#electronic lab notebook | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pankowcrumbs · 2 months ago

Text

You Owe Me, Sweetheart X Eddie Munson

18+

Plot: Eddie helps you and now you owe him a favour of his choice.

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

I’d been standing at the edge of the car park for a good five minutes, clutching my books to my chest like they might somehow shield me from the situation I’d stupidly landed myself in.

The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across Hawkins High. Most people had cleared out already, the corridors quieting down to a dull hum.

And there he was Eddie Munson. Perched on the bonnet of his van like he didn’t have a care in the world, cigarette dangling from his lips, boots scuffed, a battered notebook balanced on his knee.

Everyone knew Eddie’s reputation. The Freak. The Dealer. The Outcast.

But that wasn’t what I saw.

I saw the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he played guitar with a kind of raw passion that made my heart stutter, the way he spoke like he meant every word, no matter how outrageous.

And God, I saw the way his rings glinted on his fingers big, strong hands, veined arms poking out of a torn Hellfire Club shirt.

I’d had a crush on Eddie Munson for longer than I cared to admit.

And now, thanks to a frankly horrific twist of fate involving a botched science project, a missing lab partner, and an unforgiving deadline, I needed him.

I shifted from foot to foot, anxiety gnawing at my gut.

He hadn’t noticed me yet or if he had, he was doing a bloody good job of pretending otherwise.

I could still back out. I could still turn around, figure something else out.

But then his head lifted, slow and deliberate, and his dark eyes locked onto mine.

A smirk tugged at his mouth, cocky and knowing.

Like he could read every panicked thought racing through my brain.

"Well, well," he drawled, flicking the cigarette away with a casual snap of his fingers. "If it isn't little Miss Good Girl herself."

I flushed, heat crawling up my neck.

"I..." I cleared my throat, hating how wobbly it sounded. "I need your help."

He leaned back on his hands, stretching out long legs, rings catching the last bit of sunlight. He looked so at ease it made me dizzy.

"If you need somethin’, darlin’," he said, voice slow and syrupy, "all you gotta do is ask."

My knees nearly gave out.

The way he said it rough, teasing, commanding like it wasn’t even a question but a foregone conclusion.

I squeezed my books tighter.

"It’s for the science fair," I rushed out, words tripping over themselves. "My partner bailed on me and I heard you’re good with electronics and I just..."

He raised an eyebrow, cutting off my nervous rambling with a lazy grin.

"You want me to help you build your project?"

I nodded, cheeks burning.

He tapped his chin, pretending to consider. "Hmm. What’s in it for me?"

I blinked, panic spiking. "I could pay you?"

He chuckled, a low rumble that did wicked things to my insides.

"Don’t want your money, sweetheart," he said. "Tell you what. You owe me a favour."

"A favour?"

"Yeah." His grin widened. "Could be anything. A ride somewhere. Help with homework. Carrying my gear. Whatever I feel like cashin' in."

The way he said it casual, almost lazy made my heart skip a traitorous beat.

I should have been wary. I should have said no.

But instead, I found myself nodding.

"Alright," I whispered. "A favour."

His eyes lit up, mischief and something darker flickering behind them.

"Deal," he said, hopping off the bonnet with a thud. He sauntered towards me, stopping way too close, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of smoke and leather clinging to him.

"Lead the way, princess," he murmured, voice curling around my brain like smoke. "Let’s get to work."

Eddie’s van was a mess papers, guitar picks, cassette tapes everywhere but somehow it suited him.

He insisted on blasting Black Sabbath as he soldered wires together, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, muscles flexing under his ratty T-shirt.

I sat on the floor, trying not to stare, trying not to let my mind wander.

It was hopeless.

Every time he made a snarky comment, every time he shot me a grin over his shoulder, every time he brushed past me, my heart threatened to break free of my ribs.

I was utterly, pathetically, hopelessly infatuated.

And he knew it.

I caught him smirking to himself more than once, like he could feel the tension crackling between us, like he was revelling in it.

At one point, he crouched down beside me to explain a connection, our knees bumping.

He pointed to the circuit board, his hand brushing mine, slow and deliberate.

"You’re shaking, sweetheart," he murmured, voice practically sinful. "You nervous? I don’t bite."

Not unless you ask me to, I thought wildly, biting the inside of my cheek.

"I’m fine," I squeaked instead.

He chuckled, dark and delighted.

"Liar."

By the time we finished, it was nearly dark.

The project looked... incredible. Way better than anything I could have pulled off alone.

I stared at it in awe, hands trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline.

Eddie stood back, arms crossed, watching me.

"So," he said. "Was I worth the risk?"

I blinked up at him.

"What?"

He shrugged, casual. "You didn’t want to ask me, right? Thought I’d laugh in your face. Tell you to piss off."

I swallowed hard. "I never thought you were a freak."

His eyes softened, just a fraction, and my chest squeezed.

"Yeah?" he said, voice almost gentle.

I nodded. "Yeah."

For a moment, the air between us felt heavy, charged.

He took a step closer, eyes never leaving mine.

"You ever need anything again, darlin’," he murmured, voice low and rough, "you come to me. Understand?"

I nodded again, helpless.

"Good girl," he said, and the praise hit me like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath.

Before I could recover, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering just a second too long.

Then he stepped back, smirking.

"I’ll be cashin’ in that favour soon, sweetheart," he said, backing towards his van. "Don’t you forget it."

I watched him drive away, heart hammering against my ribs, knees weak.

And I knew deep in my bones that whatever favour Eddie Munson wanted, I was absolutely, hopelessly doomed to say yes.

It had been three days since Eddie Munson helped me with my science project. Three days of me replaying every word, every smirk, every brush of his fingers through my hair like some hopeless sap.

And three days of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I thought, maybe stupidly, that he’d forget. Maybe he was just winding me up about that "favour."

But when I opened my locker Friday morning, a scrap of notebook paper fluttered out and landed at my feet.

‘You owe me, sweetheart. Meet me behind the gym after last bell. Don’t be late. -Eddie’

I stared at it, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Behind the gym? What the hell was he planning?

I spent all day jumping at shadows. By the time the final bell rang, my palms were sweaty, my stomach a mess of nerves.

He was already there when I arrived lounging against the brick wall, battered leather jacket slung over one shoulder, chain on his jeans catching the sunlight.

When he spotted me, his grin lit up his whole face.

"There she is," he said, voice warm and teasing. "Was startin’ to think you’d chickened out."

"As if," I muttered, crossing my arms to hide how bloody shaky I felt.

He pushed off the wall and sauntered towards me, lazy and loose-limbed.

"Ready to cash in that favour, princess?"

I swallowed. "What exactly does it involve?"

He pretended to think, tapping his chin. "Hmm. Let’s call it... a not-date."

"A what?"

He laughed, grabbing my wrist gentle, but firm enough that my breath hitched and tugging me after him.

"You’ll see," he said. "Come on. You’re burnin’ daylight."

Turned out, Eddie’s idea of a "not-date" was driving half an hour out of town in his rattling van, windows down, music blaring.

He didn’t say where we were going. Didn’t even give me a chance to protest.

He just kept throwing me these sideways glances, smirking every time he caught me sneaking a look at him.

Which, honestly, was often.

How could I not? The way the wind ruffled his curls, the way he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music it was like something out of a dream.

Eventually, he pulled off onto a dirt road, tires kicking up dust.

"You’re not gonna murder me and leave me in a ditch, are you?" I joked, only half teasing.

He shot me a wicked grin. "Depends. You scream a lot?"

I made a strangled sound, and he laughed like it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

We finally stopped at a little clearing tall grass, wildflowers, the whole lot. At the edge was a battered old blanket spread out under a tree.

My mouth dropped open.

"You set this up?"

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. "Thought you deserved a break after all that sciencing."

He grabbed a cooler from the back of the van and sauntered over to the blanket, plonking himself down with a dramatic sigh.

"Well?" he said, patting the space beside him. "You gonna stand there gawkin' all day, or you gonna come enjoy my five-star hospitality?"

I couldn’t help it I laughed. Really laughed.

And before I knew it, I was sinking down beside him, the late afternoon sun warm on my skin.

He’d packed sandwiches slightly squashed, but somehow charming and two cans of warm soft drink.

We talked about everything and nothing music, books, how shit Hawkins was and I found myself relaxing more with every passing minute.

Eddie was easy to talk to. Eddie was dangerous.

Because the more I laughed at his ridiculous jokes, the more I caught him looking at me like I hung the bloody moon, the deeper I sank.

And somewhere between arguing about the best Metallica album and watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, the air shifted.

I caught him watching me properly watching me and my stomach twisted itself into knots.

"What?" I said, half laughing, half terrified.

He shrugged, but there was something serious under the easy smile.

"You’re not what I expected," he said.

I blinked. "You expected me to be a bitch?"

He snorted. "Nah. Expected you to be... I dunno. Too good for the likes of me."

My heart cracked right down the middle.

"You’re not a freak, Eddie," I said, voice fierce.

He smiled, slow and soft, and God help me, I wanted to kiss him.

Maybe he saw it on my face. Maybe he was feeling the exact same thing.

Because a second later, he leaned in achingly slow, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to.

I didn’t.

His lips brushed mine, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

But when I sighed into him when I fisted my hands in the worn denim of his jacket he groaned low in his throat and kissed me properly.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

It wasn’t neat or perfect, but it was real.

He cradled the back of my head in one hand, the other gripping my waist, pulling me against him like he couldn’t bear to leave even an inch of space.

When we finally broke apart, gasping, he rested his forehead against mine.

"Still not a date," he whispered, breathless.

I laughed, giddy and dizzy and completely lost.

"Definitely not a date," I agreed, voice shaking.

But we both knew we were lying.

The sun dipped lower, casting everything in gold.

We lay tangled together on the blanket, Eddie tracing lazy circles on my hip with calloused fingers, making my whole body shiver.

His hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, skimming over bare skin light, teasing touches that left me aching.

I turned my head, catching his gaze.

He looked so wrecked hair wild, pupils blown wide, mouth swollen from kissing.

"Can I?" he started, voice rough.

I answered by tugging him down to me, desperate for more.

His hand slid higher, cupping my breast through the thin fabric of my bra, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak.

I gasped into his mouth, arching into him.

He kissed down my jaw, my throat, scattering rough, reverent kisses that made my toes curl.

"You’re so fuckin’ soft," he murmured against my skin, like he was drunk on it.

He kissed lower, pulling my shirt up to mouth at my stomach, each kiss making my muscles jump.

I buried my fingers in his hair, tugging gently, and he growled low in his throat.

He kissed along the waistband of my jeans, teeth scraping lightly, and I whimpered.

"Eddie," I whispered, desperate and shaking.

He lifted his head, eyes dark and burning.

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice a low rasp.

I shook my head, pulling him back up to kiss me again, harder this time.

Clothes were pushed aside, touches growing more frantic, and when he finally slid inside me, it wasn’t hurried or rough it was slow, deep, aching.

Like he was trying to memorise every second. Like he needed it as much as I did.

Afterwards, we lay tangled together, breathing hard, Eddie’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare back.

"You still think this wasn’t a date?" I mumbled against his chest, too blissed out to move.

He chuckled, low and smug.

"Nah, sweetheart," he said, pressing a kiss to my hair. "This was definitely a date."

I smiled, tucking myself closer against him.

For once, I didn’t care about reputations or gossip or any of the bullshit waiting for us back in Hawkins.

All that mattered was Eddie warm, solid, real holding me like he never wanted to let go.

Keeping things quiet sounded easy in theory.

In reality?

It was bloody impossible.

Especially when Eddie Munson was involved.

It started small. Little things.

The way he'd find me in the corridors between classes, brushing his fingers over mine when nobody was looking.

The way I'd catch him staring at me during lunch, this soft, stupid smile on his face, like he couldn't help himself.

The way he'd mouth something utterly filthy across the room something that turned my face scarlet and made me nearly choke on my sandwich then wink like the cocky bastard he was.

We were awful at hiding it.

Like, truly pathetic.

It didn’t help that Eddie was absolutely no help whatsoever. If anything, he enjoyed the risk of getting caught.

He’d catch me in the library, brush past just a bit too close, then smirk when I dropped my pen.

He’d mouth "Later, sweetheart" as he sauntered past my desk in science, leaving me a flustered, stammering mess.

And he always looked so bloody pleased with himself afterwards.

The rumours started before the week was out.

I heard snippets in the girls' toilets.

"Did you see the way Munson looked at her?" "Swear I saw them sneaking off together behind the gym." "She could do better, surely?"

It should've made me nervous.

Instead, every whisper made me feel a little giddy, a little more reckless.

Because for once, I didn't care what people thought.

I liked Eddie Munson. And he somehow, unbelievably liked me right back.

I should've known he wouldn't let it lie.

It was a Tuesday, halfway through lunch, when he did it.

I was sitting with some of my friends, pretending not to watch Eddie across the room even though he was making it impossible by looking over every thirty bloody seconds.

I was mid-sip of my drink when suddenly, bang the screech of a chair dragging across the floor made me jump.

Everyone turned to look.

And there was Eddie standing on the lunch table like a man possessed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I nearly died on the spot.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, loud enough to shake the rafters:

"Alright, Hawkins High! Since you’re all so bloody nosy" (I buried my face in my hands.) "let me clear a few things up, yeah?"

A few people laughed. Others were just gawping, forks halfway to their mouths.

"I am head over heels for Y/N," Eddie declared, voice ringing out, proud and utterly shameless. "Completely, stupidly, hopelessly in love with her."

The cafeteria exploded.

Cheers, whistles, people banging on tables.

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

But then he looked at me properly looked all soft eyes and secret smiles, and something in my chest just melted.

"Y/N," he said, over the noise. "Come up here, sweetheart."

I shook my head furiously, laughing.

"No way!"

"C’mon," he coaxed, reaching out a hand. "Don’t leave me hangin’."

People started chanting.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Before I could lose my nerve, I scrambled up not very gracefully onto the table, gripping his hand tight.

He pulled me close, grinning like a lunatic.

"You ready to really give ‘em somethin’ to talk about?" he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

Right there, in front of everyone.

It wasn’t a quick peck, either. It was full-on, dizzy, toe-curling, I never want to stop kissing.

The cafeteria went mental.

Wolf-whistles, clapping, someone actually started banging a tray like a drum.

When we finally broke apart, breathing hard, Eddie was beaming.

"We’re so bloody busted," I panted, half laughing, half terrified.

And right on cue

"MR MUNSON! MISS Y/L/N!" A furious shout from across the room.

Mr. Clarke, the science teacher, red-faced and charging towards us.

Eddie grabbed my hand, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief.

"Run!"

We leapt down from the table nearly sending the lunches on it flying and tore out of the cafeteria, hand in hand, both of us laughing so hard we could barely breathe.

"GET BACK HERE!" Clarke bellowed behind us.

"Not a chance!" Eddie yelled back, cackling like a madman.

We sprinted down the corridor, past the lockers, past the stunned faces of other students peeking out of classrooms.

My heart was pounding, adrenaline singing through my veins.

We finally burst through the side doors into the sunlight, collapsing against the wall, gasping for air.

Eddie looked at me, flushed and breathless and utterly beautiful.

"You’re mad," I wheezed, still laughing.

He grinned, wide and wicked. "Yeah, but you love it."

And bloody hell, I really, really did.

I grabbed his jacket, pulled him down, and kissed him again fierce and giddy and completely, utterly in love.

From inside, we could still hear Clarke shouting.

"Think he’s gonna kill us?" I murmured against his lips.

Eddie just laughed, wrapping his arms tight around me.

"Totally worth it, sweetheart," he said.

And I believed him.

Every bloody word.

235 notes · View notes

andmaybegayer · 7 months ago

Text

You know I feel like the user replaceable fuse in this should be like, 2A instead of 10A. I guess they'd have to put in a 4A for the 110V market. Still! Might have prevented this, that thermistor probably got pushed really hard by some other issue, exploded, shorted itself, which then blew out both of the fuses.

This does not bode well for the integrity of the rest of the printer, this feels less like a power surge and more like a hardware failure, I should actually check the resistances of the heater elements before I try and power this up. Maybe unplug them and feed it 24V to see if the board is fried with less risk of frying anything else.

There's blown fuses and then there's blown fuses

#electronics #yes I'm using Tumblr as my lab notebook here #ol kobra neo looking more and more like the survivor of this operation

118 notes · View notes

sulkyuu · 16 days ago

Text

tips for entering the new semester!

since i chose to take courses in my summer semester that are usually half the length of regular courses, i definitely know that i have to be prepared to lock-in so i can pass with an A+. these are just the steps/tips that i have taken that may help anyone who is also in my position :)

clean your area make sure to clean your area; not just your room, but also your bathroom, closet, desk, etc. a clean space = a clean & focused mind! i have personally been making sure to prioritize keeping my area clean because other than the fact i moved two moths ago, i also find that when my living space is messy, so is my mind. i focus 100x better when my area is clean compared to when it’s messy; i tend to get distracted and want to clean mid-study session haha.

create a schedule having a set schedule, not only for studying, but also for just daily tasks is super duper important when starting a new semester. since my classes are online & have flexible times, i just scheduled that i’ll work on that subject for about an hour and a half every day (minus the weekends). i recommend planning your day around your fixed classes then adding what else is important. example: if i only have one fixed class that is set for 8-9:45AM every Monday & Wednesday, then i will plan my day around that class & make sure i add time for studying for my other classes. here is an example of my schedule! i planned all 3 of my classes with some empty space for either some time with friends, freetime, some time to focus on my hobbies, etc.

make sure you have the supplies needed make sure you have at least a big enough notebook & writing utensils (or a good notetaking app on your ipad; i use goodnotes but i’ve heard that notability is good too!), your textbooks, and anything else required for certain classes. some classes with labs or any other science-based class most likely has a few other needed supplies. for example my chemistry classes required me to get safety glasses & a lab coat, which she told us on the first day of lab, so make sure you have everything you need prior to at least the second class!

organize your electronics some things i’ve done is going through both my phone & ipad and deleting unnecessary apps as well as adding widgets that will either motivate me or help me stay organized (calendar widget, canvas widget, etc). i have also been going through my social medias & unfollowing people who don’t post anything that would motivate me or anything that i’m not interested in, as well as un-liking and un-saving posts that i don’t need anymore/don’t have interest in anymore. some other things you could do is changing your wallpaper to something motivating or changing it to match your aesthetic better, deleting photos or contacts you don’t need, clear tabs, wiping down your electronics at least once a week, and update your apps!

setting realistic goals the way that i view having realistic goals is to make sure that you aren’t setting unrealistic goals that may make you think negatively about yourself or your abilities. for example, if i don’t study but expect to get at least a 90% on an exam, but then i get a 60%, not meeting that high goal of mine may make me think that i’m stupid or i don’t have the abilities to perform well in that subject. my main goals for this summer semester is to have at least a 3.5 GPA & complete any extra credit work that is offered, but a more specific goal i have for mainly psychology & ASL is to actually retain the information to make sure i am understanding.

getting rest getting rest is a very very veryyyy important thing to prioritize especially if you’re a very active student that studies even a couple hours a day. getting good sleep can help you get less sick less often, reduce stress, and even improve your attention & memory (source). some tips to help fall asleep, and stay asleep, include getting some exercise, going outside for at least 30 minutes a day, avoid electronics for around an hour before your actual bedtime, and sticking to a sleep schedule (sleeping & waking up at the same time everyday). i usually have a hard time sleeping mainly because i get very hot in my sleep, which causes me to wake up feeling sick, but a way that i’ve been managing this is to make sure i’m wearing breathable clothes, having a thin blanket to sleep with, and drinking a bunch of water which can actually help regulate body temperature.

some other general tips that may help - finding out what study method helps for you. some popular ones are active recall, feynman, active recall/blurting, chunking, spaced repetition, pomodoro, and mock test/exam. if anyone wants a more detailed post on these techniques lmk! - finding a place to study. some common places are a cafe, a school library, or even your own bedroom; just make sure to eliminate distractions. - alwayyyyys check your emails, canvas inbox, or whatever platform your prof uses to communicate. checking these things will help with staying updated with any announcements, upcoming assignments, or anything else that needed to be communicated with the class. - seeking academic help. if your school offers a writing center or any other tutors, take advantage of that resource!! personally, i haven’t been to my school’s writing center, but i know others who have greatly benefited from seeking that help. - go. to. your. classes. i cannnnoooottttt stress this enough. missing one class will just start a snowball effect where it goes from missing once, to twice, to then missing three classes and therefore missing a ton of important info. the only negative of actually getting up & going to your classes is getting ready and actually getting moving. it is so much more worth it to attend your classes then to miss a ton of info. - get a planner. as someone who’s been using a planner since middle school, it helps so much with keeping assignments & important events organized & remembered. - work on what assignment is due first/soonest. literally do not work on that small 250 word assignment that isn’t due until the end of next week; do the reading that is due on monday, do that 1500 word assignment that is due on tuesday. do the stuff that’ll take the longest/that is due the soonest. a way i recommend to make sure you’re doing this is to double and triple check to make sure that you’re prioritizing the correct assignments over the others.

i know this is kind of a long post, but i hope it was at least informative & will help u guys in your next semester! if there’s any specific post or thread you would want me to make then send me an anon or reply under this post :) best of luck to you guys in this next semester/school year!!

43 notes · View notes

edupunkn00b · 2 months ago

Text

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

All Logan has left is his field work and with the impossible discoveries he's made in the great Vert Woods, nothing could keep him away. Well, Remus might have something to say about that.

Written for @syrcaljirk for the @tss-camp-and-coffee's Camp Cartoon event.

WC: 5243 - Rated: G

Another bolt of lighting crashed, over-illuminating the sopping field notebook cradled in Logan Stèle’s lap. Blinking against the temporary glare, and fingers long gone from cold to aching then to numb, Logan wiped away the rivulets of water collecting on his notebook and continued his work.

The rain had fallen, unrelenting, for hours, pouring down upon the trees, the ground. Him. It fell hard enough Logan might have believed literal buckets were dumped on his head as he sat scrunched under the partial cover of the stony shelter he’d managed to find beneath a basalt outcropping.

Grateful, as always, for the stone-based waterproof notebook his old advisor had insisted they bring in surplus, Logan scratched out another sketch of the Podaxis pistillaris growing before him.

This was his eighth trip in as many weeks to the Vert Woods and each visit brought a different, impossible discovery.

Despite the obvious visual evidence before him, fungi in the Agaricaceae family simply did not grow in this type of forest. Agaricaceae were strictly desert fungi, the specimens before him literally nicknamed ‘desert shaggy manes’ for their preferred climate and their shredded rings that more closely resembled hair than the remnants of their volva.

Not only could the Agaric. not survive in the wet, chilly climate of the northern rain forests, but here they would they find nothing resembling their preferred diet of desert termite casings. Its spores would have long dissolved in the combination of damp loamy soil and frequent soaking downpours Logan had observed over the past seven hours.

It had to be a mimic.

A carefully sealed spore print developing in the deepest part of his discovered crevice, Logan not-quite-patiently recorded his observations. These specimens truly were remarkable, sprouting so quickly their growth was visible, granting Logan the view he’d ordinarily need time lapse photography to record. Just as well, as all his previous attempts to leave behind field cameras had failed. The first set’s lenses had been smeared by some thick organic material. The next had drained their solar batteries so completely even their internal memory had failed. Another set of cameras had broken completely.

The last set had just disappeared.

His dwindling supplies would not in good conscience permit him to sacrifice any additional cameras after that incident.

With darkened skies raging overhead, he recorded his own observations and waited for a break in the storm before he began his hike back to basecamp and his tiny—and efficient—field lab.

For now, though, he thought to himself as another clap of lighting crackled overhead, he was safest here. And so was the developing print. Turning to a fresh page to capture a larger growth sprouting just past the first, he figured he might as well make good use of his time while he rode out the storm.

Eyes just barely closed but teeth gritted in concentration, Remus shoved down the irritation creeping up his throat. He chanted, calling for another bolt of lightning only seconds after the last. This one struck near enough to make the tiny hairs on the backs of his fingers stand on end. Bright enough to see his own veins through his eyelids.

And still the alchemist camped in the forest, in Remus’ forest, his ward. The forest air choking on the poison of his electronic gadgets, the ground weeping beneath the tread of his jagged plastic soles, the forest’s creatures shrinking from sight.

Draped in the skins and fur and hair of animals and plants whose deaths had been fast and brutal, executed without prayer or gratitude, the alchemist lingered, unbowed by his storm as he surveyed the sacred grounds, carving his rock-on-rock runes with undying perseverance.

Well, Remus would just have to see about the undying part.

Energy crackled between his fingers as he pulled up the heat and power of the ground beneath his bare feet. Freezing rain pelted his face, plastering his clothes to his skin. The wind whipped his long hair back and the scent of ozone rose up around him.

Bright white fire gathered in his hands and his eyes flew open. He focused on the small figure at the bottom of the cliff and aimed.

Power sizzled through his veins, hot and staticky, drawing on the anger of the earth, the broken rock and torn roots crying out for protection. And revenge.

Fingertips glowing brighter than the bolts carving the sky, Remus muttered the final words of the spell. Without warning, his brother’s old spores bloomed around the alchemist, copper spike and rose russulas and thousands upon thousands of amanitas bigger than his palm.

Remus dropped his hands with a curse and turned his back on the alchemist. He slunk back home under a clear blue sky.

The storm showed no sign of abatement, in fact each clap of thunder followed sooner after the one that preceded it and the rain pooled at the edge of his rocky shelter, already splashing over the lip of what would be delusional to call a cave.

If it weren’t for the racket of the storm—and the anxiety that rose with the level of the water, when the mushrooms around him sprouted to new life, Logan might have thought he was dreaming. Russula emetica, Chroogomphus rutilus, and Amanita muscaria bloomed from impossible surfaces. Amanita shot up from bare rock, the Russula twining around the trunk of a long-dead oak.

Excitement bubbling in his chest, he turned to a new page and hurriedly captured the scene, wishing bitterly his still camera had not broken on his first attempt. Even his hand-crank radio was malfunctioning.

Pencil on paper it was, then.

The skies darkened and Logan swore under his breath, briefly toying with the idea of venturing out from his shelter to get a closer look. Then, just as suddenly as the Amanita sprouted, the rains just… stopped.

A perfect blue sky broke through the clouds, the sun now well past its zenith. If he left now he might make it back to basecamp with enough daylight left for the solar chargers to revive what was left of his devices. Unwilling to risk being caught in another downpour, this time without even the minimal cover he’d managed to find earlier today, Logan slipped his notebook and pencil into his pocket and oh-so-carefully picked up the tiny covered box in the back of the crevice. And the blooming spore print within.

Tipping open the lid, he wrapped the Agaricaceae cap in many-times over reused stone paper paper and checked the print. A perfect canoe shape, dark brown spores from a cream-colored cap. “Remarkable,” he whispered, turning the print to catch the light. A literally incredible discovery, especially growing in tandem with—

Logan gasped, eyes snagged on the now fungi-free field before him. Where once had been a riot of contradictory species, now stretched a flat meadow of five kinds of clover, Papaver rhoeas and Pterostylis parviflora.

He checked the cap he’d secured in his bag. An empty parchment packet was all he found.

The print, however…

The spore print remained pristine and solid, the dark brown marks blurred at the edges, staring back at him, the sole proof of what he’d seen today. Gently stowing away the precious evidence, Logan hurried out toward the path back to camp, back to his lab where perhaps he could begin to make sense of this impossible forest.

“Why wouldn’t you let me get rid of him?” Remus spat, tiptoeing between a patch of poppies and a fallen maple. “One good strike and he’d’ve fed you for a century!”

More red blossoms unfurled before him, tiny camellias tracing his path back home.

“But it is me,” he argued. “Looking after these woods is my job now.” The petals reached for him, velvety soft brushes against bare ankles.

It was more soothing than Remus would ever admit aloud. Not that he needed to.

“I know,” he sighed, footsteps slowing. His house—their house—lay just beyond the mossy, weathered remnants of a pre-solar tower. The poppies grew thicker now, carpeting the path ahead.

Scattered across them lay a staggered set of bare patches between him and the front door, stepping stones across a floral creek.

“I know you’d be here if you could.”

The groundshake struck just before its warning alarm. Ancient systems reliant on an increasingly failure-prone network of sensors, the series of alarms meant to rouse the surrounding cities and villages from their beds in time to seek shelter were now little more than an added nuisance.

They’d have deactivated the seismic sirens long ago. If there had been anyone left who knew how to, that was.

Now Logan was faced with the choice of the certain danger of rockslides racing down from the summit or the high but vague chance of falling trees in the woods.

His feet and hands decided before the rest of his mind could, snatching up his go-bag and darting out into the cool, dark forest.

His feet had been rash.

Not ten paces into the woods, Logan realized his mistake. Towering Sequoia sempervirens, after centuries of strain and stress of acid rain, methane bursts, and decades of drought in the Dry Years, the once great Kings of the forest trembled with the earth, the crackling and splintering of the dry, rotten trunks drowning out the screeching sirens at base camp.

Too late, Logan turned back, old solar lights glittering through the trees, beckoning him to over-promised safety. A younger tree, not more than three hundred years old, split a dozen meters up from where he stood. It fell through its sibling trees and crashed to the ground, blocking his path.

The world cracked behind him and the sky was blotted out by the carcass of one more great Redwood.

Remus woke with a start, his own breaths deafening in the odd hush blanketing his home. He sat up and scrunched his toes against the ground beneath him.

It ached, pulled and stretched, crying in terror and pain.

Leaping to his feet, he grabbed the pot of sage ashes on the hearth. He ran uphill through the underbrush, headed for the still waters of Lake Frère.

He chanted with every step, pounding his message into the earth, scattering the burnt sage along the trail for any of the forest’s creatures to follow. The earth shakes. Seek water. The earth shakes. Seek water.

The first shuddering jolt threw him to the ground. Remus dropped to his knees but kept the ashes safe, with only a little spilling over the lip of the pot. Back on his feet, he ran on, dusting the trail step by step as he carved out a path to safety.

Three tiny red poppies appeared just as the cool, heavy scent of lake air filled his lungs, the promise of safety within its depths. “No!” he paused the spell to shout. “We’re going this way,” he said, then resumed his chanting.

Another blossom appeared, several steps to the left.

“No way,” he insisted, slowing and pointing up the hill. “We’re going that way.”

Two more steps forward and a wall of English holly shot up, barricading the path.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

Deep roots shrieked around them, the pained cries of ancient ones meeting a final, violent death and the ground broke beneath them. Remus touched a shoot nearest him, whispering condolences, ease and calm, and shouted at the sky. “This is no time for—“

The ground shook again, jolting him forward. And away from the water.

Bright red poppies lined the path ahead. “Fine!” he shouted. “We’ll do it your way!”

Remus smelled the alchemist’s blood before he saw it. “Serves you right,” he muttered, yelping when a vine slapped his bare calf. “What?” he snapped back. “Who runs into a forest in an earthquake?”

As he’d trekked downhill through the woods, the great growling rumbles of the earth dissolved into little more than periodic spasms, the last hiccupping gasps as the ground finished its seizing and settled into another long, fitful slumber.

One such aftershock dropped a ferny branch down on the bloodied alchemist’s face and he sputtered to life.

“Wha—Agh!” Confusion turned to pain, seeping through the soil and digging cold fingers into Remus’ skin. The alchemist pushed weakly at the trunk, barely more than a branch, really, holding him fast to the ground.

Red amanitas sprouted around his head, near enough to touch.

“What are you doing?” Remus hissed, too low for the clumsy alchemist to hear.

Or so he’d thought.

“Who’s there?” he croaked, fear and pain tightening his throat. Even if Remus hadn’t already felt the man’s injuries through the ground between them, his choked words would have drawn him closer.

“No-one,” Remus answered. Red petals nudged him closer and he shook his head. Yes, fine, he would help him. But he didn’t need to be nice about it.

“Wha—“ he began, twisting to see. The alchemist’s voice broke, a stifled whimper. Besides the gashes and what looked like a sprained if not broken ankle, he likely had at least a few cracked ribs. And maybe worse.

“Stay still,” Remus growled. “You’ll only make your injuries worse flopping around like that.”

Ignoring his advice, the alchemist turned and stared. “You’re—“

The ground shifted beneath them, twisting the tree on top of him. With a pathetic little groan, the alchemist’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

Logan was warm. Not hot, with the sticky heat of humid nights or the glaring sun bearing down on him and the baked, barren ground back home. No, warm like soft springs, tea perfectly steeped and cooled. Gentle sunrises as the steam lifted up off the forest lakes.

Warm and comfortable and—

Logan’s eyes flew wide open, unseeing through an inky blackness surrounding him. The last he’d remembered, he’d been trapped under the biggest tree he’d ever seen, a monstrous specimen so large he’d mistaken it for part of the cliffs. It had hurt, far more than rad poisoning, far more than decompression, far more than anything else he’d ever experienced.

And now? Now he felt warm, wrapped in dark softness, dry and safe and completely without any pain.

“Am I dead?” he whispered into the black silence.

It was not a voice that answered him, but a snore. Several feet away, a very soft, very human snore.

Logan pushed himself upright and sat listening. Other, smaller sounds reached his ears. The distant call of a night bird—an owl, perhaps?—followed by a rustle and the snap of twigs. Wind through the trees.

It was only then a flicker of thin, silver light shot over his legs—rather, over the chunky knit blanket covering his legs.

Next to him was a window, draped in heavy, tightly woven hemp. It waved gently with the breeze, releasing a flicker of moonlight with each movement. Reaching for the curtain, Logan peeled it back, drenching the room in soft moonlight.

He was lying in a nest of blankets, a soft mattress beneath him, overstuffed with grasses and dried moss. If the scent wafting up with each movement was a reliable indicator, of course.

The bedding was tucked into one corner of a small stone house, a hut, really. The floor nothing more than packed dirt. A paneless window stretched alongside it, a sturdy brick-lined stove at the far end.

Two walls lined with books bound in all colors, baskets—both filled and empty—teetered in a haphazard stack by the door, bits of dried and drying herbs hung from the rafters, the walls, the doorway.

And at the end of the bookshelves slept a man.

Wrapped in a blanket much like the ones piled around Logan, most of the man’s face was tucked beneath the covers. Thick eyebrows and a mass of dark, plaited hair peeked out above them. He turned, a beam of moonlight spilling over his temple.

The front door swayed with the breeze, and Logan’s go-bag sat undisturbed beside it. Nothing would stop him from leaving.

Still holding the curtain open, Logan tried to peel away the covers one handed, but he only succeeded in getting himself further tangled within. He released the window coverings, plunging the room into darkness. He’d seen enough to know he was no longer dressed in his own bedclothes, the shirt and pants he’d gone to sleep in before he was woken by the groundshake.

Logan managed to free one leg but when he worked the other out, pain shot out from foot to hip and he cried out. He slapped a hand over his mouth but the snoring across the room suddenly stopped.

“You’re awake,” the man growled. He groaned and the sounds of movement filled the room.

Twisting, Logan tried to reach the curtain, to allow some light inside but he only succeeded in getting further tangled, foot twisted painfully in the blankets. A cry leaked out past his lips and he fell back against the bed, helpless.

“Yeah, I know he’s hurt,” the man muttered.

Was there someone else there? Logan clawed desperately at the bed, trying to reach the curtain but he’d gotten twisted up so badly every movement sent fire up his leg. A sharp crack-crack-crack stilled him and, after a moment, a soft glow filled the room.

The man stood at the other side of the room, a tiny antique lantern held aloft. Logan’s eyes darted around, searching for whoever the man had been speaking to, but there was no-one else there. In the brighter light, he could now see what he’d thought were herbs were vines of Mandevilla spp. and Phaseolus coccineus, their bright red blossoms seemingly uncaring their species did not grow indoors.

Nor bloom at night.

“H—how?” Logan stammered, curtain and blankets forgotten.

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he set the lantern atop the brick stove and knelt next to Logan. Careful, deft hands extricated his leg from the covers and Logan got a better look at the stiff splint wrapped around his ankle. Scowl notwithstanding, he maneuvered Logan’s injured leg gently, adjusting a pillow beneath it Logan hadn’t even realized was there. The elevation helped.

“Did—did you do all this?” Logan asked, gesturing to his leg, his clothes he realized were from the same cloth as the man’s own tunic. “Did you bring me here?”

He grunted. “You didn’t walk yourself here.” The breeze blew one of the Mandevilla close enough to brush against the man’s hand and he glared at it.

“Thank you,” Logan said, holding his breath when the man’s head whipped around, glaring at him instead. “F—for all of this, for finding me, for—“ His voice cracked. With the surprise and pain fading, his thirst made itself known and he licked dry lips.

Without speaking, the man pushed up to his feet and lit the stove. He picked up an ancient-looking kettle and poured some into a small clay cup then set the kettle on the hottest part of the stove. “Here,” he said, moving to his side. He helped Logan sit up and held the cup to his lips. “Drink.”

Logan sipped at the water. It was fresh and clean, not recycled or even silty like the rainwater he collected at base camp. He wondered how much of basecamp survived the groundshake. Likely not much.

“Thank you,” he said again when the cup was empty. He leaned heavily against the supportive arm the man still wrapped around his back.

Movement caught his eye and, over the man’s shoulder, he spotted—hallucinated, surely—one of the longer vines stretching down where it draped over the bookshelves. It snaked its way across the floor and up over the man’s other arm. It sniffed at the cup in his hand like a favored pet.

“Cup’s empty,” the man said. “Yours is outside. It’ll rain in the morning.”

“Did you just—“

The man grunted again and slowly lowered him onto the bed. “You’ll recover faster if you rest,” he said, ignoring his question.

And ignoring the blossoms insistently poking at his foot. That was the final evidence Logan needed, the final proof that he was utterly and completely delirious. “Agreed,” he whispered, the soft bed buffing away his earlier curiosity. “Thank you,” he said one more time and let his head sink into the pillows beneath him.

“You’re—“

The man hesitated and as his eyes closed, Logan imagined he heard the rustle of leaves against the floor.

“You’re welcome.”

Logan was asleep before the kettle began to boil.

The sun was more than half-way in its march across the sky and the alchemist still slept.

Remus had not.

“I know he couldn’t get far with his foot like that,” he muttered, crushing another bundle of dried burdock root. The rhythmic scrape of granite against granite and scent of cloves and lemon balm simmering on the stove soothed the dull ache behind his eyes. “He wouldn’t hafta go far to damage yo—“

“Hello?”

He nearly dropped the pestle. One arm hugging the mortar to his chest, his other hand outstretched and a spell on his tongue, Remus spun around.

The alchemist looked just as startled as he felt. “I… I apologize, I hadn’t meant to interrupt…” Eyes darting around his home, the alchemist floundered, mouth working like a thirsty fish before finally shaking his head. “If I may ask… Wh—who were talking to?”

Remus ignored the question—and the red blooms dancing in the window sill behind him—and brought the poultice to the alchemist’s bedside. His bedside. “This is for you,” he said, allowing the alchemist to smell the mixture like he might with any creature of the woods.

The wind laughed through the poppies, only growing louder at his glare.

“Is there—“ The alchemist twisted, looking back at the window. “Is there someone outside?”

Remus didn’t answer and simply peeled back the bottom edge of the covers, revealing deep red and purple bruising on the alchemist’s injured leg.

He gasped, tensing until the poultice touched his skin. “I… I expected that to hurt.”

“Pretty messed up way to heal something if you have to hurt it first,” Remus muttered, watching the poppies from the corner of his eye as he worked. The blood red petals crept down from the window, dragging their stems behind them in a train.

“I suppose that makes sense,” the alchemist said after a few moments. “Do you… do you heal a lot of people in the woods? I—I’d thought, well… I’d thought there wasn’t anyone for kilometers, not… Not recently at least.”

Remus shrugged. “You’re here,” he said, blowing at the first layer of poultice. It needed to crust over before he applied another or he’d end up with a soggy mess and have to start all over again.

The alchemist seemed to consider that and finally nodded. “Well, yes, I… we—“

“We?” Remus put down the mortar and stared at him. “Who’s we? Who else have you brought here? Where are they?”

“N—no—nowhere,” he stammered, doe eyes wide with fear. The sudden movement had jostled his ankle and it screamed its pain through the air, but Remus held his gaze. “They—they’re… they’re gone.”

Remus started to rise. “And where did they go?” He had enough basil but would need to gather more sage before he confronted them. Alchemist tribes were finicky. Their tribesman’s presence could be protective. Or be considered an act of war.

“No—where,” he said at last. “They’re all… dead,” he finished at last, avoiding his eyes. “My advisor was old, at least forty. He found the gravi—the environment was insurmountable. The other two assistants…” Lips pressed tightly together, he shook his head and breathed hard through his nose. “The snows took them.”

Against his better judgement, Remus sat back down and touched the blanket next to his hand. Poppies curled around the man’s head, much like the halo of amanitas he’d seen when he’d found him. “How long have you been here? It hasn’t snowed since…”

“Six sol—years ago.”

Remus frowned, glancing up at the poppies. The blossoms showed no reaction to his strange dialect. “Let me finish,” he said at last and picked up the mortar. “Then you should rest.”

The alchemist nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he spread another layer of the poultice. The pain fizzled away from the air and he sighed. “Thank you… ah…” He opened his eyes, placid blue deeper than Frère Lake. “M—my name is Logan…”

He fell silent then, watching, expectant. The petals around his head tapped the pillow behind him, also waiting.

“Remus,” he said.

Logan smiled. “Thank you, Remus.”

Time marked by a daily reapplication of Remus’ pungent concoction, Logan managed to maintain a semblance of coherency. There were days when the only time he was conscious was when Remus carefully peeled away the blanket to check on his ankle. Whatever other, less visible, injuries he’d suffered seemed to be taking their toll as he slowly recovered.

Still, the relief he felt as the angry purple bruising faded to greens and yellows was marked.

“You’ll soon be back on your feet,” Remus said one morning—No, afternoon. Long, dappled shadows cast by the old maple outside Remus’ window meant it must be afternoon by now.

“I wish…” There were still several months until the weather would turn. If Remus was right, he’d be well enough to make the trek back with enough time still to assess and repair basecamp for the oncoming season. He’d been making due with the remaining supplies, recycling what he could and jury-rigging what he must.

There were benefits to only requiring a single functioning sleeping shelter.

“I wish I knew how to properly thank you for… helping me,” Logan finally said.

“You can stay away,” Remus grunted, covering his ankle with a fresh cloth and loping across the room in two strides. He busied himself with scraping the stone bowl he used for the treatments, back turned to him.

“Oh… ah, of course.” Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Had a blood clot shifted into a dangerous vein? Was his fatigue something more than simple recovery? Under the covers he felt his pulse. It was steady. “You have been more than generous in my convalescence. I apologize for the inconvenience, I—“

A green tendril unfurled from the Papaver spilling in from the window. It trailed over his leg, red blossoms opening along its path.

Logan stared, breath caught in his throat. He… he was fully awake, fully aware, completely lucid. But this… this couldn’t be real. “Re—Remus?” he stammered. “Please, I… Is…” Finally Remus turned and glared at the flowers as they spread over his legs. “Is this real?”

“Don’t think this will change my mind,” he snapped, addressing the flowers.

“What?”

Remus looked at him then and sighed, arms crossed over his chest. “I—“ He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, they’re real. What, you thought you were still dreaming?” he asked. “You talk in your sleep but not like this.”

“I—I what?” Logan shook his head, a thousand questions colliding. When did he talk in his sleep? When had Remus noticed? Did he watch him as he slept? What did he say? “I—wait, these… Is this… Is this normal for these woods?”

The flowers seemed to turn to Remus, like they, too, awaited his answer.

“It’s not… abnormal,” he said after a moment.

“They’re remarkable,” Logan whispered, reaching to touch one of the petals before thinking better of it. “May I…” He looked at his go-bag still sitting by the door. “May I have the notebook and pencil in my bag?”

“Are you kidding?” Remus stomped closer and the flowers rose up between them. He tried to wave them away, scowling. “Oh, stand down.” He looked at Logan then. “You think I’m just gonna let you cast runespells in my own home?”

“Rune—What? No, I…” Logan pushed up to a seat and the flowers moved with him. “No, I have a field journal. It’s in my bag. For notes?” He mimed holding a book with one hand and writing with the other.

Remus hissed, eyes squeezed shut and both hands up like a shield. After a moment, he lowered them.

The flowers in his lap danced.

“Oh, ha ha,” he spat at them. “Very funny.” He looked at Logan again, eyes narrowed. “Fine, but if you try anything, even he can’t stop me from defending us.”

He? Logan glanced at the flowers. “Okay,” he nodded.

Pinching the strap with a thumb and two fingers, Remus picked it up and carried the bag back to the bed without letting any other part of it touch him. He set it down within Logan’s reach and backed away, eyes sharp. “Open it slowly,” he ordered when Logan reached for the bag.

Nodding, Logan carefully unfastened the front flap and pulled out his field book and a pencil. It was getting dull, but it would work well enough. He didn’t think taking out a knife to sharpen it would engender any additional trust from his already jumpy healer.

The flowers seemed to watch him, as well, inching closer as he opened the book, flipping past pages of fungi and spore print reproductions and various flora he’d found on his trips through the woods. He’d once imagined he’d share his findings with the follow-up research team.

Five years of silence disabused him of the hope one would ever arrive.

Remus flinched when his pencil touched the paper but eased as Logan traced the rough shape of the nearest blossom. Remus stepped closer, watching.

It was difficult to accurately capture the form of the moving blossom, and he kept restating his lines as he worked. After a few minutes, Remus muttered, “You gotta stay still or he can’t do it.”

At first Logan wasn’t sure who he was talking to but the flowers nearest him stopped moving, so still even the breeze from the window didn’t move their petals.

Logan stared for a moment before smiling. “Thank you,” he murmured and quickly sketched the rest of the bloom. When he was done, he turned the book so they both—Remus and the flowers—could see. “They’re quite lovely. I… The picture can’t properly capture their behavior—his behavior?” he asked, noting Remus’ single nod. “But… These flowers don’t grow like this anywhere I’ve ever seen before.”

Remus looked down at the book. “May I?” he asked, voice soft.

“Of course.” Logan passed him the book and watched as he slowly turned each page back to front. “You… made all of these?”

“I—I sketched them, yes,” Logan nodded. The flowers nudged Remus’ hands the way a pet or a tiny toddler might bop its head against a beloved person to get their attention. “Did you… make them?” he asked, impulsively reaching out to stroke one of the flowers.

“You hear that?” Remus asked the nearest blossom, chuckling. When he looked up at Logan, he was smiling. The first smile he’d seen on him. “It’s a long story, but it’s a little bit the other way around.”

Something in that smile gave Logan a courage he didn’t deserve and he reached for Remus’ hand. “I’d love to hear it someday.”

#sanders sides #tss #sasi #ts logan #ts remus #logan sanders #remus sanders #intrulogical #sanders sides fanfiction #ts roman #kinda #tss camp cartoon #my first story for the event! \0/

23 notes · View notes

marcuspikegf · 1 month ago

Text

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

pairing: marcus pike x f!scientist! reader (reader works in the labs, chemical and electronics)

part 1 : mission: cologne | i'm also on ao3 :) | word count is 2022 | part two

rating: general audiences

reader is a techie working in the labs, marcus keeps asking for gadgets :P that's it really. set after lisbon and jane get together.

reader is not described but she has hair that's long enough to be tied into a bun (LAB SAFETY!)

this is my first fic!!! so excited to share with everyone :) likes and reblogs are love :3

The day hasn’t just gone by – it’s dragged itself along, stayed far, far past it’s welcome. You’re drained, exhausted, spending the entire damn day here in the lab. The entire day had been wasted working on the new tracing agent that undercover agents could use, subtle enough to be a cologne, and when sprayed on the perp, creating an invisible tracer on them, to have them be tracked by FBI equipment.

You had to admit, it was a rather decent idea in theory – your team had been brainstorming the formula for a few months now. Your boss was convinced it was possible, and you had been wrong to completely pass it off – here was a mostly finished vial of the liquid.

You had spent the entire day irritating your skin with the acids enough times to remind you of you university’s chemistry classes. Annoying you, as per usual, the liquid seeping into your gloves, unforgiving every time – and you frantically scrubbing it off in the hand-wash station.

This time you wouldn’t even get a passing grade if you stood in this lab long enough, just spending time working on this somewhat futile task until it was perfect.

The clock ticked, it was 8:20, and the sky was pitch dark, and the vials hung around you, almost mocking you as you kept scratching your pencil at the notepad, the ratios nearly somewhat off every damn time.

You’re exhausted, a test-tube in shatters on the floor that you haven’t bothered cleaning up. Lab safety risk or whatever, you don’t care anymore, ready to snap your pencil in half and set the notebook on fire on the bunsen burner.

There’s a knock on the door, and you whip your head around to see Agent Pike leaning against the doorframe of your lab – casually, like he doesn’t bother pointing out the broken glass on the door and the spilt water. You turn off the bunsen burner quickly, noting down the results of the experiment again, before looking at him from over your protective goggles.

He’s been here before, you’ve talked to him from time to time – the art crimes department is not often a visitor to the labs, you’re used to other departments, baggies of drugs to test, deep cover to get more gadgets, agents that deal with gruesome murders and conspiracies.

You’ve met him when they required confirmation of the chemical composition of a fake, to make sure it was one. Then they kept coming back, that case a mystery between having the right age of the paints and the canvas, but being painted in the present. A good forgery, easy enough to catch with the magic of the machines of the lab.

“Agent Pike?” You ask, absently brushing back your hair, it’s long and tied up, somewhat still upholding the importance of lab safety, with some pieces falling over your face, “is there anything I can do for you?”

You don’t talk to people that often – it’s how you roll, science has it’s discussions, but they’re structured, focused, and impersonal.

You enjoy it, not really having much else to say.

He frowns at your tone, one that doesn’t seem serious – “I was just coming in to see Dr Lewis on his work for the chemical tracker, I didn’t realise you’d be in the lab this late.”

Your lips quirk up in a smile, conversation with him is easy, you’ve realised. Easier than what it feels like with others, something about him – something, that lets your brain bypass the awkwardness and reply back, a rhythm.

“Dr Lewis unfortunately is not a labrat, this all me.” Gloved hands pick up the test tube that has been sitting in the rack for a while, “He did all the hard work, I just have to fix the ratios.”

“Fixing ratios?” He looks at the scribbles on your notepad, crosses and numbers scattered about with pencil that looks deep enough to rip through to the page underneath, “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I’m glad you know so much about chemical composition.” Your words have no bite really, as you speak to him, he is of a different world, one with paintings and art – brushstrokes defined well, crimes more polished than the drug-related ones you’re testing for, “too hard? No. But time consuming?”

There’s a sigh, one that comes from deep inside your chest – “Incredibly slow.”

He does this little chuckle, soft, eyes crinkling so you can see the crows feet around them – “Can’t be worse than paperwork.”

You grin. “Paperwork doesn’t involve fire-alarms, I’m sure.”

“Point taken.” He nods, solemnly, before breaking out in a smile again – and you can’t help but laugh at that. Unguarded, nose crinkling as you did so. You wipe some of the sweat of working in this lab off your forehead with the back of your wrist, the only part of your arm that isn’t covered with a glove or a sleeve.

“So what did you come here for?” You ask, turning away from him again to focus on preparing the next experiment. Only twenty more to go, you could be finished by 2 if you were lucky. Then you could take the rest of the damn day off, probably nap face down in your apartment, not smelling like Leather or Cedarwood, or any sort of wood really. Another day in this lab and you’d start waging war on esters, you bet.

“...Did you hear me?” His voice breaks your thoughts, as you’re measuring out another set of chemicals to pour into the vial.

You did not, obviously – it was a thing you did, often just being caught up in your own thoughts, drowning out much of the world. Usually this was headphones, but these days you were so used to honing in your focus on the sounds of the lab, the sounds of the wind against the window, you didn’t hear his words.

“No,” you say, blinking, “sorry, I didn’t…” You shake your head, turning back to him, and pushing the glasses up your nose again, “I got to focus on this.”

“No worries,” he looks more amused than annoyed, and you breathe a sigh of relief – it would be very mortifying to have one of the only friends you’ve made in the FBI in the five months you’ve been here to start getting bored of you, or whatever. “I was just saying, were you anywhere close to finishing this? I need it for an op my team is pulling next week.”

“Next week?” You ask, now fully turning around, taking your glasses off your face – a little in shock. “Next week? Are you insane? I mean…”

You grimace at that, calling a senior agent insane was probably not the best way to go, but you’d already said it, and the words hang above you like a swinging light.

“I mean, well��”

“Go on,” he humours you, for some reason, can you see curiosity in his eyes?

You clear your throat, “It’s not…” you click your knuckles, cramped from holding tongs and test-tubes all day. “It’s not that we don’t have a prototype, it just hasn’t been field tested yet. It’s be a stupid idea to take this out in the field with barely any understanding of how long it lasts.”

His brow arches, at both the audacity of your words and the frankness of it. He appreciated this with you, at least you told him what was going on, unlike the other technicians that just brushed off his requests with statements. At least you told him why this wouldn’t work.

Yet, “We don’t have the luxury of time,” his tone is dry, much like your mouth – “We’ve had an update on our intelligence, we need our undercover agent to sell the painting, and we need this compound as verification.”

You frown, looking away at the dark sky outside the window – dammit, you really wanted that nap.

This would probably require much more of your time, and not just yours, but the whole team’s. And ten red-bulls, probably, coffee wasn’t going to sustain you much longer.

But you can’t help but feel a pang of…something…in those brown eyes of his, pools of warmth that hide a plea in them, disguised. Agents often come to you with…all sorts of issues; guns not working, narcotics identification – this one is no different, asking you for something you make.

And yet he isn’t taking you for granted, situation clear in front of you, not being asked by the agents to perform a forensic analysis on a piece of bloody clothing – this was work, innovative work. Work you like to do.

And then there’s the deal with him looking like that. With his hair in disarray and his mouth in a half up, half down smile that makes something in your chemical hardened heart beat a little faster. You can’t refuse that, you can’t refuse this pretty agent that smiles at you from time to time.

You pace in front of the work bench, goggles back on your face as you try and figure out the best way of making this damn tracer happen in the span of a week – less than that, knowing Pike.

“I could perhaps spend more time working on the stability…” You mutter, before shaking your head no, “No, it won’t work, but with Jones, he could help me with the adhesivity…”

Then, louder, “Okay,” you press your lips together, “Seven days, that’s a maybe if that.”

“Five.” He bites back a grin.

“Do you want me dead, agent?” You fight the urge to rub your fingers against your temple, instead letting your gloved hand fidget with your labcoat’s sleeve. “Five days is impossible, and that’s with the whole team working…”

He looks back at you, calm – “I believe in your ability to deliver under pressure, Doctor.”

“I’ll crack.”

“You’ll deliver.” He repeats, a little firmer this time, and you have delivered before, delivered easily. You and the team have managed to do things fast, but that’s often analysis, not new gadgets.

“Fine.” You nod, you can’t refuse that face – the way it lights up, loose red collar, brown eyes standing out with the blue shirt – “If I die of the stress, hold a state funeral.” You joke, “tell everyone I got shot or something.”

He doesn’t laugh at your morbid joke, and you feel guilty immediately, did you say something that wasn’t right? He was a field agent, art crimes or not – he’s seen death.

It’s one thing hearing about it in the labs, one living it.

“I’ll make sure everyone will know about your contribution.” He says it in a way that makes you pause, intensity in his dark eyes, perhaps it’s the way the light is low on his face, shadows contrasted.

“Sure.” You say, voice uncharacteristically high, not knowing how to deal with…whatever that was.

“Good luck, Doctor.” Marcus smiles, polite, almost detached again – perhaps something more behind his smile that you don’t exactly know ? Your pulse thudding against your wrist as you see him consider coming closer, perhaps give a handshake – before looking at your gloved hands and stepping back.

“It’s Miss.” You tug at your collar, “Haven’t…finished the PhD yet.”

“Right, Miss.” He nods, before the air turns businesslike again, straightening from his position on the doorframe – “See you in five days.”

You stare at him as he walks out, footsteps down the linoleum floor, stare at him for a moment too long, and something in you longs that he would turn back.

“Guess I’m not sleeping!” You sigh, finally turning back to your workbench, pulling out your phone to text on the lab groupchat to let them know they won’t be sleeping too.

You can fit into the hum of the lab easily again, glasses on your face as you start your work – Dr Lewis will be annoyed to take on the extra workload, but something in you can’t bring yourself to care. The feeling bubbles in your chest, remembering when you used to shake mentos and cola together to make a rocket - something like that.

You like it. Maybe he does too.

#marcus pike x reader #pedro pascal x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #x reader #writing #writers #hi guys my first ever fic!! i really hope people enjoy. this will be a 4 part series!!#the mentalist #the mentalist x reader #gladiator 2

15 notes · View notes

nickyrothfan · 2 days ago

Text

What if everyone got super powers?(part 14). Remake

But what do our heroes dream about?

The Roth House:

Nicky climbed into his house through the window.

He had completely fallen out of the routine his parents told him to keep.

What was he supposed to do? Ignore the creepy man on the roof across the street, staring at him like a stalker? Yeah, no.

At least he saved Finch—who even apologized to him.

He didn't know why, but the feeling he had in that moment was... indescribably powerful. Like he was a real superhero.

Too bad he wrecked another T-shirt... second one this month. Luckily, he had a bunch more of those.

Yeah, his parents tried to update his style, but he stubbornly wore the same kind of clothes. Why bother with new ones when the old ones are comfortable?

They barely convinced him to wear a tuxedo. And even then, he only wore it for special occasions.

Rummaging through his closet, he grabbed a new set of clothes identical to the ones he tore up that night.

Throwing on a T-shirt and shorts, he jumped onto his bed.

As much as he didn't want to admit it... life was actually getting better. His parents spent more time with him, his friends were loyal—hell, even Delroy and Finch started treating him more gently. Well... at least, in Allen's case, he thought so.

Of course, every time he used his powers, it either burned his skin, destroying his cells—which don't regenerate forever—or it force-started an accelerated regeneration, which could lead to tumor growth and cancer, or mutations (increased muscle mass, enlarged bones, organs... and the heart might simply not keep up. Plus, with that size, it needs more oxygen), or wear on his nervous system (the brain might get confused whether there's pain or not, reflexes might break, constant itching is possible, and even phantom pain).

...okay, maybe it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows.

With those semi-positive, semi-terrifying thoughts, Roth glanced at a family photo: him, Luanne, Jay, Jay's brother Saul, and Nicky's grandmother—Fein.

He drifted off to sleep...

...

Nicky barely opened his eyes from some strange discomfort inside, but the first thing he saw wasn't the ceiling of the school basement, no lab equipment, no outline of electronic cuffs.

He was lying in his own room. His usual one. Familiar. Homey.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains—soft, warm, peaceful.

He was breathing freely. No pain, no burns, no humming grav-suppressor. Just quiet and calm.

He sat up, slowly ran a hand down his face.

"Weird..." he thought, not feeling any burns. Guess the containment worked after all.

The walls were decorated with posters—Rick and Morty, UFOs, comic books. Everything looked familiar.

On the shelves sat Aaron's model cars.

The dresser was filled with T-shirts, including one teal-and-brown one—torn, but here it was again—intact and neatly folded.

He smelled old baseball leather and gingerbread—Dad's mug was on the shelf, next to some confetti from a childhood birthday.

He jumped off the bed.

His shorts were cozy, familiar. The room looked exactly as it did yesterday: same notice board, a few robots, textbooks.

He opened his notebook and, to his surprise, didn't find any pages about his powers or the drawings he'd made of them.

Stepping out of the room, Nicky entered the familiar hallway. Half the wall was filled with family photos.

Mom, Dad, little him, Fein in front of the Christmas tree. Jay holding a cake, Luanne laughing, ten-month-old Nicky bouncing with joy.

Then came the sound of pans and clinking dishes—Mom and Dad in the kitchen.

He stepped down carefully. In the kitchen—Jay holding a plate of pancakes, Mya sitting nearby, Lucy smearing syrup all over her face.

"...what?" Nicky's eyes widened. Lucy's alive? Mya's here? Both of them are here? What the hell?

He was still standing in the doorway. The room was warm, sunny, smelled like pancakes and honey. Lucy giggled, licking her fingers. Jay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Luanne poured herself some coffee.

Everyone was alive. Everyone was here.

And everything was just... too perfect.

He stepped forward. The floorboard creaked. Everyone turned to look at him, like they'd been waiting just for that moment.

"You're finally up!" Mya ran up to him with such ease, like they'd just seen each other yesterday.

He was... stunned. Wanted to say something, but his throat was dry.

She stopped just a step away, looked into his eyes—those same eyes he remembered even through the nightmares.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I... I don't know..."

He didn't finish.

Because she leaned in and, without waiting for permission, kissed him.

Not fast. Not fiery. Just—warm. Like it was normal. Like it was always meant to be.

And panic kicked in.

Not because the kiss was bad.

Because he couldn't remember when everything turned out like this.

When did Lucy come back?

Why was Mya acting like this had been their third year together?

Where was this feeling coming from... like he was a stranger in his own body?

He took a step back.

Mya didn't get upset. Just tilted her head slightly, like a cat.

"Something wrong?"

He was about to say something like, "Yes, everything is wrong! What's happening? Why is Lucy alive? Why isn't Mya missing?"

But instead:

"No. I... I just need to..."

He almost ran out of the kitchen. His heart was pounding.

He entered the bathroom, shut the door behind him, turned on the cold water and looked into the mirror.

Looked at his reflection.

At a perfectly clean face. No bruises, no scars, no burns.

No trace of pain.

He splashed water on his face, automatically. Cold drops ran down his chin, over his neck, soaking his T-shirt.

The mirror fogged up. He wiped it with the back of his hand and looked again.

Smooth skin. No bruises, no burns. No eye bags. No trace of sleepless nights.

Click.

The bathroom door creaked open.

"Oh, sorry." Mya peeked in. She had a toothbrush in one hand and a tiny bottle of mint paste.

She didn't look embarrassed. At all. Like this was completely normal.

"You don't mind, right? I'll be quick. Uncle Jay said don't hog the bathroom more than three minutes, or Uncle Saul'll start whining about 'waterboarding' again."

She walked past him and stood by the second mirror, brushing her teeth. Calm. Like at home.

Nicky froze. What was Uncle Saul doing in Raven Brooks? He lived in another city.

He felt something cold—not water—run down his forehead.

"You okay?" she asked through the foam, glancing at him sideways.

He nodded slowly, looking at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Like she was a museum exhibit in his memory, and he was trying to remember—when exactly did she disappear? Where was that line, past which she stopped existing, and now suddenly was here again?

"Yeah... I just... haven't woken up with this feeling in a while." he muttered, drying his face with a towel.

Mya smiled, still brushing her teeth.

"Mhm. Get used to it. Everything's normal here now." she said casually, almost confidently.

That phrase knocked the breath out of him.

"Here."

Nicky swallowed.

"Mya... Lucy... when did she come back?" he asked cautiously. Very cautiously.

She spit, turned to him, and shrugged—like the question was strange.

"Did she... go somewhere?"

Nicky froze.

She wasn't joking.

"And... Aaron? Where is he?"

"In the attic. Drawing. As usual. You forgot again? You two made such a mess at the corner store yesterday..." she giggled.

"Like that time you thought you had lightning powers."

His palms went cold.

"And Uncle Saul?"

"Backyard. Digging around with Dad in the old radio transmitter. Says they're trying to catch signals from Mars. Or maybe from the supermarket. Can't remember."

Nicky exhaled, clenched his fists.

"Mya... what about Bubbe Fein?" he asked, softer, almost whispering.

She paused, as if the question caught her off guard.

"On the porch," she finally answered.

"Packing pastries for your trip. And if you ask her what trip, she'll probably say something philosophical and break your brain. Like always."

Mya winked and walked out of the bathroom like everything was perfectly fine.

Nicky stood there. Alone.

Fingers trembling.

Mind empty.

What was happening?

He turned. Left the bathroom.

And headed for the porch.

...

Nicky stood on the porch.

It smelled like dust, grass... and cinnamon.

Like childhood. Like a storybook.

Like that one perfect moment that never actually happened, but you always wish you could remember.

The old rocking chair creaked in the wind.

Embroidered napkins were drying on the railing.

On the steps — a box of pastries and a note from his grandmother:

"Don't be like Jay. Eat on time. — Bubbe."

He read the note about ten times.

To distract himself.

To stop thinking.

To stop wondering why everything was so perfect it was starting to feel terrifying.

"Hey." — her voice came from behind.

He turned around.

Mya was standing barefoot, wearing a T-shirt — clearly his — because it nearly reached her knees.

Her hand nervously fiddled with the hem.

Her eyes squinted from the morning sun.

"You seem kind of... elsewhere today." — she said, walking closer.

"Did something happen?"

Nicky looked at her.

Slowly. Too long.

Like he was trying to figure out who she really was.

"This is the third time you've asked that..." he muttered.

"Yeah? Well, I worry about my boyfriend." — she replied.

"You... you called me your boyfriend?" — he stammered.

Mya paused for a moment.

Then... snorted.

Her laugh — light, feathery, almost musical.

"Well, yeah. Who else would you be?" — she stepped closer.

"What's up with you? We've been dating for a year now. I kissed you this morning in the kitchen. Did you forget already?"

Nicky felt his legs go weak.

He took a step back, leaning against the railing.

"No... I..." he exhaled.

"This isn't... real. We're not together. You disappeared. Lucy... she... died. And you..." — he stopped. His eyes wide.

Mya looked at him closely. And for the first time — her attention wasn't naive or affectionate.

It was like she was... testing something. Checking something.

"Nicky," — she said slowly, like she was choosing her words carefully,

"are you mixing up dreams with reality again?"

He didn't answer.

"You know how you get," — she added gently.

"Stress. Then all those... fantasies. Where everything's awful. Where you're alone. Where I'm missing. Where Lucy is gone. Where you have mint-colored tentacles and superpowers..."

Still, he said nothing.

"You're totally stuck in Think Mode again," — she mumbled, hopping up onto the railing and pulling her knees up.

"Guess I'll have to snap you out of it."

He remained silent.

Mya bit her lip. Then gave a sly little grin.

"Okay, Nick..." — she began, looking up at him, eyes bright.

"If you're not gonna admit everything's normal... then I'll have to prove it. With... close-range flirting attacks."

Nicky blinked, startled out of his fog of anxiety.

"What?"

"I mean..." — she jumped down from the railing, stood right in front of him.

"You're my boyfriend. But you're acting like you just got rescued from a mountain cave with amnesia. So, Doctor Mya prescribes some... therapy."

She gave him a gentle shove in the shoulder, then sat on her knees right in front of him, staring into his face.

"If you don't remember you're my boyfriend, I'm gonna start listing everything you did this past year. Want me to?"

"No." — he said automatically.

"Too bad. I'm doing it anyway." — she smirked, and before he could stop her, she continued:

"First of all — you told me you loved me while we were trying to fix the microwave. You said it out loud. I nearly dropped a wrench."

Nicky's mouth opened slightly, as if to say something... but nothing came.

He had no memory of that.

Though... he could imagine saying it like that.

"Second — you wrote me a dumb ukulele song for my birthday. It was awful. But I still have it."

She leaned forward, closer. He flinched — just a bit.

"And third..." — she got really close. So close he could feel her breath.

"You always blush when I say the word my."

Roth's cheeks lit up instantly.

"There it is!" — Mya laughed, straightening up and placing her hands on his shoulders.

"Red Mode activated. System error cleared."

He stared at her. Inside, the panic was still there — like he'd been yanked out of one reality and dumped into another.

But she... was here. Real. Physical. Too warm, too alive to be an illusion.

Nicky sat there, still lost in thought.

And then Mya, with the same ease — like she'd done it a hundred times — climbed into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He froze.

All his anxiety mixed with something new.

Hot. Embarrassing. Awkward.

He didn't even realize he couldn't breathe properly — like the air in his lungs had suddenly become too heavy.

Mya whispered something about how he smelled like pancake syrup — but he barely heard it.

He was trying not to think. Because his body... reacted.

Without permission.

And in that moment, he felt real fear.

Not for the world. Not for others.

For himself.

Because he didn't know what to do.

How not to screw this up.

"Um... Mya, maybe... you could... move?" — he mumbled.

She looked at him.

"Oh... sorry. Forgot how sensitive you are." — she smiled, understanding his state just from the look on his face.

She slid off him — not offended, not awkward. Just gently. With a little laugh.

But Mya didn't take her eyes off him.

Her gaze — deep, warm, almost unreal — wasn't just at him. It was into him.

"Nicky..." — she whispered.

He didn't have time to respond.

Because she leaned forward... and kissed him.

This time — not quickly. And not hesitantly.

The kiss was tender, steady. Like she'd done it a hundred times. Like she knew every reaction of his already — and still wanted to do it again.

Nicky didn't resist.

He froze for a second, then his whole body relaxed — like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

She stayed close, arms around his neck, swaying slightly on his lap, like the weight of the world had suddenly vanished.

Inside him, everything trembled.

Not from fear.

From a strange... warmth.

Not power. Not panic.

Just — something deeply human.

When they finally pulled apart, both were quiet.

Only their hearts beat.

Steady.

Not from terror.

But from being alive.

Nicky looked at her, biting his lip to hide how real it all felt.

"Want to do it again?" — she asked, softly, almost laughing.

He didn't reply.

He leaned forward again.

And the third (fourth, counting the kitchen) kiss — was completely theirs.

He didn't care anymore if this was a dream.

He wanted to continue this...

He wanted to repeat it...

And he would — even in real life, when he finally found her again.

#hello neighbor #hello neighbor fanfic #nicky roth #mya peterson #jay roth #luanne roth #lucy yi #super powers au remake #Nicky x Mya #technically…#Saul Roth

7 notes · View notes