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pascalscenarios · 3 years

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HOW TO LOVE (Marcus Pike x Reader)

HOW TO LOVE

Marcus Pike x Reader

Summary: After a year being broken up with your ex, you move into a studio appartment just outside of Washington D.C. for a fresh start. You best friend gets your a job at the prestigious art museum he runs, and you have an encounter with someone you recognize.

Warning: None

Words: 3471

Author's Note: Surprise!!! AHH first chapter for How To Love! I’m excited for this one! I hope you guys in enjoy it! Let me know if you want to be on the tag list for this or the on main! Also if you asked and I didn’t put you in, I’m sorry, please remind me!

- K

Chapter 1

“Alright, this was the last one in the truck,” Your father says as he sets the container on the ground next to the others. Your father had helped you pack up and move your belongings from your hometown in Virginia to an apartment complex that was just outside of Washington D.C.

“Thanks, Dad.” You were grateful for his help.

“Do you want me to stay and help you unpack?” He was looking at the large boxes and containers piled on top of each other in the middle of your small studio apartment.

“No, that’s okay. I got it.” You smile slightly.

“You gonna be alright?” He says stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

You sigh, “I think so…” you turn your head to look around your small apartment. “I’m a little nervous, but I needed to do this...you know, move away from town and start fresh.”

“I know you do. If you ever need anything, your mother and I are a call away and a 45-minute drive.” He reassures you.

“Thank you, Dad. I love you.” You walk towards him, hugging him.

Your father wraps his arms around you, planting a kiss on your head. “I love you too. Call me if you need anything, yeah” He says, pulling away from you. You nod at him.

You both walk over to your front door. He opens it, stepping outside.

“Bye, Dad! Drive safe!” You call out as he walks down the steps and onto the walkway. You stand by the second-floor railing, looking down as he walks to his truck. He turns his body, looking up at you, giving you a wave. You watch him get into his truck, he honks, signaling a goodbye as he drives out of the parking lot.

You go back into your apartment shutting the door. You lean back against it, taking everything in. It was your first time truly living alone. You had spent years living with your ex in your hometown. He treated you terribly. You were constantly on-again, off-again with him. He had cheated on you a few times. You tried your hardest to make things work with him.

One day he decided that he was done with you, breaking things off and kicking you out of your shared apartment. You being a grown adult had to move back in with your parents. You spent a year in a tough place mentally, you decided you needed to get out of town and move somewhere else, have a fresh start, a clean slate. You needed more than what your hometown gave you.

Your best friend Elliot lived in D.C. working as a museum director at a prestigious art museum. He had offered you a job at the museum and even helped set you up with an apartment. You were nervous being on your own, but you knew you needed this time to grow as an individual.

You pushed yourself off the door, walking further into the open space. You stand there staring at all the boxes and containers. Your apartment was small. Only livable for two people, but it was perfect, and it was yours.

“Alright, let’s get to it.”

You had spent several hours getting things unpacked and organizing. You had managed to build your bed frame and set up your bed near the long and large windows. You placed your clothes into the narrow closet, set up your toiletries in the bathroom, and put kitchen appliances away. You needed to stock up your cabinets and fridge with food, so you decided to head to the grocery store.

You headed to the store in your pj’s. After your dad left, you had changed into something comfortable. You wore a worn-out Star Wars t-shirt, sweatpants, and your pink bunny slippers. You didn’t care if you rolled up to the grocery store like this. No one knew you and you knew one.

As you enter the grocery store and grab a shopping cart, your phone rings. You set your bag in the child seat, pulling out your phone. You looked at the caller ID, it was Elliot. You pick up the call, placing your phone against your ear, your other hand grabbing a hold of the cart’s handle.

“Hello?” you said, as you maneuver your cart around and in through the aisle.

“Hey! How’s it going? Do you make it to your apartment okay?” Elliot greets you.

“Hi, El…” you smile, “Yeah I did. My dad helped me out. We piled all my crap in the back of his truck. He drove it down, while I drove my car with the rest of my crap in it. I’m grocery shopping right now. The apartment is great by the way! Thank you for everything. Helping me get this apartment and setting me up with a job. I appreciate it. I can’t thank you enough” you say, picking up several Cup Noodles, tossing them into the cart.

“Of course! Don’t worry about it. That piece of shit put you through so much, you deserve to start fresh and to thrive! Maybe in D.C., you’ll find yourself a new guy…”

You scrunch up your face at what he said “Ehhh I don’t know about that…'' You traveled down the aisle picking up different snacks, foods, and drinks off the shelf.

He tries to encourage you, “You’ve been single for a while now. You should try to put yourself out there, meet some people.”

“I don’t know… I just don’t think I’m ready yet. He messed me up pretty bad, Elliot. I’m scared to get back into dating, you know?” you say sadly.

“And you have every right to feel that way, but not everyone is going to be like him. You’ll find the right person for you. It doesn’t hurt to try, but wherever you’re ready, I say go for it. Who knows, maybe you’ll run into someone in the grocery store.”

“Haha very funny, '' you say sarcastically, but you could help but laugh.

“Alright, I gotta run. I just wanted to check up on you. I’ll let you get back into shopping, but just a reminder, you to start work Monday, bright and early at 7:00 AM sharp.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then, love you.”

“I love you too! Bye!”

“Bye” you pull the phone away from your face, hanging up, and placing it back in your bag. You continued to shop. The majority of your cart was filled with your comfort junk foods, a few fruits and vegetables, and canned foods.

You knew the change of living in a new area and apartment was going to be different and a bit of getting used to. You wanted to have your favorite things to bring you some sense of joy and ease...and alcohol. Yes, you need to get a bottle.

You were turning the corner into an aisle with the alcohol when your cart collided with another person's cart that was leaving the aisle.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!” You gasp at the man in surprise. He was a little bit taller than you. He wore a plain t-shirt, jeans, and shoes. Short brown hair, brown eyes, and he rocked a mustache and beard. You couldn’t lie, the man was handsome.

“It’s alright! I should be apologizing too, I bumped into you as well!” he chuckled. His eyes took notice of your outfit of choice.

Suddenly you felt shy and self-conscious about our outfit. You began to feel insecure that he was somewhat checking you out. I mean you wore PJs to the store, of course, you knew some people would stare and secretly judge you.

His gaze landed at your feet. He cocked his head to the side and smiled “Nice bunny slippers.”

“T-thanks..” you stuttered.

He must have noticed you were growing uncomfortable because he tried to lighten the mood. “I really should get myself a pair, they look comfy…I could see myself rocking some bunny kicks,” he joked.

You nod your head “Well make sure to wear them at home and not at the grocery store... along with your pj’s.. make sure you wear those at home as well because then you’ll end up going to the grocery store looking like a fool...” you mentally cringed. You didn’t mean to say your thoughts out loud. You were making this interaction more awkward than it needs to be. You just wanted to get your bottle of wine and leave.

You grab a hold of your cart, moving it into the space beside him to get into the aisle.

“I don’t think you look like a fool, it's a look. Matter of fact, I would kill to be in some Pj’s and bunny slippers all day. I live in work suits for my job. I hate it.”

“I say start a petition for pajama day at your work.”

He laughs. “I might just do that… I’m Mar-”

“Well, hopefully, that goes well for you. Good luck.” You gave him a small and quickly made your way down the aisle. Your heart was beating against your chest. You had to get out there. You picked up a bottle of red wine off the shelf and put it in the cart. You looked back to see the man, but he was gone.

…

You spent the rest of your weekend setting up and organizing the rest of your apartment. You had a few things left to do like setting up your tv, but other than that your apartment was done.

It was 5:00 AM, Monday morning, you woke up super early to get ready for work. You didn't want to be late. You took a shower, did your hair, and got dressed. You looked out yourself in the bathroom mirror after you finished getting ready. You were dressed professionally. You felt a little silly, but you were going to be working at a fancy art museum. You spent the past year living in pj’s, shirt and shorts. It’s been a while since you had to dress up.

Leaving your bathroom, you walk over to your kitchen grabbing your reusable tumbler cup filled with ice coffee. You head over the door, slipping on your flats, grabbing your keeps and bag off the hook, and heading out to your car.

By the time you made it into the city, it was almost 7. The traffic wasn’t too bad. You managed to find street parking, putting in a bunch of coins into the meter.

Walking up to the building you were in awe. It was a wide building with tall and long glass windows in the front. You walk up to the stairs, opening the glass door. The lobby was a large space There was an information desk a few feet off to the side of the entrance, along with stairs leading upstairs. Benches and few art sculptures on display throughout the room. Bathrooms and elevators are located on the middle far back wall. Exhibits were down the halls on the left and right side of the bathroom and elevators, and upstairs.

Workers and custodians traveled around the room, preparing to open the museum in about an hour.

You hear Elliot call after you. You look up noticing Elliot coming down the stairs.

“El!” You smiled walking towards him.

“Ah! I can’t believe you’re here!” He embraced you into a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here in D.C. with me. We"ll get to hang out all the time now."

You laugh. “I'm excited! Thanks again for getting me a job. I feel kinda bad though. Like technically I skipped the whole interview phase and got the job. Isn’t that kind of abuse to your position?”

“Seriously it’s fine and I’m the Museum Director, I call the shots around here.”

“Elliot…” You say under your breath.

Elliot rolled his eyes, “Come on, you know what you mean. I’m responsible for the operation of the whole place and I know you better than anyone, I trust you.”

You still couldn’t believe Elliot was in charge of this whole museum.

“Come on, I'll give you a tour of Clemonte!”

...

Elliot gave you a tour of the Museum’s exhibits and even behind the scene things that the public doesn’t get to see. The museum had such beautiful pieces of artwork. This place was amazing. You loved it. There was so much more you wanted to see, but you only had enough time to see part of it. Maybe during your free time, you’d look around to discover the rest.

“So, what do you think?”

“Wow, this place is stunning” you stay as you both make it back to the lobby.

“So, how are you feeling?”

“I’m alright. I’m a bit nervous I’m not going to lie.” You pull away.

“Nothing to be nervous about, you’ll be fine.” He reassures you.

“So do I have to call you Mr. Regan, boss man?” you giggled.

“Pff, no one calls me that. I feel so old when people call me that. Everyone just calls me Elliot.”

“So” he claps his hands together. “You’re going to be working at the Visitors Information desk.” He says pointing to the large and round information desk near the stairs.

“El, I just got here I don’t know anything!” Your eyes widen.

“You’ll be fine, and besides you’ll be working with Ms. Laurie, she’s been here for years. She’ll teach you everything you’ll need to know. And don’t worry, we have a list and maps where everything is you can refer to.’’

“Come on” his head points in the direction of the desk.

“Hi, Ms. Laurie!” He smiles brightly at the woman. She looked about to be in her late 60’s.

“Good Morning, Elliot!” she beams.

He introduces you to Laurie. “This is my friend, the one I was telling you about. She’s going to be working with you.”

“Ah yes! Hello dear! It’s lovely to meet you! I’m so glad you’re working with me!” She holds out your hand to take.

You take her hand. “It’s nice to meet you too! I’m excited.”

“Alright well, She’s yours now, Ms. Laurie, let her have it. This is for you,” Elliot hands you your ID badge.

“Where the hell did you get this photo?” You say scrunching your face at this old and outdated photo of you.

“I pulled it off your mom facebook- Also, The FBI are coming it today-”

“My mom’s Facebook- Wait, the FBI? Why what happened?” You furrow your eyebrows.

“The FBI has a specific bureau that deals with international art theft, the Art crime team or they call himself the Art Squad. Sometimes they come in here to do research, sting operations, stuff like that, so don’t worry if you see a bunch of them waltz in here. They come around a lot.”

“Oh..o-okay.”

“Alright, I gotta go, I have a ton of meetings today, but have a good day, love you, if you need anything let me know!” He shouted quickly as he speeds walked off.

“We’re going to be opening in about half an hour, I better get started with teaching you the basics” Laurie announced. “Come dear, you can put your things over here.” She pushes open the short desk door that came up to about your hips, letting your step into the desk area.

Laurie gave you a rundown on the layout of the museum and most frequently asked areas such as where the most popular art exhibits, bathrooms, and the gift shop.

“You got everything?” Laurie asked you.

“I think so. Just a lot of stuff to memorize.” “I know hun, but once you get the hang of it, it’s going to be a breeze! You’ll know it like the back of your hand!” She chuckles. “You’ll get it in no time, if you need any help, I’m here, or you can use the maps and lists we have sprawled all around here.” She motions to the piles of paper around the desk.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Laurie.” You smiled.

…

Once the museum is open, you have a bunch of people come to the visitor's information center asking you questions. Some you were able to answer, others you had to ask Laurie or use the resources you had.

It was noon. Nothing happened, a few people came to stop by, many of the families with young children were leaving, probably headed to see multiple other museums. You noticed a group of men and women walk in. They were all wearing suits. You assumed that it was the FBI agents. They all stood in the middle of the lobby, one man stood in front of the group, giving them instructions.

The group disbanded, pairs of agents headed towards different areas and wings of the museum. You went back to filling out an information form. An Elementary school had called wanting to have a field trip. You filled out the information on the form for the school, and It had to be sent up to Elliot later to get approval.

“Do you happen to know where I can get some bunny slippers?”

“Excuse m-” You quickly lift your head from the form. Standing in front of you was the guy from the grocery store, learning to gain the counter.

He smiles at you. “I see you aren’t wearing pj’s today and no bunny slippers, damn” he joked.

You chuckled slightly. “W-well I’m working. I have to dress professionally. Guess your petition for pj’s fell through, huh?”

“Yeah, no one was down for it, but I still want some bunny slippers. Where’d you get yours?”

“um...Amazon..”

“Alright, I’ll make a mental note...I saw you when I came in. I didn’t know you worked here. How come I’ve never seen you before?” He asked.

“I-I’m new, I just started today actually…” you fiddled with the pencil in your hand. You were growing nervous.

“Well, I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other then…”

You swallowed hard. What was he getting at? “Oh, are we now-” You looked down at his ID badge that was clipped to his outer suit pocket that had the FBI in bold letters.

“Special Agent Pike” you read his name badge.

“Marcus” he held out his hand

You don’t take it. You were nervous. You had no idea what the Marcus guy wanted with you, and you weren’t looking for anything right now. Marcus Pike may seem all cute and harmless, but the next thing you know, he’ll be breaking your heart into two. He was probably trying to play nice to get in your pants.

After everything that happened with your boyfriend, you guarded yourself, bordering your heart with thick walls. You weren’t gonna let just anyone in. You had to protect your heart from things that hurt you in the past. You didn’t want to go through that pain again so it was better to keep walls up. You didn’t want to let anyone new into your life.

He moves his hand to scratch behind his head.

“So you gonna tell me your name?”

“No”

“No?”

“Why should I tell you my name?”

“I don’t know, because that’s what you do when you meet someone you new and you know what to call them by?” he furrowed his eyebrows at you.

“Well, you’re an FBI agent. If you wanna know, use your investigation skills and figure it out.” With that picked up paper, turning around in your hair, and walking over to the fax machine.

Marcus stood there confused. You were being nice, but then switched on a dime? Was it sometimes he said? He didn’t know what happened, but if you weren’t going to tell him, he just had to figure it out.

Out the corner of your eye, you see him walk off to the elevators. You sign in relief.

“I see you were talking to Marcus Pike.” Laurie chimed in coming out from your guy's office. “He’s a really nice guy.”

“Is he really or is that just a front to get into people's pants?” You asked, continuing to stare at him.

Laurie gasped in surprise, “Marcus Pike? No! He's such a sweetheart and very well mannered, ask anyone here, they'll tell you that.”

You sigh, now you felt kinda bad, you switched and judged him too quickly. You had trust issues that you needed to work on. You sign rubbing your face. You might have screwed up.

“I know he may be a little cocky and comes off a bit strong, but he’s a great guy once you get to know him.”

He gets in the elevator turning around. You two lock eyes, but you quickly look away back down to the fax machine.

You look back up noticing the elevator doors have closed.

“We’ll see about you, Agent Pike…”

Main Tag: @icanbeyourjedi @sara-alonso

#the mentalist #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #pike #Pedro Pascal #pedro #pascal

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duckbeater · 4 years

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Courtship, pt. 2

Writing about happiness is very difficult and boring. The below are some small attempts I’ve made to write through my happiness. My small, important readership deserves an update, says my brother, whose sensibilities have only rarely steered me catastrophically wrong.

I AM BUYING CHAMPAGNE TO CELEBRATE MY LOVER

Today’s the last day of his job and he’s throwing himself a little party. In September he begins med school and in the next month he’ll put his affairs in order, readying for the big move. I have the sense that tonight begins our diminuendo, despite his staying over last night and spit-fucking me, and I’ll surely stay over tonight, after the many champagne toasts to his prosperous life ahead.

We’ve started sleeping as two spoons embracing chest to chest, with our faces tucked awkwardly in a neck or an armpit. Of course I wake up gasping, my mouth sucking after a less hot pocket of air, and turn, and enjoy that he pulls me tightly back to him. He’s a heavy sleeper and I’m a light sleeper, and our bedding situation resembles something like a rock in a tumbler with my rolling over and over and over again, arising too early, wildly underslept, shining with sweat, but ecstatic that we’ve touched all night long. I’m attending his celebration in a sleep deficit that I’ve covered with caffeine and a long, soulful run beside the lake. I’ve been thinking about us a lot.

He wouldn’t call himself my lover, I think, but I’m hoping the expensiveness of the champagne I’m bringing will convince friends in attendance that that’s what we are. I’m hoping my largesse goes noticed and commented on—that it’s interpreted as my being in love with him, and that his peers compel him, by either fretting over my largesse, or pitying me for it, or anyway finding it impressive or amusing or tender or charming—that they tell this young man I’m adoring him and I’m adoring him well. That my adoration seems steadfast and considered. And despite the riskiness of the circumstances (our differences in age, the widening gulf in distance, a sometimes depleting lack of shared cultural references), when we are together I feel comfort and joy. This must be obvious to him without the expensive champagne. I’m always saying it out loud, or anyway variants on the theme of “comfort and joy,” like a seasonal blessing, a profusion of blessings, needing remarked upon. I’m seriously afraid I mother him.

“Let us take in the scene,” I have said before, “let us only observe for the moment my sitting in your lap, your hands on my neck, my constant kisses. What joy!”

He’s done something to my sense of my proportion, and also my prose style. I can’t seem to describe our relationship without slipping into the sardonic, recursive, mildly-institutionalized voice of Robert Walser, a writer I find too cute by half. I’m finding my life too cute by half, I fear. If this is what happiness feels like, I don’t really want much more of it. It’s making me stupid. “People will think that pain has made you stupid,” wrote Walser, a statement that comes back to me when I can’t distinguish between the good times and bad times making me an idiot.

AFTER THE SPIT-FUCKING

We stayed up late talking about what it means to say goodbye to people who don’t know you’ve cared for them. I don’t pretend this conversation had subtext. For the last two years, he’s worked with profoundly disabled people, first as a case worker and then, after the pandemic closed the campus and made that job “nonessential,” as a nursing assistant on the same floor.

He spent months feeding, changing, bathing and bedding non-ambulatory children and adults. Most cannot speak, a few cannot see, and none can walk, of course. It is a world I’ve rarely thought about—indeed, a world many of us rarely consider, because in its theater of human need are scenes of unremitting hopelessness. It is a languageless suffering and it perdures. I can become very mystified, very shallow-breathed thinking about his care for these souls, however quick he’s been to dissuade me from romanticizing or elevating his ministrations. “One of my verbal residents tells me to fuck myself all the time,” he’s noted. Still, I would point out that birth defects and accidents account for a small percentage of his caseloads’ impairments, and that active neglect and abuse perpetrated intentionally by former guardians (or unwittingly by the American healthcare complex) have hobbled his charges for life. I don’t like hearing stories about choked babies and toddlers left so long in beds their soft bones grow slab-wise, so I’ve asked him, coward that I am, to please skip origins if he’s entering an otherwise benign workaday anecdote.

His most patient complaint: using his iPhone to FaceTime parents who want to see their son, then listening to one-sided conversations, burbling, giggles, tears, even story-time. His campus closed to all guardians—a devastating precaution. “Don’t send anything xrated today,” he’d text, and I’d know he was hosting a reunion. So I’d keep my clothes on. And he’d answer the phone from an immediately weeping seventy-year-old mother saying, to her forty-year-old son, “Why good evening, Max, good evening. This is your mother. Hi, baby. Hi. I love you. I am your mother. I will always be your mother. I am sorry I cannot touch you, I cannot hold you, I cannot be with you in this time, but you are my Max, and I am your mother. And I love you always. You can hear me and I’m gonna tell you all about my week, okay? And then I’m gonna ask Scotty here how you’ve spent your week, okay?” He said he usually cries on these calls and when I asked why, he said, “Because it seems polite?” And I pressed harder and he said, “Because I get to—I get to connect these people who have missed each other so much, and it’s so sad. They haven’t touched in months. They might not touch this year. My phone sometimes runs out of battery. It’s so weird.”

I’ve asked him whether families are happy to be rid of their incredible dependents and he said that by and large families are miserable to give over members to the institution: that age arbitrates the giving. “A mother and father have a baby at twenty-five. They can care for him well into their fifties—their twenty-five-year-old, their thirty-year-old son. But when these parents enter their sixties? Their seventies? They can’t lift an adult male. They can’t bathe him or change him. Even basic nutrition gets hard. Meal prep is tiring. It’s long. They start to lose track of medications, and they have medications themselves, you know? So the situation gets very difficult and if they want to live, and if they want him to live, they feel like they have to give him up.”

We’re at the point now where intimacy is a given. He doesn’t swallow, but brings me to orgasm, taking me in his mouth and then dribbles it, I guess, my cum, back onto my stomach, apologizing with a flushed red smirk. “I hate that,” he says, “I really hate it.”

“Go ahead, eat it,” I say, joking.

He gives me dark eyes and showily palms the wad into the black pillowcase behind my head.

“Holy Christ!” I yell. “The nerve! The pluck! The audacity!”

There must be a phase in relationships when extracting intimacies—not only of the “terrible things I did in high school”-vein, or the “times I cheated”-vein, or the “unwittingly right wing ideologies I support”-vein—that close couples endeavor. Where you’re always compulsively revelatory, to seem as interesting as you did in early courtship, as erotically forward and emotionally captivating. We’re in that moment and we surprise one another with small tributes as befits that level of affection.

One of the intimacies I proffered is that I’m going through a religious re-awakening, a need for ritual and sacraments. He finds this funny. (I find it embarrassing.) Yet one of his duties has been wheeling charges to his building’s Tuesday Mass, and then helping to administer the Eucharist. I don’t think he in fact touches the host (I don’t think many in his care can safely take of the host; “I’m mostly there in case anyone seizes,” he said), but he did slip a large wafer away for me and now it’s in my apartment, among my candles, possibly growing mold. He asks me when I’m going to eat it and I tell him around Christmas.

(That was a lie. I’ll eat it when our romance is over, to consecrate the time we had.)

“I eat it,” I say, and he glowers.

I TOLD HIM ABOUT A MYSTERY SURROUNDING MY FAVORITE AUTHOR

Norman Rush. For a decade and better I’ve wondered about the long dedication in Mating, whose last lines read, “...and to the memory of my father, and to my lost child, Liza.” The novel, set in Botswana and borrowing heavily from Rush’s time there as director in the Peace Corps, suggests that perhaps Liza died in Africa or was born still. She goes unmentioned in his Paris Review interview, in subsequent novels, short stories, and reviews. There’s no hint of Liza’s fate. (As I edit this, I recall a phrase in Mortals, the narrator’s idea that “children exposed you to hellmouth, which was the opening of the mouth of hell right in front of you.” Explaining further: “[I]t was the grandmother, the daughter, the granddaughter tumbling through the air, blown out of the airplane by a bomb, the three generations falling and seeing one another fall, down, down, onto the Argolid mountains. With children you created more thin places in the world for hellmouth to break through.” And then, in Subtle Bodies, Rush describes a wayward teen boy, whose angry and aggressive behavior corresponds exactly to Rush’s own troubled teen son. In fact, Subtle Bodies is about the decision to have children at all. Nina follows Ned to a funeral, to fuck him. So, Rush has indeed remarked on children and strife, as he has lived it. Anyhow—) Yet by accident I listened to an old Fresh Air interview where Rush is asked to comment on the aspect of family in his novels, and to clarify that inscription.

“I have a daughter who is now thirty,” he says, “who was born with diffuse brain atrophy and has been institutionalized for many years. Um. But I think the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

“What was her condition?” presses his interlocutor.

“She is uh profoundly retarded,” pauses, “and will be so.”

“So you feel she is lost to you?”

“Yes. There is no recognition possible between her and us.”

I reproduced this exchange from notes on my phone. Scotty replied, “I don’t think that’s right, actually. Maybe between her and—who—who was it?”

“Norman Rush and his daughter Liza.”

He said, “Maybe between Liza and her dad—yeah, maybe she was so disabled she couldn’t recognize him. I take care of men like that. But I recognize them.”

We were talking about important books at all (I mean that semi-seriously) because his co-worker had gifted him three works, including a volume of Yeats’ complete poetry.

“Why did Paco give you Yeats?” I asked.

“He thinks I need more poetry,” said Scotty.

(Frankly I have felt and still feel sexual jealousy against Paco, who recently got brilliant red and black knee tattoos of spider webs. Like, Spider-Man spiderwebs, covering both kneecaps. Every few weeks he cooks a large meal for Scotty, and they talk about life until 4 A.M. drunk on bourbon, immobilized by edibles, full and warm and caring, and it makes me mad. It makes me mad, because I can’t really see the point of staying up until the uncomfortable small hours between 2 and 5 unless there is sex involved, but Paco is straight, a father, an excellent chef, a dedicated friend, and so my grousing is a kind of unwarranted possession that baffles me into silence on the matter.)

I didn’t have anything intelligent left to say about Norman Rush. I groped along a narrow thought, however, a thin ledge. “You know—a novelist, especially a novelist as concerned with language and comprehension as Norman Rush, would feel particularly devastated by the condition of his daughter. He would see it as ironic and then as punitive and again as senseless—supporting his comforting regime of a militant atheism.”

Although very sober, I recited the first stanza of The Second Coming, tripping over two lines (but the best lines), saying, “The worst lack all conviction, while the best/Are full of passionate intensity.”

“What?” said Scotty.

“I just—that was Yeats.”

“Who?”

“Go ahead and tell your boy Paco that your hot fuck gave you a teach on William. Butler. Yeats.”

“What?” said Scotty. He grinned at me. He got up and ate a yogurt.

#norman rush

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bridgetteirish · 7 years

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Winslow

A Winn/Cat Friendship Fic by Bridgette Irish. (with a little side of Supercat)

Full text under the cut. Or read it here on AO3

Summary: Amidst all the turmoil they have been through and witnessed while trying to keep Kara safe and sane, Winn and Cat find in each other an unusual but enduring friendship. A series of scenes showing the progression of this friendship.

A big thanks to @reginalovesemma for the edits! And for coming along with me for this little Brotp.

Enjoy!

He was playing Minecraft and fighting back tears when the heavy-bottomed tumbler thumped on his desktop and the shapely figure of his boss planted itself against the front, next to his chair. It was exactly where Kara had stood, just minutes before, and told him she didn’t want things to change between them. She’d broken his heart with tears in her eyes and while he tried so hard not to be angry, it had proven an impossible feat. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be mad. He knew he was supposed to be supportive and accept the friendship being offered. He knew, ultimately, her happiness was the most important thing, but the evil thought that kept running through his mind was… what about my happiness? He followed the line of Cat’s hip where it leaned against his desk and met her eyes before his own could get too caught up lingering in places that could get him fired… or killed. For a split second his fear overwhelmed his sadness and he stuttered. “H-Hi, Miss Grant. Did you need something? Something techy?” He rolled his eyes internally at his idiocy and picked up a Superman stress ball to give his hands something to do.

Cat’s manicured finger tapped the edge of the glass twice. “I often find that a good scotch hurts enough going down that the rest of the pain fades away temporarily.” Winn’s face fell and he turned back to his game. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh come on, Winslow.” Winn snapped his head up at her use of his full name. “I may not have Kiera’s superhearing, but I know a ‘let him down easy’ conversation from a mile away.” She held up a hand. “Please don’t deny it. She’ll never know I know. Just… drink. And if that one doesn’t dull the pain, come in and have another. Then go home. Tomorrow, after she’s gone, we can do this all over again.” Winn picked up the glass and swallowed the two fingers of thirty-year-old Macallan in one go. This set off a coughing fit so severe he had tears running down his face. He barely registered Cat patting his back forcefully. “Good boy, Winslow. Call it a night. See you in the morning.” Winn gathered his things, shut off the tiny lamp at the corner of his desk and turned to give Miss Grant a thank you. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Cat Grant had poured her own two fingers of scotch. He clutched the strap of his messenger bag and watched as she downed it at once, poured two more and leaned her hands heavily against the bar, letting her head drop forward. She couldn’t see him lingering through the curtain of blonde curls, so he turned quickly on his heels and left before she caught him staring. The next evening, after a fraught day of avoiding Kara’s eye contact and trying to look busy even though he couldn’t concentrate on anything, he heard Kara attempt a cheery “Bye Winn,” before heading to the elevators. There was no mirth in her voice though. It came out flat and dull and sad and it reminded him that she was probably hurting too. He had tried, no less than half a dozen times that day, to approach her desk and apologize in some grand fashion, but each time his embarrassment and fear and that frustrating anger stopped him. He knew she wasn’t obligated to like him and he was angry that he couldn’t let that be enough. When the elevator doors closed on Kara, he leaned forward and thumped his head against his keyboard, sending the screens into flashing chaos and causing a high-pitched whine to come from the speakers on his computer. The thump of the whiskey tumbler made him pop his head up where Cat Grant peered down at him like an avenging angel. “Romantic Entanglement is not a valid reason to destroy company property, Winslow. Now, drink up.”

“I don’t think I should, Miss Grant. I’ll stick to beer. That stuff is…”

“More per glass than your monthly cardigan budget.” She smiled and lifted her own glass to her lips.

Winn took a pull, careful not to drink the entire glass. He let out one healthy cough and clinked his glass against Cat’s before taking another tiny sip. He indulged himself in a tiny moment of surrealism at drinking bourbon with Cat Grant at work.

“That’s more like it. You’ll get used to it.” She leaned against his desk just as she had the night before. “Did you talk to her today?”

Winn shook his head. “I wanted to. I’m humiliated.” He sipped again and leaned his elbows on his knees. He pondered for a second on how much to reveal, but there was something about the way Cat could pull the truth from people that made him want to confide in her. He pressed on. “What you don’t know, is that I kissed her. Now every time she looks at me, that’s all she’ll remember. God I’m such an idiot.”

Cat rolled her eyes. “Oh Winslow. Would you really want to start some rushed love affair, only to find out later that the two of you have nothing in common beyond cardigans and capes?”

Winn shrugged. “It might have been nice to try.”

Cat polished off her scotch and sauntered back into her office to refill at the bar, talking to Winn over her shoulder all the way. “Take it from someone who’s been there. There’s more heartache in the ‘try’ than in the ‘what if’.”

The scotch had begun to go to Winn’s head so he didn’t think twice about following Cat toward her office. He leaned against the glass doorjamb and waited for permission to enter. “C’mon, Miss Grant. Who wouldn’t want you?” His eyes went impossibly wide and he drained his glass and held in his cough.

Cat laughed openly. “Nobody, silly boy, well, except Idris Elba, I suppose. His loss.” She crossed to her sofa and sat, gesturing to the seat across from her as an invitation. Winn sat as Cat continued. “My ex-wife was my best friend for years. She was beautiful, charming, brilliant and she adored my son. On paper,” Cat sipped and leaned forward, her focus entirely on the amber liquid in her glass, “she was flawless.” Cat’s fingers were turning the glass in her hand, almost as though she’d forgotten Winn was there.

“But?” Winn was genuinely curious, but the sadness in Cat’s eyes was unfamiliar. Something in him was compelling him to reach out, even if he got his hand bitten in the process.

“But when she kissed me after years of being friends, I… felt nothing. No spark, no… chemistry.” They both smiled at the joke and sipped in tandem. It was well-known that Cat’s very public last marriage was to a Nobel Prize-winning chemist. “But she was stable and loving and I wanted that for Carter. So, I kept up the relationship… for far longer than either of us deserved…” Winn met her eyes, which were shining with tears. “And now… we can’t even be in the same room together.” Her eyes went steely and she slid forward to lay her hand over Winn’s on his rocks glass. “You don’t want to lose her friendship, Winslow. I promise, the gift she’s offering you is far more precious than the one you’re reaching for.”

Winn sighed. She was right, of course. And it would be up to Winn to reach out. He resolved then and there to do just that. “Thanks, Miss Grant. I can see now why Kara turns to you. It really might be your superpower.”

Cat smiled a bit sadly. “Carter’s home this week. I need to go.”

“Yeah! Oh my god, yeah. Of course. Sorry. Sorry.” He took her glass from her and crossed to set them on the bar. “I’m gone. Thanks for the… gasoline… again.”

“Goodnight, Winslow.”

Winn stopped and found a final bit of courage before he exited the office. “Miss Grant?”

Cat looked up from where she was putting her tablet into her oversized handbag.

“Why do you call me Winslow?”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

Winn shrugged. “Well, yeah, but you never knew it before and you called me Toyman Jr. when my dad…” he trailed off, not quite trusting his voice and absolutely refusing to cry in front of Cat Grant. “You don’t even call Kara by her name. I know you know it.”

Cat slung her bag over her elbow and crossed the room, prepared to leave. “I’ve watched you, these past few days, face down the man who gave you that name, conquer your fear of it. You are not him, Winslow..” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Don’t get used to hearing it in a full bullpen,” she said with a point of her finger.

Winn was still feeling brave. Later, after Cat scratched his eyes out for his impertinence, he would blame the scotch. “What about Kara? Why don’t you call her by her name?”

Cat sighed and leaned against the doorjamb across from Winn, crossing her arms. “Kara… has much to learn about her own legacy. I watched her cousin learn how to do this in Metropolis. She’ll get there. Help her as much as you can.” She gave Winn an affectionate pat on his shoulder and made her way to the elevator, leaving him alone in a stunned silence.

Winn’s heart dropped as Kara left Cat’s office that evening. She didn’t just look on the verge of tears. She looked like her entire world had shattered. He rushed to her desk as she began shoving things in her purse. “Kara, what happened?”

“Nothing, Winn. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He cut her off on her way to the elevators. “You sure? You don’t look fine. We could do a milkshake and french fries night?”

Kara shook her head and he knew instantly she wasn’t interested in company. “Not tonight, Winn. I’m just gonna patrol for a bit and hit the hay.” She managed a small smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He stepped aside and watched her until the elevator door closed behind her. He spun around to look into Cat’s office and was met with steely eyes behind distinctive reading glasses that were fixed on a spot over his shoulder. It occurred to him that she, too, had watched Kara walk away and he now recognized that rare pain hiding behind her wall of bravado. His heart gave a compassionate little thump and he was struck with a brilliant, stupid idea.

A couple minutes of rummaging through his desk drawers produced a family size package of Red Vines and his old PS3. He tapped on the glass with a knuckle and took Cat’s annoyed eyeroll as permission to enter her domain.

“I know you use my office as a rec room when I’m away, Winslow. Up until now you’ve at least had the good sense to wait until I’m out of the building first.”

His first instinct was denial. “What? Miss Grant. I don’t… I haven’t… Alright, that happened once, with Carter, but it was a special circumstance.”

Cat removed her glasses and sighed in exasperation. “What do you want, Witt?

The incorrect name almost had him fleeing back to his own desk, but he remembered how comforting it was for someone just to notice when he was hurting, so he dug up his spare courage and strode forward. “I won’t ask what happened with Kara just now, but, I think it may be my turn to help you work through some heartache.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Kiera and I had a disagreement. She’s lucky I didn’t fire her.” The glasses went back on and Cat turned back to her work. She waved him off. “Run along.”

“I will. I promise, but first…” He crossed to her desk and laid the package of Red Vines next to her arm. He pulled one out and held it in front of her face. “Just have one.” She looked at him with something very much like murder in her eyes, but he found, oddly, that he wasn’t afraid. “You have scotch… I have Red Vines.” Cat took a bite from the candy almost in defiance and peered up at him with that same murderous glare.

Winn sprung back into action. As he spoke he began setting up the game console to project on the screens behind Cat’s desk. “Now, I also find that killing zombies is also very therapeutic and since zombies are not real… yet… we have,” he held up his favorite stress relief game, “The Walking Dead.” Cat didn’t speak as he ran through the buttons and actions in a brief crash course. When he was finished, he laid the controller next to the Red Vines and stood back, shoving his hands in the back pockets of his pants. “Okay. I’ll go now, Miss Grant. See you tomorrow.”

Winn left the office and grabbed his bag from his desk. When he was halfway across the bullpen, Cat’s voice finally rang out on the empty floor. “Winslow.” He turned to face her and was struck by the sad smile on her face. “Thank you.”

Winn clutched the strap of his bag and left.

Winn had spent the last few hours of his day in the server room in the basement, making changes and updates. Time passed oddly in the windowless, climate controlled room, lined with electronics. He hadn’t realized how late it was and by the time he exited the elevator on the 40th floor, the bullpen was empty and the only light was coming from Cat’s office.

Her screens weren’t filled with the usual newsfeeds and constant barrage of voices. Instead, as Winn approached his own desk, he realized that the images on the screens were that of his Walking Dead video game.

“Come on you undead bastards, come at me.” Three zombies died onscreen in rapid succession. Winn grinned to himself and collected his Red Vines from the stash in his desk.

He made his way silently to one of the chairs in front of the desk and watched in amused admiration for a few minutes. She was a natural. He couldn’t suppress a chuckle and at the sound, Cat jumped and whipped around to face him. Her face darkened and he held out the candy as a peace offering. She grabbed one length of candy and turned back to her game, hardly even acknowledging his presence.

Emboldened by his past exchanges with Cat, buoyed by his recent reconciliation with Kara and a need to explain Kara’s odd behavior the other day, Winn spoke first.

“It wasn’t her, y’know. The other day. When she was acting so weird. She can’t ever know that I told you this, but it wasn’t her.”

Cat pursed her lips and put down another half dozen walkers. “And I suppose you were an accomplice in that particular deception.”

“She was sick. We… thought you’d fire her. And, Miss Grant.... Kara loves this job. She needs it.”

Cat gave a ladylike snort and began slamming the controller buttons with unnecessary force.

In the following minutes, Winn would question both his sanity and his will to live, but the look on Kara’s face when she met her replacement and the sag in her shoulders when she was dismissed from work early that afternoon gave him a superhero’s courage. He cleared his throat and prepared for his demise. “You didn’t need to hire Siobhan.”

“And you don’t need to spend your entire day staring at her, but here we are.”

“What? I don’t… stare… Miss Grant. I just… don’t trust her, so I’m keeping an eye on her. That’s all…” He trailed off. He knew that excuse wouldn’t fly.

“Good night, Winslow.” Cat took another Red Vine from the package and returned to her game.

When Max Lord had said that it was Kara herself that threw Cat from her balcony, his heart sank to his feet and he forgot to breathe.

“Miss Grant’s dead?” He could hardly get the words out.

“No, Cat’s fine, she has nine lives.” Max’s bravado incensed him and as soon as he was able, Winn raced back into the city to find Cat, shaken but strong, sipping bourbon in her office. She was standing at the open door to her balcony, just inside as though willing herself to step out.

“Miss Grant!” Winn ran across her office and swept her into a surprise hug before Cat could protest. “I’m really glad you’re not dead,” he whispered into her shoulder.

Cat patted him on the back awkwardly. “Yes, well. I’m alright. Chin up, Winslow. I need your help.” She pulled him back and gave him a squeeze on his shoulder with her free hand. She handed him the bourbon in her other. “Find your courage, dear boy. And find me a camera. I’m going live in an hour.”

Cat dabbed at an errant tear with her knuckle and avoided Winn’s watchful eyes. Winn gave her a couple of minutes on her own while he packed up the camera and poured her a drink from the bar. Something told him Red Vines weren’t going to cut it tonight.

Cat accepted the drink and sipped, still refusing to look directly at him. Winn leaned against the desk next to Cat’s chair, not unlike the way Cat had done the night he’d faced his own rejection by the woman that nearly killed Cat tonight. He laid his hand over Cat’s on the desk as she took another sip. “She’s sick.”

“That seems to be something of a pattern.”

Winn squeezed her fingers. “But they’re going to fix her.”

“I hope you’re right.”

A commotion on one of the screens behind the desk drew their attention and, hand still clasped together, they watched as Supergirl battled with her own city and family until she was taken down by a horrifying looking weapon. They couldn’t see her once the area was swarmed with agents. Cat clicked off the television, polished off her drink and patted Winn’s hand. “You should go. See if she needs you.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me?”

Cat smiled.. She stood and cupped his cheek affectionately. “Go. Winslow. I’ll be fine, I promise.” It was the interrupting ring of Winn’s cellphone that made the decision for him. “Chop chop,” Cat finished.

Winn gave her a wan smile and left the office.

When his head stopped splitting open and he was pretty sure his brain wasn’t going to ooze out of his ears any longer, he looked over to be sure James was okay. James gave him a little wave and smile and Winn opted for crawling into Cat’s office. He didn’t feel like he could trust his knees quite yet.

Cat was sitting on the floor with her back propped against the front of her sofa. She was taking long, cleansing breaths and still clutching her head.

Winn sat next to her but didn’t feel compelled to say anything.

After a quiet minute, a pair of enormous shoes crossed the plush carpet. Neither of them looked up, but they heard the sound of three drinks being poured. The shoes crossed back over to the sofa and James Olsen deposited a tumbler in each of their hands before lowering himself to the floor next to Winn. No words were said. None were needed. In tandem three hands brought drinks to lips and were lowered again simultaneously. The three of them stared straight ahead, sharing the silence. After another minute, without prior warning, Cat lowered her head slowly onto Winn’s steady shoulder. His heart warmed a bit and he tipped his head and laid his own head lightly atop hers.

“You’re leaving?” He didn’t mean to sound like a teenage boy, but his voice squeaked with emotion and he didn’t want to pretend like it hadn’t.

Cat sighed and sipped her drink, not leaving her spot overlooking her city. “What are you doing here, Winslow? You don’t work here anymore.”

“Don’t go.”

Cat chuckled. “You and Kara, I swear. Cardigans and melodrama all the way down.”

Winn shoved his hands into his pockets. “I know you probably don’t give as much value to our time together as I do, Miss Grant, but… that time is important to me. You’re my friend. And I’ll miss you.”

“Oh, Winn. Of course I value our friendship. But, I won’t be gone forever.” She stepped closer to him and reached out a hand to straighten his bowtie.” He could tell she was holding back tears. “I’ll need you to look after her for me.” Winn nodded and swallowed his own tears. “Don’t let her get maudlin or too angry or jaded. Keep her inspired and keep her kind.”

Winn leaned his elbows on the balustrade. “What makes you think I’m the right person for that job.”

“Because you,” Cat poked him in his bicep, “are inspired and kind. And of the people I’ve met in her life, you are the most likely candidate to stay that way through all of the things you all see every day.” Cat looked up at the stars above National City. “She has so much pain. She masks it, but it’s there. Don’t let her fall into it too deeply.”

Winn nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” On an impulse, he pulled her into a hug and for the second time that day, Cat found herself with an armful of overly sentimental millennial. “You should tell her, you know,” Winn said as he pulled away. “How much you care about her. It wouldn’t be like it was with me. She adores you.”

Cat stood on tiptoes and pressed an affectionate kiss to Winn’s stubbly cheek. “Goodbye, Winslow.”

Winn brushed his cheek with his fingertips and smiled as he turned to go. “Bye, Cat.”

When James had left in his metal suit to keep fighting aliens, Cat looked around her ruined office before her eyes landed on Winn. “Is constantly being in danger of losing my life in a horrible way a typical side effect of knowing her, or are we just unlucky?”

Winn dug around in his messenger bag for a second and produced an almost full bag of Red Vines. He offered one to Cat. “Actually, I think it’s more a side effect of loving her, but… as I’m sure you’re aware… to know her is to love her.”

Cat accepted the candy and took a bite. “Indeed.” She tilted her head to the side. “So, Winslow, how long until you get a supersuit of your very own?”

Winn chuckled. “This is my supersuit, Miss Grant.”

“Well, you’re certainly a hero to me.” She sauntered to the bar. “Now, we’re taking a time out to have a drink before we head back to find the others, and you’re going to tell me all about this boyfriend of Kara’s.”

Winn rolled his eyes. “We’re gonna need a lot more booze.”

Winn stopped in Noonan’s after work. The DEO was working on cleaning up the city after the battle and all seemed to be quiet on the alien front since the Daxamite exodus. CatCo Plaza was between the DEO and his apartment and if he knew Kara, she’d be burning the midnight oil working on a follow-up to the invasion story.

Bag of sticky buns in one hand and tray of coffees in the other, he tapped twice on Kara’s office door and opened it before getting permission.

“Hey, Kara, thought you might need a break from Snapper-- Woah! Nope!” Winn was met with two surprised pairs of eyes. One, Kara’s bright, piercing blue, the other Cat’s cool, keen hazel. Both faces were pink and flushed. Cat sat on top of Kara’s pristine, white desk with her back to the door and between long slender legs stood Kara, mouth frozen open and fingers hastily pulling up the golden zipper that had previously been halfway down the back of Cat’s rose-colored dress. “I’ll… just… leave you alone and never ever enter this office again… ever.”

He slammed the door shut and dropped the bag and coffees on the floor just outside. “I’m going to leave these here… in case you get… hungry later?” He winced and banged his head against the doorjamb. “Shut up, Winn,” he said to himself.

As he turned to leave he heard Cat’s amused voice through the door. “I just refilled my bourbon. Help yourself!”

“Uh, yeah. Yep. I’m gonna go… take advantage of that.” He rubbed his hands over his face and barely heard Cat call back as he was walking away.”

“Good to see you, Winslow!”

#Winn x Cat Brotp #supercat #but just a little #bridge writes things

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