#Have I mentioned I love Murphy's gutter brain? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thesoloists · 2 years

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Hi! Have you posted your story on here/AO3? I’d love to read it, I’ve been itching for some Grant Ward appreciation 😂

Thank you for your interest, it’s really encouraging!!!! Dumpster Fire is still mostly in my noggin, but fragments of it are scattered in places like my Tumblr drafts, Scrivener, gdocs, and about a half a dozen other places I can write and then forget exist. DF still has a ways to go. I promise I’m still working on it, and I hope to finish it before I die. (My friends do, too.)

I will continue to write and share bits of it here (I will try to do this more often). I also hint at things through the stuff I reblog.

I can, however, promise the story contains lots of Grant Ward appreciation and deprecation because he’s great and terrible and I love him as a character (although he’s not my favorite) and I love trashing him, but, like, affectionately. And also because there are some things about him that need serious addressing. I’ve also taken some creative liberties with his character that I feel add more depth while also staying true to who he is in the show. (He’s a big reader. Like Rory Gilmore big. Almost always has a book on him. And in my head he’s also Sapiosexual?)

ANYWHO. I can literally talk about Dumpster Fire for hours, so without further ado, here’s a flashback to Ward’s academy days (when he was around 21/22) featuring his adversary/best friend/eventual enemy/eventual love interest!

Grant keeps his dorm room in the Academy of Operations immaculate. He lays against the pillows atop a plain gray comforter on a decade-old bed that creeks. He sits up, a book he’d read twice through dog-eared and closed with care.

Sitting on the floor against the side of the bed, bent over a coloring book that rests open on her lap, is Murphy. Her left hand presses the coloring book flat while she colors with the enraptured concentration.

They argued about something stupid earlier, something trivial. Something on which their opinions vastly differed, and because they’re both too stubborn to admit both sides presented valid points, they reached a stalemate. Though the argument fizzled out before it could be categorized as an actual fight, he has an inkling it isn’t over — just for now. They agreed to disagree, letting the emotional fires atop their hills of obstinance die out in the unfurling silence.

He doesn’t want to fight with her any more than he has to. It’s become more tempting as of late to see how far he can push her before she decides she’s had enough. She’s a danger to him, always has been, and her threat grows every day. The closer to him she becomes, the more force he’ll have to use to push her away.

But right now calls for a truce and an attempt at moving forward. The end will remain an unspecified date with a question mark, and he will continue to selfishly ignore it, despite knowing its inevitability.

Laying partly on his side, in the direction of the foot of the bed, he leans over Murphy’s shoulder. His thoughts are briefly sidetracked by the scent of her shampoo, distinctly peach. For a better view of her work, he brushes aside the obstructing wall of her unruly blonde curls with the back of his hand. His fingertips accidentally graze the back of her neck. Her face turns just enough for a blue eye to ensnare him with a sharp gaze that is, much to his relief, more inquisitive than hostile. Her hand holding the pink colored pencil stills.

“What’s that mean?” He nods his head at the Japanese script at the top of the coloring book in her lap, and when she turns back to the coloring page, he reaches over her shoulder and points to the script in question.

“What I’m coloring,” she says.

"Gee, Murph, that’s really helpful to someone who obviously doesn’t know Japanese.”

She scoffs. “You should at least recognize the flower. You’ve got two eyeballs.”

He stares at her in indicative silence. It takes a moment for her to notice. Her expression is surprised and intrigued and amused all at once when she looks at him. A raise of eyebrows and a narrowing of eyes and a hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth. It’s the incredulity he dislikes the most—the way it sits with judgement in her eyes.

“Really? You don’t know what they’re called?”

“Obviously not or I wouldn’t be asking.”

Setting the colored pencil beside her, Murphy presses her hands on the floor and uses the leverage to scoot her body around until she’s angled closer to the bed. With one hand gripping the coloring book she lifts it from her lap, shaking it violently in front of his face. “Look hard, Bambi.”

“I can’t with you—” He huffs and grabs both sides of the coloring book, all but forcing her to still it. Murphy doesn’t let go of the coloring book immediately. He glares at her until she does with a smile holding as much innocence as a cat caught with a mouse in its jaws.

Grant studies the page in question carefully. She hasn’t finished coloring the picture, but she must be close, assuming she’s colored it correctly. The flowers appear to be on a tree, the branches a golden brown. That has to narrow it down some.

Flowers with white petals, hints of pink at the center. Found on a tree. Japanese.

It’s familiar. Irritatingly familiar. The spark of recognition fires, but the flames don’t take. He surrenders the coloring book back to Murphy. “Yeah, my brain wants to say daffodils, but I know that’s not right.”

Her smile is every bit condescending. “Maybe instead of spending an afternoon shooting through the same bullet hole, you could learn the art of one of the oldest romantic gestures in the book. Especially if you’re going to keep flirting with the appeal of that dinky little Christmas tree from Charlie Brown.” He scowls. “Probably not what a guy like you would want if that wasn’t your intention.” She tilts her chin down, leveling with him with an arched brow. “That’s isn’t your intention, right?”

“No,” he grumbles.

She props the coloring book on her thighs, and begins coloring again, though she’s traded her pink pencil for a slightly darker shade. “If you want to work undercover, or, God forbid, woo a woman playing hard to get, a flower bouquet almost never hurts your chances.” She speaks in that pretentious tone of hers that he can’t help but find grating. Although, he’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t know jack shit about flowers, other than the obvious thing about roses being traditionally romantic.

“Almost?”

“She could have a floral allergy.” She takes care to blend the two shades of pink. “And, I don’t know, some people just don’t like receiving flowers.”

Grant pushes himself up and scoots back against the pillows, stretching his legs out in front of him as he watches her color. “Right.”

“That’s not to say neither one of those cases couldn’t still work out. You flash your little Bambi eyes at her and she might just bang you out of pity. Although”—a dangerous tone of amusement colors her voice—“if it’s the former, you’d probably want to keep a box of tissues handy, unless you like the idea of having snot on your—”

Grant cuts her off with the force of bringing a chef’s knife down on a cutting board. “Okay. That’s—” He stops himself with a grimace. Murphy snorts while trying to stifle a laugh. “How about I rewind and rephrase: what kind of flower are you coloring, and can you tell me without the tangential lecture?”

The corner of her mouth pulls in a lopsided grin when she turns her head. “Sakura,” she says. “They’re cherry blossoms.”

#df #dumpster fire #grant ward #this ask reminded me I need to make my conspiracy wall so thank you for that #anonymous #Have I mentioned I love Murphy's gutter brain?#I also love that she calls Ward Bambi

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