#i think they lost most but Ms Marvel/Echo is a good direction I like this new phase

[aymethyst]

It took so fucking long Marvel is finally making interesting content again

[jamespotterthefirst]

She Walks In Beauty (Ethan x MC)

Regency Era AU

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Miss Lilac Allende) Word count: 3,000 Warning: None, this is just long. Sorry.  Premise: At a ball, Doctor Ethan Ramsey is entranced by her beauty, not knowing there is so much more to her than meets the eye. 

____

“Her father might be wealthy, but we are all in agreement that she is not nearly as beautiful as Miss Cecilia Haddington,” a high pitched voice was saying, so loudly that it grated on his ears. 

Ethan disagreed with the ridiculous statement. 

He glared in the direction of the speaker, a proud-looking woman with feathers in her hair that made her look like some kind of over-sized bird. The simpering women around her looked just as ridiculous, beady eyes observing the dancing couples as they listened. 

“And Spaniards,” the woman added, her voice lowering at the last word. “What a shame. Her skin is not quite as fair and her nose not as graceful. It's no wonder she is fast approaching spinsterhood.”

Ethan's fingers clasped around his drink with excessive force. Jaw tight, he considered the scandal of throwing the group out of his estate. If he was being forced to throw this inane ball in the first place, then he could at least have a right to throw out the vermin. 

Applause rang around the grand ballroom as the Minuet came to an end, interrupting his furious thoughts.

 Even more distracting, his gaze met a pair of bright eyes from across the room. Ethan had lost count of how many times their eyes found each other that evening, her beautiful mouth turning into the briefest of smiles before she looked away. In a gown colored the deepest wine, her dark hair and graceful neck adorned with gold, she was a vision of loveliness unlike anything he had ever seen before. 

He forced his gaze away, aware that many eyes around the ballroom were on him. The last thing he wanted was to willingly give them more to gossip about. 

“Lovely creature, isn’t she?” an older gentleman said at his side. Perhaps Ethan was not as swift or discreet in looking away.

Ethan said nothing, the response so characteristic that his companion did not wait for anything else. Instead, the older man watched her through the rim of his glass, watery eyes alight with an expression Ethan did not quite like. 

“It's a marvel that a beautiful, young woman such as that remains unmarried,” the older man continued unprompted. 

A swig of his drink was all the reply he was going to get from Ethan. Any of the pompous guests who laid eyes on him would assume he was disinterested, which is how he preferred it. 

He was interested, however. Ever since their brief introduction earlier that evening, Ethan found he could not keep his eyes away from her. To his utter dismay and surprise, he sought out the beautiful young woman he had seen a handful of times before at other social gatherings. Except, he had never stood so close to fully appreciate the graceful slope of her nose, the beautiful shape of her lush mouth, or the alluring glint of her clever eyes. 

Those clever eyes had assessed him so thoroughly at their introduction that Ethan became obsessed with knowing her every thought. Now, he stole glances at her, hoping to do just that, the urgency of it something he would never admit out loud. 

“Or perhaps not so much a marvel,” the older man said with a chuckle. “Beautiful as she might be, she fancies herself much cleverer than any sensible woman should. No eligible man in his right mind would take a wife like that, impressive dowry notwithstanding.”

The man laughed and perhaps expected Ethan to join in. Again, he wondered how scandalous it would be to punch a guest. 

“She appears cleverer than everyone here combined,” Ethan retorted instead, not bothering to look at him. “I have only spoken briefly with the young woman and her words had more merit than the vapid conversation others insist on having with me.”

The man's laughter turned into a hasty cough. His attention snapped up to assess Ethan's expression. 

“Yes, well,” he started nervously when he could not discern the full meaning of Ethan's words. 

Before he could, Ethan briskly said, “Excuse me,” and took his leave. He determinedly walked away, making his way through the many elegantly dressed guests—  guests decorum mandated he should be entertaining with conversation. 

Ethan could not consider this any further, because just then he caught a glimpse of scarlet and gold by the exit of the ballroom. This time, she wasn't looking at him, instead glancing around nervously to ensure no one was watching her, before she made her escape. Without much thought, Ethan followed her. 

 To his complete surprise, she wandered the hallways of his estate, curiously peering into rooms until she found his study. Satisfied, she disappeared behind the door. 

Ethan allowed a few minutes before he followed, quietly opening the heavy oak door. She stood by his desk, on the tips of her feet as she pursued his bookshelves. Attention rapt as it was on the titles, she did not notice him enter. 

“Ah,” she muttered quietly, hastily pulling out a volume he did not recognize from the distance. With shaky fingers, she opened it and began to read by the candlelight. In one hurried motion, she produced a small book and stubby pencil from her reticule. 

She had just started to scribble swift notes when Ethan’s curiosity won out. 

He cleared his throat loudly to make his presence known. 

Ms. Allende let out a startled cry at the sound, dropping his book and sending it skittering across his desk until it landed at his feet. 

“I–” she started as she whirled around, all words dying at her throat when her eyes fell on him. In a panicked whisper, she said, “Doctor Ramsey.”

In her shock, she seemed to have forgotten to curtsy because she did after a brief delay. 

“Miss Allende,” he returned with a bow. 

The gestures seemed overly ridiculous in their current predicament. 

In the loaded silence that followed, she regarded him with wide, terrified eyes that were almost comical to him. He schooled all amusement from his expression as he watched the color blooming on her cheeks and neck, almost matching the color of her gown. 

Finally, he said, “Did no one tell you it is unspeakably rude to leave a ballroom in favor of meddling through the host's study?” 

Her lovely face looked mortified. “I wasn't meddling,” she began to explain. 

Ethan arched an incredulous brow at her. 

Their eyes fell simultaneously to the book she had dropped, now resting at his feet. Ethan bent down to collect it, ignoring the slight intake of breath from Miss Allende. 

“The Anatomy of Humane Bodies by William Cowper,” he read out loud, examining his book with renewed interest. He glanced between the old tome and the young woman, who guiltily stared at the carpet as if willing it to swallow her whole. 

When she said nothing, he sarcastically added, “So you decided to trade dancing for a bit of light reading?”

No response. 

“Were your suitors really that dull that you prefer an ancient medical text to their company?”

Her eyes flew to his then, the embarrassment slowly dissipating into something else. Her spine straightened slightly and she opened her mouth to offer a response. However, she must have remembered she had just been caught in his study, rifling through his library because she closed her mouth at once. 

“Why are you in my study unchaperoned, Miss Allende?” 

Belatedly, he realized the implications of the word unchaperoned. Ms. Allende must have caught it too because her face grew impossibly brighter. 

“I was studying, sir.”

“That much was apparent,” he returned at once. “What was not as obvious was studying what precisely?” 

A small pause before she said, “I intended to study your medical books.” 

“Why?”

She considered the question. “Because medical books are exceedingly difficult to find, particularly good ones,” she explained in a rush, still sounding quite breathless.  “Given that you are the only physician nearby, I concluded your library would be the most appropriate place to find something useful.” 

“And why are you this determined to acquire medical texts?” 

There was a long pause, one so vast that he started to doubt if she would answer. 

At least, her pretty mouth set in a determined line, she seemed to decide something.

“Because I want to be a physician.” 

------------------

The words echoed heavily between them, almost deafening in the silence. For a brief, panicked moment, Lilac wished she could take them back, cursing her recklessness. 

Why had she felt so compelled to tell him? 

No one knew about her ambitions, except her chaperone, Mrs. Martinez. And this was for good reason. Lilac was already a social outcast on many fronts. One was her status as a foreigner in a society obsessed with birth and status. Forget that she had been in England since childhood, learning and enduring its rigid societal expectations. The only reason her family received one half of the respect they deserved was the wealth her father's hard work had earned them. 

Lilac was also the subject of much gossip for making her disinterest in marriage abundantly clear. Never with words but with her skillful avoidance of courtships. This endeavor proved far more challenging as the years went by since suitors were increasing instead of decreasing in numbers. Add to all this a desire to practice medicine and her father's reputation would be ruined almost as badly as if she was found in a man's bed. 

The thought prompted her to look at the impossibly handsome man currently in front of her.

Those striking blue eyes assessed her quietly, his face betraying nothing of what he was thinking. 

“It is unorthodox, I understand,” she started with dignity when she could bear the silence no longer. 

“It is unorthodox, Miss Allende,” he agreed.

The words, expected as they were, stung. 

“And, to be honest,” he continued, “I am not convinced you will ever be a proper physician.”

Lilac blinked, a wave of shock paralyzing her where she stood. It wasn't long, however, before surprise was replaced by an unbridled, righteous anger. 

Her hands balled into fists at her sides, palms itching to connect with his beautifully structured face. She had the imperious, mahogany desk separating then to thank for stopping her. The scandal that would provoke would be insurmountable and impossible to recover from. 

“That is quite a shocking assumption considering you only made my acquaintance today,” she said scathingly. 

Doctor Ethan Ramsey looked slightly taken aback by the sudden vehemence in her voice. His piercing eyes studied her wordlessly as she glared up at him, chin pointed with stubborn dignity. 

“What prompts you to believe I would not be an efficient doctor?” she challenged angrily. “Is it the fact that I am a woman?” 

Something flickered in his gaze. 

“Miss Allende,” he began but Lilac gave him no room to continue. 

“Because I am far more learned and capable than most of the guests currently in your ballroom,” she continued, incensed, her ears crackling with the sound of her wild pulse. 

“Of that, I have no doubt.” 

She only half heard his words, determined as she was to spill the anger and terror his proclamation inspired in her. “Or is it because I am not fully English?” 

It must have been a laughable sight. He was entirely too tall and broad shouldered for her to seem like a real threat. If she was lucky, the top of her head would only begin to reach his impeccably tied cravat. 

To her utter shock, however, he laughed. A quiet, restrained laugh but a laugh nonetheless. 

“I'm not fully English either,” he explained quietly. “And neither is my mentor, who is quite possibly the most talented doctor in the country.”

Once he mentioned it, she could pick up the almost melodic inflection of a dialect in his words, so imperceptible she would have not realized it was there. It was one she recognized from fellow merchants her father traded with, originating from Scotland. 

“None of the reasons you so passionately listed matter in being a good physician, Ms. Allende,” he continued, taking advantage of her pause. “And as you correctly pointed out, I have only just made your acquaintance today.” 

She only stared at him, still recovering from the shock of his laughter. 

He raised The Anatomy of Humane Bodies to her eye level. “However, hastily taking notes from Cowper's book is not going to take you very far in medicine,” he continued casually. “That is what I meant when I stated my doubt.”

Her face flared with embarrassment again. “In my haste, I chose the first book I could find on the shelf. My true hope was finding something by Edward Jenner.”

Dr. Ramsey froze. His dark brows rose briefly in surprise before he cut her an almost impressed look. 

“You have an interest in Jenner's work?” 

She nodded earnestly. 

“What aspect?”

“The works I have read by other physicians strongly suggest Jenner has traced heart problems to arterial narrowing,” she explained. “I wanted to confirm if those suspicions were indeed correct.”

“They are,” he returned at once. Without waiting for a response, he moved around the mahogany desk separating them. He was so close to her that she was convinced her reputation would be ruined beyond repair if someone was to walk in. 

Lilac swallowed, attempting to regain control of her breathing, heart beating so furiously against her rib cage, it was a miracle he could not hear it. The nearness of his body, the smell of his cologne, the sight of his sharp jaw– all of it could have scorched her on the spot. 

Dr. Ramsey, however, narrowed his eyes in concentration, scanning the shelves behind her. He found what he was looking for, pulled the book from the shelf, and placed it gently on her gloved hands. 

Slightly dazed, she glanced down at the title. 

An Inquiry Into the Causes and Effects of the Variolae Vaccinae by Edward Jenner.

Lilac continued to glance at the leather-bound volume, somehow feeling heavier  than was possible. At last, the information she longed to know for so long was right there, in her very hands. 

Throat oddly tight, she glanced up at Dr. Ramsey, who was still standing closer than convention deemed proper. Their eyes met and at this proximity, the effect of his blue eyes was almost destructive. 

He seemed to realize how close they were because he hastily took a step back. Clearing his throat loudly, he said, “The theory you read about is outlined in his work. He reached that conclusion through his own experience and observation.” 

She was still at a loss for words so she said nothing.

Dr. Ramsey continued, “Which brings me to the real substance of a good physician.” He fixed her with a very solemn look before continuing. “Reading all the texts in this library will not be enough, Miss Allende. In fact, I give permission to take as many books as you wish for however long you need them.” 

Her breath hitched at her throat. If she was speechless before, it was nothing to how she felt at that very moment. 

“That still won't make you a doctor,” he warned her. “A doctor learns best through practice. To learn about the disease, first you must listen to the patient. Every word is a clue you must weave together for a cure.”

The elation swelling inside of her deflated at once.

“I am afraid I do not possess the opportunity to observe and learn, sir,” she said, keeping her voice as even as possible. She refused to sound as pitiful as she felt. “For the reasons I so passionately listed before.”

Dr. Ramsey considered her then with a scrutiny so acute, she wished to vanish into the shadows. Very quietly, he asked, “Why do you wish to be a doctor, Ms. Allende?” 

She had never considered the question before. All she knew was that she longed to practice medicine with a yearning so powerful, it consumed her every motivation. 

“I wish to solve the mysteries that cause so much suffering,” she finally responded. “Illness does not discriminate between social status or wealth, yet it seems medicine does. I hope to bring aid to people who are not fortunate enough to be Earls or Dukes.”

Dr. Ramsey contemplated her answer for a long time, expression as indiscernible as ever. It set her nerves on edge and she wondered if she had said the wrong thing. At last, his blue eyes seemed to reach a conclusion. “I can teach you.” 

“What?” 

“I can teach you medicine,” he repeated patiently. “An apprenticeship, of sorts.” 

Lilac opened her mouth, aware she must look like some sort of fish out of water. Even with her limited knowledge of medicine, she knew a heartbeat so turbulent could not be healthy. 

“How would that work?” she asked when she found her voice. “Your reputation–” 

“My reputation does not concern me in the least,” he deflected with a small shrug. “Besides, it is very damaged as it is as I insist on being ‘surly’ and ‘unsociable.’”

Vaguely, she considered he was using someone else’s words and not his. 

She tried to blink away the haze. “Where is this to take place?” 

“This study,” he answered simply. “I am sure you agree with its usefulness given that you broke into it.”

“My father would never allow me to study medicine,” she blurted, the proclamation one of many thoughts speeding through her mind. 

“He is blissfully unaware his daughter has been secretly studying it all these years,” Dr. Ramsey argued reasonably.  “There is no reason he should learn of it now.”

“But my family will wonder why I am here all the time,” she said. “What pretense will I use to merit so many visits here?” 

At this, he offered her a smile that was too devastating to be permissible. “You strike me as a clever girl. I am confident you will figure it out.”

_____

Read Part 2

_____

Author’s Note: Sorry! Once I started typing, I couldn’t stop! I was thinking of writing a part 2 where she is his apprentice? IDK IDK 

THANK YOU for making it this far

_______

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[elsaclack]

they love to tell you stay inside the lines, but something’s better on the other side

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY ZAINAB @taxicabsandcupcakes THIS IS MY WEEK-LATE CONTRIBUTION TO @taxicabsandbirthdays2019 AND I’M S O R R Y THAT I’M LATE BUT I’M SO SO SO SO GLAD I GET TO BE A PART OF THE CELEBRATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND THANK U TO @birdhapley FOR ORGANIZING THIS AND BEING SO AMAZINGLY WONDERFUL AND UNDERSTANDING GOD BLESS THANK U!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Amy Santiago detests pep rallies.

It’s probably among the most boring, bookworm-esque things about her - which is really saying something, considering she spends most Friday nights catching up on recorded episodes of Wheel of Fortune when not competing in her highly competitive literature-based trivia league at O’Hannigan’s - but really, truly, she hates them. Hates the uncomfortable chill of the large gym (to accommodate for the 500 students packed into the stands, or so Principal Holt says), the crackling speaker blown out from years of student emcees screaming into the microphones, hates the way the marching band’s sound glances off the wall opposite where they sit in the stands, echoing back harshly to create an off-beat dissonance guaranteed to have a headache unfurling in her temples in a matter of seconds.

But most of all - more than anything - she hates the annual teacher relay race.

“It’s tradition, Ms. Santiago,” Principal Holt said last week. “I can no more get rid of it than I can change the school colors. Just pray they don’t pick you this year.”

And hope she does - tinged with a sour edge of bitterness she’s certain shines through to the surface by a face scrunched in distaste - as the emcee rifles one-handed through four envelopes protruding from his jacket pocket. A chill races down her spine, imparted through the frigid painted cinder blocks against her back, and to her right another teacher’s shoulder presses against hers.

“I can’t wait for this kid to graduate,” Rosa mutters, and for a moment, Amy’s discomfort fades to the backburner. “He’s in my fourth period class. Never stops singing that stupid Christmas song. Donde está Santa Claus. I swear to god, I’m gonna kill him before December.”

Amy snorts, her eyes never leaving the center of the gymnasium. “At least it’s not la cucaracha anymore,” she offers, and from the corner of her eye she sees Rosa’s head fall back in time with a quiet, strangled groan, memories of previous students shouting the chorus likely playing on a loop. “It could always be worse.”

“Yeah, you could be teaching a bunch of nerdy AP Calculus kids,” Jake mutters from Rosa’s other side.

He’s already grinning when Amy’s gaze darts to his face - and his grin grows all the wider as her face folds into a glare. “More than ninety percent of my kids are in your AP classes too, Peralta,” she reminds him. “You wanna maybe not insult them all in one fell swoop?”

“Oh, Santiago, stop it. You know it turns me on when you talk numbers to me. It’s unfair in the work environment.”

Amy lets out a quiet, disgusted noise that is lost to the sudden explosion of screaming and cheering from the stands. She focuses in on the emcee, desperately trying to catch up on what she just missed while simultaneously ignoring Rosa snickering and Jake staring at the side of her face.

She catches pieces, fragments of phrases filtered through long stretches of garbled noise, but she manages to gather enough to understand that it’s time to announce which four unlucky souls will be forced to compete in the relay race.

She’s been teaching here six years and she hasn’t been chosen once, but that doesn’t stop her from bowing her head, closing her eyes, and whispering not me over and over again.

The freshmen nominate Charles, the home ec teacher she’s always seeing fawning over Jake in the break room, and though his face is tinged pink with embarrassment he’s still smiling good-naturedly and waving to the corner of the gym in which the freshmen class is currently tucked away. Many of the upperclassmen are clapping and cheering, too - probably previous students of his - but the applause dies down relatively quickly.

“Does it feel weird in here to you?” Rosa mutters in her ear. “Like...more intense than usual?”

Amy’s gaze darts out across the sea of faces spread out on either side of her. It’s odd - many of them seem to be looking in their direction. “A little,” she admits. “I think it’s just homecoming, y’know? Kids get weird on dance days.”

“They’re staring at you, though,” Rosa mutters.

She can’t seem to catch any of her students’ eyes. “Maybe they’re staring at you?”

Rosa’s mouth falls open, but before her retort can leave her lips she’s interrupted by the emcee’s booming voice. “And the sophomore class nominated...Ms. Diaz!”

“Told you!” Amy shouts as Rosa pushes off the wall and trudges toward the center of the gym. Rosa shoots her a look over her shoulder - one that says I’d be flipping you off if we weren’t surrounded by a thousand children right now - and Amy smiles back as sweetly as she can, making a show of clapping enthusiastically.

“She’s gonna destroy Charles,” Jake sighs, sliding into the space Rosa previously occupied. He’s staring out into the gym when Amy glances at him, eyes glazed. “Pour guy won’t ever see it coming.”

“I dunno,” Amy says thoughtfully, watching the way Charles and Rosa slowly circle each other while the sophomore class goes wild. “Rosa’s tough, but she’s not really into these things. I could see her giving it, like, twenty percent effort. Charles may have a chance.”

“What did I tell you about talking numbers to me while we’re at work?” Amy laughs and rolls her eyes, and from her peripheral vision she can see Jake watching her, a grin on his face. “There are minors here, Amy. So many minors.”

Despite her best effort to absorb whatever unintelligible nonsense the emcee is shouting into the microphone now, Amy finds herself fighting the urge to turn her body to face Jake head-on. She can already picture his reaction perfectly - the way he’d rear back a little bit, eyes darting over her face, the tip of his tongue wetting the corner of his mouth in a nervous tick - and it’s so easy to get a rise out of him -

The students are screaming again and Ms. Bishkin is squeezing her arm to her left and Jake is laughing, guffawing, sliding his hand beneath her shoulder and prying her off the wall before shoving her toward the center of the gym. The juniors - no, the entire student body - every single person in the gym is losing their minds, screaming at near-deafening volumes, and it occurs to her as she toddles out to the center of the gymnasium floor that they must have called her name.

“Told you,” Rosa mocks, voice high and sing-song, as Amy numbly takes her place beside her.

“Isn’t this great?” Charles nearly squeals.

“Did they say my name?” Amy asks.

Charles’ face pinches slightly in concern, but Rosa snorts and shakes her head. The emcee is louder here, standing two feet away - it’s like being in a fishbowl, hundreds of eyes following her every move, sound coming from every direction, and Amy has to remind herself how to breathe. The gym seems smaller from the center - the walls much closer together - and she’s certain if she could just fold in on herself a little bit more the walls might stop slowly drawing together like they have been since Jake shoved her toward the middle -

“Something weird is going on,” Rosa mutters.

Amy blinks, forcing herself to focus on the faces in the crowd and not on the panicked haze beginning to cloud her vision. The energy is frenetic, borderline manic; she catches several students pointing in her direction, shouting to their friends. “I hate this,” Amy declares.

“And for our senior class, the nominee is...Mr. Peralta!”

“Oh, I really hate this!” Amy shouts to Rosa over the din of noise overtaking the gymnasium. If the reaction to her nomination was wild, the reaction to Jake’s is a fully fledged riot. Even he seems off-put as he makes his way to the center of the gym, his face twisted in concern as students leap from their seats and scream.

“Anybody else getting some real Lord of the Flies vibes from these freaks today?” Jake shouts the moment he’s in earshot.

“They’re like gremlins,” Rosa marvels, eyes wide as they flit over the students before her. “I wish I had one of my knives.”

“It’s a pep rally relay race,” Amy mutters. “How bad could it be?”

Her answer comes twenty minutes later, hidden behind a makeshift dressing screen made of thin white paper, covered from head to toe in single-ply toilet paper that clings to the sticky apple pie filling residue leftover from the first round of the relay race. Charles lost that round - apparently his refined palate and general sense of delicacy surrounding food made him a terrible pie-eating competition participant. Rosa lost round two - it’s sort of a relief to know that her personal space bubble is impenetrable by all people and not just Amy, though the looks of disappointment on the students’ faces when they realized she would not be allowing them to mummify her made Amy’s stomach churn with sympathy.

Her answer comes in the form of one Jake Peralta, the only other competitor still standing, currently picking shriveled bits of toilet paper stuck in the blueberry filling smeared through his five-o’clock shadow. He seems disgruntled until he meets her eyes; his expression turns cocky at once, grin somehow suave and goofy at the same time. “Can’t wait to wipe the floor with your face on this race, Santiago,” he half-shouts.

The kids are still cheering, the band is playing, all in an effort to cover up the noise of the other teachers setting up an obstacle course on the other side of the screen - but Amy manages to keep a cool, unaffected smile on her face. “You’re gonna have to catch me to do that, Peralta, and we both know I’m faster than you.”

“On what planet? I beat you to the break room every single time Gina emails saying there are donuts down there!”

“That’s because the only people you’re racing for those donuts are Hitchcock and Scully! And you lose every time, so I’m definitely gonna win!”

She doesn’t really notice the fact that they’ve stepped closer to each other until Jake laughs; the smell of blueberries is overwhelming as a gust of breath washes over her face. She blinks, and he’s grinning down at her, brows contorted as he visibly grasps for a comeback.

His eyes dart over her face, catching down near her chin, before jumping back to hold her gaze again - and every ounce of humor twinkling there moments before has evaporated. “You, uh,” he swallows, and from her peripheral she sees his hand twitch into view. “You got a little apple goop on your chin.”

“Oh,” she breathes.

She makes no move to wipe it away.

Her answer comes in the form of the dressing screen suddenly falling away, of the noise around them reaching the loudest volume yet, of Jake quickly swiping the pad of his thumb across her chin before taking off across the gym with a shout of gleeful laughter.

(It’s bad. It’s really bad.)

“Shit, shit, shit,” she mutters through clenched teeth as she takes off after him.

He’s got her by a head across the hoola-hoop tire run and in army crawling under the line of desks, but her moment of redemption comes at the far end of the gym - she spots the football leaning against the third mascot head’s eye, so she’s already halfway through vaulting over the low walls of copy paper boxes by the time Jake manages to find his football. Her heart is in her throat and there’s silly string in her eye from the football team, all screaming and yelling from where they’re lining the edges of the hoola hoop tire run back to the finish line, but none of it matters - she beats Jake across the finish line with ten seconds to spare.

And the crowd goes wild.

It’s hard not to let the hysteria unfolding in the bleachers around her get to her, in all honesty. She manages to tamp down the urge to spike the ball into the floor, opting instead for a smug grin cast in Jake’s direction as he jogs across the finish line. He looks like he’s been dragged through pep-rally hell; even under layers of silly string and blueberry pie filling and half-disintegrated toilet paper, she can make out his good-natured smile of defeat.

She never expected to apply the word cute to such a clearly disheveled mess of a human being, but it’s the only word her brain can conjure as they exaggeratedly shake hands. The emcee is screaming and rushes over to grab her wrist, and as he raises it over their heads the kids go wild - and to her left, Jake steps back, his football tucked beneath to join in on the applause.

So cute.

She’s ushered into a locker room branching off from the gym, silly string and apple pie filling and god-only-knows what else obscuring her vision to the point that she’s not even sure if it’s the boy’s or the girl’s. One of the administrators, Mrs. Brackens, leads her to the sink, chattering away about how wonderful all the homecoming festivities are, and somewhere off behind her Amy hears the din of the gym grow intimately loud again as the locker room door swings open.

“- almost had her again on the vaulting, it’s too bad you slipped on that silly string coming back to the hoola hoops - just wait, Jake, you’ll win next year for sure -”

“I need silly string out of my hair and fresh clothes on my body in the next five minutes or I’m gonna lose my mind, dude,” Jake interrupts. “D’you mind? My bag’s under my desk in my room.”

“You brought a change of clothes?” Amy whines, dipping her head down toward the sink while scrubbing the pads of her fingers against her right eye.

He shoots her an incredulous look as Charles scampers off. “Holt emailed faculty last week and told everyone to bring an extra set just in case,” he reminds her. “Did - did you forget?”

“I didn’t forget,” she snaps as she whirls around to face him, “I just - I didn’t think I’d be nominated, is all, so I -”

“That’s alright, dear, we’ve got plenty of extra clothes in the office - they’re technically for the school pride fundraiser at the game tonight, but I’m sure Principal Holt won’t mind.”

“Thank you -”

“Amy Santiago forgot to do something Principal Holt told her to do,” he says with a slow shake of his head as Mrs. Brackens hurries toward exit. “For shame.”

“Knock it off, Peralta,” she mutters, returning her attention to her reflection.

“How are you acting like a sore loser when you won?”

“Because I have silly string in my eye.”

“Well, so do I, but I’m not being a jerk about it -”

“You don’t wear contacts.”

“Oh, god,” he’s at her side in an instant, genuine concern radiating from his frame as he watches her scrub through the mirror. “Do you have an extra pair?”

“Not here,” she mumbles. “I used my emergency pair on Monday after construction dust got in my eyes in the parking lot. I just - I have my, uh, glasses.”

“I can grab them. Or, uh, Charles can. Where are they?”

“Y’know what, I think I’d rather be blind for the rest of the day -”

He stays quiet long enough that she glances up at him in the mirror; he’s staring at her, eyes narrowed in confusion. “You’re blind as a bat without contacts, Ames,” he reminds her. “You wouldn’t be able to teach your last period.”

“That’s my smallest class - they’ll be fine, they can self-teach, I’ll just - I’ll just go home early -”

“What do they look like?”

She hangs her head in defeat, her sigh fogging the frigid porcelain beneath her forearms. “They’re pink. Plastic. Top left drawer in the black case, he can’t miss ‘em.”

“He’s on it,” Jake declares after a beat. “Five minutes. You okay ‘til then?”

“Just don’t let me wander out into traffic and we’re good,” she murmurs as she pulls the offending contact out of her eye. The relief is instantaneous - as is the effect. Resigned to her fate, she pulls the other contact out and carefully steps toward the blackish blur she thinks might be the trashcan at the end of the sink.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Jake asks, hand raised. It’s all unfocused, blurry shapes - though she’s positive he’s grinning in that self-satisfied way of his.

“I dunno, how many am I holding up?” she asks, flashing her middle finger.

“Rude!” he gasps. “Rude and unprofessional!”

She laughs, casts backward for the edge of the sink with one hand, and points toward the benches to her right. “Will you help me? Just - make sure I don’t, like, step on anything or trip over anything?”

He chuckles as he takes her hand, leading her forward slowly. She tries to focus on the uncomfortable humidity pressing against her skin and not on the pleasant warmth of Jake’s hand - on the loud mechanical whir of an outdated air conditioning vent, not the calluses on his fingertips from reading too many books and playing guitar too often.

She tries - she fails.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a moment of silent shuffling.

“I’m fine, why?”

“You’re just - you’re squeezing my hand like you’re afraid you’re gonna float away -”

She loosens her grip immediately, inwardly cursing herself. “I don’t like not being able to see, and I really don’t like having to rely on other people to help me see.” she mutters.

A beat passes, and then he’s squeezing her hand. “It’s okay to be a little vulnerable sometimes, y’know,” he murmurs - voice soft and understanding. “Especially around people who, uh - who care. About you. As a person.”

It’s hard to read his facial expression - hard to read anything at all, in fact - but the awkward tension rolling off of him in waves is undeniable. “You care about me?” she huffs.

She’s not exactly sure what she’s expecting - a biting, sarcastic remark seems customary from him. “Of course I do,” he says softly, tinged at the furthest edges with indignation, as if her questioning whether he cares about her is a personal offense. “You’re my favorite person here, Amy. Why else do you think I mess with you as much as I do?”

“The same reason you make your kids read Great Expectations - you enjoy watching people suffer?”

“Dickens was paid by the word and took full advantage, it’s important for kids to learn how to identify a load of shit when they see it -” she laughs, and his grip on her hand grows tighter at the sound. “But that’s a whole different conversation. I mess with you because I - I mean - you’re just, you’re cute when you’re annoyed with me. That’s all.”

“You think I’m cute?”

She can’t keep the disbelief out of her voice - and this time, there’s no mistaking the exasperation on his face. “Oh, my god, you are so dumb for a genius. Yes, you’re cute, Amy. You’re smart and you’re funny and you’re the best teacher - the best person I know. Obviously.”

“Obvious- there is no obviously about this!” she snaps just as her knee grazes against the frigid edge of a metal bench. “You’ve been making fun of me for years - since, like, my third day here -”

“You just get so wound up so easily, it’s kind of a cheap shot at this point -”

“God,” she says, “you just act like so many of these sixteen-year-olds who don’t know how to talk to the girl they like so they pull her pigtails instead. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a little schoolboy crush on me.”

She means it as a joke, but the moment the words leave her lips, she senses the change. She’d have to be truly blind not to - blind to the tension expanding his chest beneath his shirt, to the hard set of his jaw line, to the twitch in his biceps as his fingers momentarily squeeze tighter. She’d very much like to smack her hand against her own forehead in that moment - if it wasn’t still held fast in Jake’s.

“I’m sorry,” she tries, the edges of her voice disintegrating. “I was just - I didn’t mean to -”

“What if I do?”

“What?”

“What if I do?” Jake repeats - impossibly steady, impossibly still. “What if I do have a little schoolboy crush on you?”

She’s never wished for her stupid out-of-fashion glasses more than anything in this moment - to see whatever intense affection is currently smoldering in his eyes - but it’s probably good that she can’t, for if the image before her was any more sharp, any more in focus, she’s certain she’d crumble to dust pinned beneath it. “Jake?”

“I like you, Amy. I’ve been - I mean, I don’t know. I - I wanted to tell you - to ask you out, y’know, romantic-stylez, a long time ago, but you were with Teddy back then and then I was with Sophia - but, that’s, that’s not - I like you. I really like you. And I’ve been wanting to ask you out again, I just - I didn’t think I’d want to do it after all of this -”

“All of - all of what?”

“Y’know - the pep rally. Charles and Rosa setting us up.”

“What?”

“Nevermind, nevermind, just - I’m sorry, I don’t mean to spring this on you or to put you in an awkward position or anything, ‘cause you said before that you just - you don’t date teachers - but I just, I thought you should know. I’d want to know. Sorry.”

His grip around her hand is rigid, though not to the point of cutting off circulation - like he wants nothing more than to drop her hand, but also to squeeze it as tightly as he dares. She swallows, trying to tamp down a solid thought, and Jake releases a nervous chuckle through his nose. “Jake -”

“This was bad timing,” he interrupts, the muscles in his fingers rippling against her palm. “I shouldn’t have - I’m really sorry, please just ignore everything I just said -”

“No, but - no, I don’t - I don’t wanna ignore it,” she drops her gaze to their hands - or, to the blurry shape amassed before her where their hands should be - and squeezes gently. “I - I like you too, Jake. Really, I do. And - yeah, this is - kind of weird timing. Like, I wish I wasn’t covered in apple pie and silly string while we have this conversation. Or, y’know, I wish I could actually see your face,” he laughs and slowly edges closer. “But I’m - I do, too. I mean I like you, too, not I like me too, although I’m working on the whole self-esteem thing so like I do like myself, but that’s a separate -”

She’s interrupted by warm lips slotting over hers, buzzing with laughter, by hands pressing in on her lower back to draw her closer, and his hair is as soft and thick as she always imagined it would be - perfect to rake her fingers through were it not for the gobs of half-dried silly string that catch and pull between her knuckles. The taste of blueberries is nearly overpowering, but there’s something else beneath it - something sweet in a more subtle way, something she already knows is entirely unique to Jake. He seems to be pouring every ounce of himself into this kiss, every part of his body moving, bending, pulling, touching, like every last molecule is completely enraptured, and the little noise of contentment coming from his throat at each tug of his hair sends a thrill all the way down to the very base of her soul -

The locker room door bangs open from the far end of the locker room and Amy leaps back on instinct - just for the bench to catch her behind her knees, sending her careening backwards into the lockers. She lets out a yelp on instinct, and it’s cut short by Jake’s hands closing over her forearms to yank her upright before her head can make contact with the lockers.

This is how Charles finds them as he rounds the corner - clinging to each other’s arms, Amy’s nose mere centimeters from Jake’s chest. “Oh my god!” he squeals. “Please, please tell me I’m interrupting something!”

“Just blind-as-a-bat Amy tripping over a bench,” Jake says smoothly, gently squeezing her forearms one last time before dropping his grip.

“Please tell me you found my glasses?” Amy asks, entirely rooted to the spot save for the turn of her head back toward Charles.

He hands her the glasses and a second later the world is in sharp focus once again - where there is distinct disappointment in Charles’ expression, there is a carefully-concealed grin on Jake’s. “What d’you think, Mama Odie?” he asks, nudging her with his elbow.

“Who?”

“The little blind voodoo lady who lives in the bayou. Y’know, from The Princess and the Frog?”

“Oh, god,” she breathes, eyes falling closed as she reaches to press her fingertips against her temples, “I can’t stand you.”

“I ran into Mrs. Brackens on my way back, and she gave me the extra clothes for you, Amy,” Charles says as Jake snickers, gesturing to Jake’s gym bag. “My hands were a little full, so I stuck ‘em in here.”

“Thanks, Charles.”

“Also, I talked Steve into covering your last period so you have time to actually shower before the game tonight.”

“Really? Oh, wow, thank you so much, that’s so nice! I’ll have time to actually go home and shower before I have to be up here again.”

“You’re welcome! I gotta go, though, I’ve got a class waiting on me - I’ll see you guys at the game?”

“Definitely.”

Neither one of them speak until they hear the locker room door swing open and slowly shut again. “You’re telling me that little ferret set this whole thing up? How is that even possible?”

“He’s been obsessed with us since you started teaching here six years ago and he’s only gotten more obsessed since I - accidentally - well, drunkenly, really, told him that I liked you. He’s been legitimately stalker-level obsessed, Amy. It’s been a nightmare.”

“I’m just - I mean, I can see how he would throw the first round and maybe convince Rosa to throw the second -”

“No, he literally orchestrated this entire thing. It’s been going on for weeks now, and I bet if I had some time I could get enough evidence to prove it.”

“You’re saying he’s a criminal mastermind-level genius and somehow got all four of us nominated for this stupid relay race specifically so that he and Rosa could throw their rounds to get the two of us alone in the locker room?”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“Well, it’s Charles, y’know? The guy makes blueberry muffins -”

“Amy, think about the logistics, here. You were nominated by an overwhelming majority by the junior class.”

He’s staring at her, eyes wide and brows raised, willing her to get his point. “Okay,” she says slowly, “and?”

“Ames, you don’t teach any junior-level classes. You’re an AP Calculus teacher. You teach seniors exclusively.”

Understanding crashes over her like a mighty, towering wave. “Oh, my god,” she breathes, “that freak set this whole thing up!”

“That’s why all the kids were losing their shit earlier, they’re in on it, too,” Jake mutters. “God, I’m gonna kill him -”

“No, wait, I - I think I have a better idea.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Let’s just - not tell him.”

He furrows his brow. “Not tell him what?”

“That we’re - that we - that his plan worked.” Heat pricks at the tips of her ears but Jake’s expression has softened considerably at the reminder. “Let’s just - keep it to ourselves, you know? Pretend like we’re still just friends. Plus, that gives us a chance to figure this - us out. In private. Without Charles or Rosa or any of the kids or really anyone prying into our business. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course it is. Look, I…” he trails off, before inching closer and catching both of her hands in his. “I feel like I could scream from the roof, I’m so happy about this,” he squeezes her hands for emphasis, “but I agree with you. We deserve a chance to figure us out without Charles mouth-breathing down our necks.” Amy laughs, and Jake rocks forward to the balls of his feet, grinning broadly. “God, I love your laugh. Anyways, um, yeah. Let’s punish Charles and not ever tell him that his plan worked. Also, what are you doing after the game tonight?”

She thinks briefly of her half-formed plans to sit at home with a glass of merlot and her recording of season 3 of Downton Abbey, before shaking her head. “Nothing.” she says with a smile.

“Wrong, we’re hanging out. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” They both laugh, excitement and nerves singing through the air like electricity. “C’mon, we don’t have a lot of time before the game.”

“Where are we going? I thought you were going home to shower?”

“I am.” She tugs his hand, leading him down the aisle, trying not to giggle at the gears visibly working in his head. “You’re coming with me.”

He visibly brightens as her words sink in. “Oh! Oh, yeah, that’s - yes, let’s do that, let’s go right now, let’s go really fast -”

He practically rams into her in his haste, his lips colliding with hers even as they both laugh - though utterly thrilling, there’s a certain level of familiarity to it all, like this is something they’ve been doing all this time and she’s only just remembering.

“Y’know,” she murmurs as they make their way through the faculty parking lot - not quite hand-in-hand, but certainly too close to be purely platonic, “I think - I think just not telling Charles isn’t quite enough of a punishment.”

“Yeah? You got something else in mind?”

“I’ve got a few ideas…”

She flashes him a sultry grin, watching him try to piece it together, before he lets out a groan. He picks up the pace at once, grabbing her hand and pulling her along toward her car in earnest. “We gotta go, we gotta punish him, we gotta punish him so hard -”

(His punishment lasts nearly an entire school year - by which time the vast majority of the rest of the staff already knows. It ends nearly as spectacularly as it begins, with another pep rally relay race, with another neck-and-neck final race, with the exchange of the championship belt at a long, sound kiss right there in the center of the rioting student body.

Charles faints.

“It was totally worth it,” he assures them woozily from the cot in the nurse’s office later. “I’m furious that you didn’t tell me sooner but I’ve already forgiven you and I’m gonna need a second-by-second history from the literal moment you first kissed ‘til today.”

“Should’ve held out a little longer,” Jake sighs.

“Title of your sex tape!” Amy shouts.)