard.

It was as if the Spencer who had come back a few weeks ago, the one who didn’t want you around, had disappeared. The man standing before you was something else entirely, and for a moment, you weren’t sure which version of him was the real one.

And then you noticed. He wasn’t wearing his coat. His shirt barely covered his arms, and despite the warmth of the building, his body was shaking from the cold, his lips a pale shade of purple. The tremors were unmistakable, the way his body quivered with each movement. It wasn’t just the chill of the air; it was something deeper, something that made your heart clench with an instinctual need to protect him.

“You’re shivering,” you said, the concern in your voice rising, louder than you’d intended, but you couldn’t help it.

He shrugged, his eyes quickly falling to the floor as though he were ashamed of his vulnerability, trying to hide it away. “Oh, I gave my jacket to my mom,” he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips, as though he didn’t want them to matter, but they did. They mattered more than anything.

Without thinking, you took off the cardigan he had lent you so long ago, the one that had quietly become a part of you because it carried his essence. You draped it over his shoulders with a tenderness that startled you, instinctively wanting to offer him something, anything, to ease the shivers and make him feel good. But when you saw the look in his eyes, you froze. He didn't seem to be used to being taken care of anymore, not like this, not after being on the defensive for so long.

It was strange to you that after only three months away, he seemed to have forgotten the way you were always willing to take care of him.

“Don’t,” he said softly, his voice apologetic, as though he were making a quiet plea for something you didn’t fully understand. He didn’t move to take the cardigan off, but his words had a weight, and for a moment, you felt a strange, painful distance between you. “It’s yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, an unspoken question in your expression, and he continued.

“Technically, it’s yours,” he added, his voice quieter now. “I haven’t worn any of this stuff in a while.”

And then you understood. The clothes in his closet had changed. Gone were the soft, earth-toned cardigans and slacks you used to love, replaced by sharp, black suits and ties, clothes that looked like they belonged to someone else, someone trying to appear more sophisticated, more put-together, more respectable. It was as though he was trying to transform himself into someone else, someone who had moved on from the things he used to love, the things that reminded him of you.

“I know,” you replied, your voice quiet, carrying more meaning than just those two words. A sad smile curled on your lips. “I miss it…I miss you in it.”

The words hung between you for a moment, heavier than the silence. He didn’t respond, his gaze flickering away, but you could see something shift in him, a softness, something vulnerable. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand brushing against his. His fingers were ice-cold, and you instinctively cupped them in yours, the warmth of your touch contrasting sharply with the coldness of his skin.

“I remember you once said something about the power of human warmth,” you said softly, your voice breaking the weight of the silence, a fragile smile on your lips. “Let’s try.”

The elevator was still, suspended in a moment that felt endless. Neither of you had pressed a button, and for a heartbeat, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. You were trapped between two floors, between the weight of the past and the uncertainty of what might come next. The world was still, but your hearts, your thoughts, they were swirling, caught in the same limbo.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice a little rough, a little uncertain. His breath caught as your warm fingertips brushed his, and for a second, the world felt smaller, softer.

“I don’t want you to freeze or get sick,” you whispered, the words soft but steady, even though your heart was pounding in your chest. “I want you to live longer.”

Because you really did want he to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always this close to you.

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t speak, the tension between you palpable, thick with everything unspoken. You almost apologized, the words tumbling from your lips, but before you could finish, his touch stopped you.

He grabbed your waist, pulling you close with a force that took you by surprise, pressing your bodies together in a way that was intimate, urgent. His arms wrapped around you tightly, and you didn’t pull away. Instead, you melted into him, your cheek resting against his chest, your hands sliding around his back. You could hear the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath your ear, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside seemed to disappear. Everything else fell away, leaving only the two of you in that moment.

The silence grew between you, and then, without warning, the tears came.

Hot, silent, as though they had been held back for far too long, breaking free from the calm of his chest. They soaked into the fabric of your shirt, but you didn’t care. You held him tighter, your arms wrapped around him, offering him what little strength you had left. The weight of his sorrow pressed against you, and you could feel the deep, guttural pain that had been locked away inside him. It spilled out of him in waves, raw and unfiltered, and you didn’t say anything. You simply held him.

His body shook with the force of his grief, his fingers clutching at your shirt as the tears kept coming. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice a steady murmur in the chaos of his pain. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You gently stroked his back, your touch slow and grounding, the rhythm of your movements steady and soft. As he clung to you, you could feel the tension slowly begin to ease, just a little. His sobs quieted, the sharpness in his breath softened, and the storm inside him started to calm, just a fraction. In your arms, he found the space to grieve, to release everything he had held in for so long.

Everything shifted. The elevator, once a place of uncomfortable silence, became a sanctuary. A place where Spencer could let down the walls he had built around himself. A place where, for the first time in what felt like forever, he was free to feel, free to cry, free to just be. And you were there, holding him, never letting go.

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt like you were exactly where you needed to be: he was yours, and you were his.

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[anachr0nismm]

(Revised post from my now deleted side blog)

I would like people here to think about why they don’t draw scar in his wheelchair. And more so if you are still drawing him with another mobility aid.

Even, or maybe especially, if this micro-aggression is subconscious, it’s still harmful and I have no doubt in my mind that drawing him with other ones is on the basis of canes or crutches being the ‘lesser’ of the mobility aids. Please think about why you are making him ‘less disabled.’ People with canes (and, I would know, I use my cane often, and people are surprised to see me with my rollator and actually only then take my issues seriously) are expected to be able to do everything abled people can, and a lot of people show Scar doing those things. Wheelchair users are often seen as ‘trapped’ in the thing that gives them the freedom to move around as they please, which is entirely false.

Scar cannot stand up. He cannot walk. It especially hurts when people disregard this to make him a superhero or because it doesn’t fit his ‘flirty attitude.’ It sucks when I see his adventurous character in third life, and his goofy demeanour in hermitcraft boiled down to ‘clumsy not very disabled person.’

Not everyone will agree with me, but I am still really hurt by seeing his minecraft persona drawn without a wheelchair. People will hear the smallest things from streams and add it to their headcanons, but a big part of his identity and something he actively advocates for the acceptance of is disregarded?

In the same world that you would make him a vex or an elf, in a world where there are soulmate binds or the ender dragon, why can’t he have a wheelchair? It’s okay to modify it. I made his in my head a wheelchair that folds into an elytra that holds onto his back and torso to allow him to fly.

Something I always use as example is Sun Spider. She is a disabled spider woman who has EDS, the same thing I do. She uses crutches and a wheelchair, and her wheelchair as Sun Spider has electronic spider legs to connect to the ceiling instead of wheels. If you want to go with the more eleven aesthetic- a Victorian style wheelchair with a power assist made by one of the redstoners. There are so many possibilities! Be creative!

It just feels so awful when the one person I can see myself in, although I use other mobility aids, is changed and the thing we have in common made lesser because it fits his ‘vibe’ more.