#it's the third-to-last and the second-to-last pages of chapter 7 in the copy i have. pages 101 and 102 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eeveevie · 4 years

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Salvation is a Last Minute Business (7/18)

Chapter 7: Romantic as a Pair of Handcuffs

It has been a busy month for the Valentine Detective Agency—Madelyn, Nick and Piper regroup to go over all the evidence in the case against Eddie Winter. Marty Bulfinch arrives with a lead and an invitation to an event perfect for “Charmer” and Deacon. After having her partnership with the Railroad spy questioned a second time by Piper, Madelyn confides in the most unlikely of people. Later, at the Third Rail, it’s showtime for two undercover agents.

“Well, you’re about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs.” - Debby Marsh as played by Gloria Grahame (The Big Heat, 1953)

[read on Ao3] x [chapter masterpost]

April 8th, 1958

The first signs of spring arrived in Boston not a moment too soon, alleviating the city from a harsh winter—weather wise, at least. Piper couldn’t resist using the change in seasons as a clever headline for the latest edition of Publick Occurrences— “Winter is over, but Eddie Winter isn’t.” It had been a busy month for the mob boss, who had all but taken control of all the major crime families in the city. With the exception of a few holdouts, his men had wormed their way across the criminal underground and begun to infiltrate once reputable businesses. Nowhere in Boston was safe.

Madelyn had kept herself just as occupied, juggling her work with the agency and the Railroad. Most days she would investigate leads with Nick, tracking down the necessary proof to pin Winter for his crimes. In her spare time she was partnered up with Deacon, fielding the work from Desdemona or Doctor Carrington, and the few odd job from Tinker Tom (maybe odd was putting it lightly). The two had caught a break and made contact with a surviving safehouse—Randolph—and worked to bring them back into the fold, strengthening the organization numbers. It was still slow going as the data from the Switchboard was decrypted, but she was glad to have given the group—and Deacon—a second chance.

Meanwhile, the agency had been successful in collecting the evidence that had been disappearing from police custody through their own unscrupulous means—but if there was sabotage within the precincts, their options were extremely limited. MacCready’s lead on recordings had so far been a dead end, as promising as it sounded. Nick had followed up on the rumor with his old friend Marty Bulfinch at Precinct 8 but finding physical proof of Eddie Winter’s crimes was like trying to capture lightning in a bottle. Winter’s corruption had spread through the entire government—from law enforcement to the mayor’s office—with anyone from beat cops to prosecutors offered bribes. Nobody could be trusted.

Madelyn was carefully inspecting the handwriting of a newly obtained letter, comparing the messy scrawl to the copies on hand, trying to determine if the note MacCready snatched off a drunken police detective belonged to their set. She read over the lines of text again, wishing that more than a few words in a sentence were intelligible. The most she could make out were the words sir, head, and artist. Whatever that meant. At least she could say the scribbles belonged to the same hand who wrote the other letters. Even though none had been signed, there was enough inference to say Eddie Winter had penned them all.

“He’s done it again!”

A Boston Bugle newspaper slammed down right atop of Madelyn’s work, causing her to snap up in alarm. Nick was fuming, pacing in front of her desk as a waft of cigarette smoke trailed behind his head like a halo. This wasn’t a surprising mood to find him in as of late—as they ramped up their investigation, the detective had become more stressed than ever, bordering on manic—relentless in his endeavor to stop Eddie Winter’s takeover of Boston. Late nights in the office had left his jaw shadowed, in need of a shave, and his light green eyes were dull with sleep deprivation.

Madelyn glanced down to read over the newspaper print, frowning when she saw the bolded typeface—Boston mob leader Ron Trevio found dead. Nick paused in his footsteps and approached, reaching down to tap his finger against the article in question.

“What they don’t say is that Winter had him assassinated,” he muttered, reaching up to grab at the nearly burnt out cigarette. Madelyn scooted the ashtray she kept in her office specifically for him closer so he could snuff the smoke out. “Whoever he got to do the job blew his head clean right off, destroying the bullet in the process.”

She grimaced at the thought, swallowing down the sickly feeling that crept up her throat. Not that she doubted Nick, but she questioned what made him so confident. Trevio was a mid-level player on the mob-scene but had stayed out of Winter’s way—rumor was that he was even making plans to head east to New York. For him to wind up dead and deposed of in such a gruesome way seemed unbefitting of even Eddie Winter.

“Are you sure?” Madelyn asked, watching as Nick ran a hand through his dark hair, distraught. “We both know he’s unhinged but this…this seems brazen.”

Her partner gestured to the newspaper again. “He knows he can get away with it. He has this entire city in his palm, and this is a warning to anyone who dares to go against him.”

She considered his words, wondering if he had thought about what Eddie Winter would do if he knew about the depth of their investigation. It was likely no secret to the crime-family organization that the Valentine Detective Agency was after them, but Nick had always been considered a joke to the city—something that used to bring him shame, he was now using to his advantage to keep their work under wraps. Still, Madelyn was on edge. If Winter and his men knew how much they had discovered, how close they were to finding a smoking gun, her and Nick were as sure as dead.

“Hey doll,” her partner called her from her thoughts, and she flicked her gaze up to meet his eyes. “You alright?”

This was what she signed up for, wasn’t it? When she first came to the agency all those years ago, he didn’t just need a legal assistant, but somebody who would help him in the pursuit of justice. After Nate’s death, she wound up relying on him for similar reasons. Nick was more than her partner, but her friend and somebody she trusted with her life. She was more than ready to see the Eddie Winter case to the very end with him, even if it killed her.

She put forth a smile. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

Before Nick could protest, quick footsteps echoed though the lobby and the two could hear Ellie correcting their guest to the right office.

“Oh so we’re in here for a change,” Piper joked sarcastically, taking a second glance at Madelyn’s name on the door before entering. She had a copy of the Boston Bugle and her own newspaper tucked under her arm, her bright red coat thrown over the other. As she threw herself into one of the cushioned armchairs, she let out a large sigh. “You saw the news?”

“Yes,” Nick and Madelyn answered simultaneously.

Piper regarded them both, grumbling under her breath. She tossed the papers haphazardly towards the desk, and Madelyn had to fumble to catch the copy of Publick Occurrences. The front page lacked any information on the Trevio murder, instead focusing on Mayor McDonough and his finances—sources were able to track donations to the McDonough reelection campaign back to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—

“This wasn’t the first time a murder has occurred and we’re the last to hear about it,” she sneered, interrupting Madelyn’s reading. “Talk about a media cover-up. Police corruption is one thing, but now Winter is messing with the freedom of the press!”

Nick choked over a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course they’d have a mole at the Bugle. Control the flow of information to the public. Spread fear through lies.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Madelyn warned, reading over her friend’s newspaper again.

Ever since the agency had begun collecting hard evidence against Eddie Winter, Piper had been itching to blow the whistle, promising to site the two as anonymous sources. As convincing as she made it sound, and as safe as her previous unidentified informants remained, Nick vehemently denied her request. The agency and Publick Occurrences were cut from the same cloth, and it wasn’t because they shared the same building. If Piper shared any information, she’d be painting a target on her back too.

“I know Blue, I know,” she relented, looking more defeated than before. “We’re so close.”

Nick nodded, pulling a new cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket of his shirt. “We are,” he nodded towards Madelyn as he flicked at his lighter. “Let’s go over the list again.”

She shuffled through the small pile on her desk until she found her steno notebook, lined with the details of the case. With a pen, she started at the top, suppressing the memories the name conjured. “Johnny Montrano, Jr.”

Nick and Piper nodded in agreement that they could still find a way to pin Montrano’s murder on Winter, even without a witness. Based on the information she had learned from Henry, the casefile and street rumors, they could corroborate that Eddie’s old hitman Robert Cooper had been hired for the job.

“Mac said Winter’s boys have been trying to keep that one quiet from Johnny’s pop,” Piper quipped. “Maybe he’s afraid of somebody after all.”

Madelyn shrugged, continuing down the list. “Arlington Green three,” she paused. The bodies had been discovered in the sand-trap just before Thanksgiving while Eddie Winter was still incarcerated at Cedar Junction. “Doesn’t Boston P.D. want to pin this on one of the O’Malley brothers?”

“Doesn’t mean the order wasn’t given down the chain of command,” Nick said, tapping his smoke over the ashtray. “Did they ever identify the victims?”

She solemnly shook her head. “The theory is they were low-level members of the Irish crime families.”

“They also could’ve been innocent bystanders for all we know,” Piper argued. She waved her hand, encouraging Madelyn to read on.

“Arthur Black,” she spoke. “Murdered a waiter in Winter’s presence. His girlfriend was there too.”

“Claire Pozinski, what a piece of work,” Nick scoffed. “What she sees in him—”

“Money, probably,” Piper interjected. “That, or she’s got a few screws lose in the head.”

“That’s besides the point,” Madelyn brought them to attention, dragging her unclicked pen down the paper. “Black was found dead, multiple stab wounds outside one of Winter’s clubs.”

“He was a liability. Leaving him out in the open was a warning to the others,” Nick reminded, harkening her back to their earlier conversation.

She nodded, blood running cold at the next item. “Danvers.”

None of them said a word, silently nodding in agreement. Just over Christmas, right after Eddie Winter had been released from prison, there had been a shooting in a speakeasy in the small town north of Boston. Two rival gangs had encroached on neutral territory and it didn’t take long for guns to go blazing. When the dust settled, each side had their fair share of casualties, but civilians had also perished. The prevailing rumor was that Winter had sparked the confrontation, sending his men to provoke the fight. Police had closed the investigation with all responsible parties arrested, even if their leaders still walked the streets.

“Alice Lansky,” Madelyn voiced after a moment of silence. “The missing safety inspector that was found…” she shook her head, unable to form the words. The poor woman had been stuffed into a barrel, remained dissolved in hydrochloric acid. Out of all of the victims linked back to Eddie Winter’s crime family, her death had been the most grotesque.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around why they needed to off a safety inspector,” Nick mused, rubbing at the stubble along his jaw. “How does she fit into this?”

“Maybe she stumbled across something she wasn’t meant to see,” Piper suggested, lips falling into a straight line the moment she said the words. As if Madelyn hadn’t already been worried about meeting an untimely end at the hands of Winter’s men, now she was imagining being crammed into a metal barrel, never to be discovered again. She did her best to hide the shiver that ran down her spine.

“Other than the numerous unexplained disappearances, robberies and drug running that have been occurring,” Madelyn sighed as she leaned back in her chair. “That’s what we have so far.”

“I know we’ve been over this before but,” Piper started. “Are you sure there isn’t anybody you trust within Boston P.D. with this information? Other than Marty, that is.”

Nick smiled, shaking his head. “You must think I’m real thick if you believe I trust that snake in a blue suit, Piper.”

The reporter laughed along with him, though Madelyn held back her amusement as she noticed Ellie leading a guest towards the open office door. She straightened in her seat. “Speak of the devil.”

Marty Bulfinch stood in the doorway with a sly grin, hands poised midair as he surveyed the room. He looked disheveled as always—even the expensive, navy pinstriped suit he wore didn’t do much to hide his less-desirable features. “Nicky, you talking trash in here?”

“You can’t walk around Boston with ducks on your ties and expect people not to say something, Marty,” Nick joked, deflecting what they had been actually been speaking about masterfully.

The other man rubbed at his necktie self-consciously. “Hey now, the other guys think its hilarious.”

Madelyn grimaced, wondering when, or how Nick would’ve ever been friends with such a slimeball. Even if her partner kept him on a short leash, she had her doubts about having the police detective as an informant—it was too risky, for all parties involved.

“What brings you here, Mr. Bulfinch?” she finally questioned, motioning for him to sit in the other armchair. Madelyn knew that her politeness always seemed to unnerve him and fairly quickly his expression shifted, eyes fixating on her as he moved from the doorway to the empty seat. He looked like a nervous child, come to the principal’s office for a punishment—that is, until he flicked his gaze back to Nick.

“You know those recordings you’ve been asking about?” he said, hand disappearing into his jacket pocket before revealing a holotape—technology only used by police, the government and a few lucky hospitals—the others in the office were taken aback by its appearance. “Now, I couldn’t well smuggle a holotape reader out of the office, but, I have it on good authority that this tape has Winter’s voice on it. With some self-incriminating information.”

“You don’t know what it says?” Piper asked directly. “Is there a transcript?”

Marty glared at her, tired eyes unblinking. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he slowly handed it over to Nick, who carefully inspected the foreign piece of data in his palm before passing it over to Madelyn. Marty shifted in his seat. “You’ll have to find your own way to listen to it.”

She had her own ideas, thinking about all of the various gadgets and inventions Tinker Tom had built and tucked away beneath the Old North Church. Of course, she wasn’t about to make the suggestion in front of their guest—for all he knew, the Railroad was a fairytale.

“I also have a lead on where ol’ Eddie might strike next,” Marty continued, fidgeting with his tie again. “Tensions between Winter and Skinny Malone have reached a fever pitch and he’s ready to have him offed.”

“That frosty, huh?” Piper chimed in, eyeing the rest of the room’s occupants. “Last we heard, Winter was allowing Skinny and his Triggermen to operate the speakeasies downtown, as long as they got a cut.”

“Skinny Malone doesn’t want to share anymore,” Marty explained, flatly. “And that made Eddie flip his lid.”

“Any idea on when the hit is supposed to take place?” Nick asked, extinguishing his cigarette. He leaned against the front of the desk, staring his former partner down. “The whole scene has been brimming with activity lately, it could be any day now.”

Marty nodded in agreement. “Skinny Malone is throwing a bash at his joint this Friday to celebrate his broad’s birthday,” he tilted his head side-to-side. “Ya’ know, the Third Rail? It’s been pulling in customers from Scollay Square ever since it opened.”

“That has Eddie Winter written all over it,” Piper remarked, leaning forward eagerly. “There’s no way he’ll make an appearance himself, though, right?”

“I doubt it,” Nick grumbled, considering the information. “Is Boston P.D. working on this? Are they going put Skinny Malone into protective services?”

Marty shrugged. “A few of us are being sent to the Third Rail undercover just in case we have to intercept,” he explained. “That’s when the offer will be made. We don’t expect Malone to come in quietly unless he feels his life is truly in danger.”

“Speaking of,” the investigator spoke, pointing to Nick. “Say the word and I can get you on the short list and inside that club.”

Nick was dumbfounded by the offer for a split second before smirking. “Undercover work isn’t really my schtick, Marty,” he said, raising his right hand to emphasize the prosthetic he wore. “Kind of hard to blend in. And don’t get me wrong but working with a precinct of cops that already hate me seems…risky.”

“I could always fill your shoes,” Piper grinned, fanning her fingers through her hair. Almost immediately the others were shaking their heads.

Madelyn softly chuckled at her friend. “Everybody in town knows about Public Occurrences, Piper. Even if you dyed your hair blonde and wore Nick’s trench-coat, you’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

The reporter slumped, defeated. That’s when Marty reluctantly flicked his gaze to where Madelyn was sitting behind the desk. He cleared his throat. “What about the dame?”

Nick raised an eyebrow, irritated that he was still going on about calling her that. “Madelyn?” When he realized what Marty was implying, he made to argue. “Marty, if you think for a second I’m sending Madelyn in with the wolves, you’re outta your damn mind!”

The danger was very real, and while Nick had every right to be upset and defensive, she couldn’t help but feel offended. It brought her back to that night in the agency, after the destruction of Ticonderoga, when he and Deacon almost came to blows. If the last month proved anything, she did her best work not cooped up in the office or behind a desk, but in action.

“Nick,” she said his name calmly, gaining his attention. The moment he met her gaze, he knew she had made up her mind. But she could ease his worries, if only slightly. “I don’t have to go alone.”

Piper caught on to what she was inferring immediately, a disgruntled expression pulling at her lips as she sank further into her armchair. Nick remained stoic, but eventually relented as he nodded, looking back to Marty.

“You can get her in?” he asked. “Plus one?”

The Boston police detective looked unsure, meeting her gaze for a long moment. “Uh, sure,” he mumbled, before quirking his mouth up in a smile. “You better come with one hell of a disguise, ya dame.”

Madelyn rolled her eyes, and Nick took the cue, politely gesturing to Marty that it was time for him to leave. “Come on, you oaf, you better get back to the pen before they start searching the gutters for you.”

Marty let out a hearty laugh, slapping Nick on the back as he brought him into a handshake. “Don’t be shy around the precinct, Nicky. They don’t hate you—that much.”

The three were silent as he exited the room, listening to Ellie wish him farewell.

“You’re seriously going to take whatshisname to the Third Rail?” Piper wasted no time in questioning Madelyn as soon as the agency door slammed shut.

“He has a name,” Madelyn replied with a sigh. “If I can’t take you or Nick, what’s the harm in taking Deacon? Undercover work is what he’s best at.”

“Are you sure about that?” Piper mumbled, crossing her arms.

Madelyn frowned. Her friend had been upset ever since she had first met the man and learned of the deception it took to keep the Railroad a secret. The strain hadn’t eased, even as she continued to work with the organization and as his partner. It seemed the reporter couldn’t get past the fact Deacon wasn’t willing to divulge much of the truth—at least with her.

“What do you have against him?” Madelyn asked, wanting to clear the air.

“I’m just saying Blue,” Piper’s tone softened. “You seem to trust this guy a lot, but you barely know him. How long has it been? A few months? And he’s come in here and—whew—swept you off your feet like it’s damn Roman Holiday!”

Madelyn was stunned into silence, a warmth settling in her chest. She couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, or excitement at having the relationship she had with Deacon described in such a way. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized how whirlwind it had been. Since their first meeting in the Memory Den, she had been chasing that feeling back and forth all through winter. There was an unspoken intimacy between the two, lingering touches and close calls where she was sure either one of them could’ve closed the gap and just kissed. And yet, there was also a silent boundary, an invisible line keeping them apart—she had always assumed it was her guilt, the weight of the wedding ring she still wore on her finger, the specter of a dead husband lingering above watching her every move—but now, she wondered if there was something more.

“I mean, what’s with the codenames?” Piper sighed. “Do you even know his real name?”

“I—” Madelyn choked on her words, at a loss. Her friend was right, and she was suddenly second-guessing every one of her emotions all over again.

Nick had been silent through the entire exchange, but finally spoke, reading her mind in the process. “Maybe Piper is right,” he mused with a little shrug. “But damnit if this isn’t the happiest I’ve seen you in months.”

Madelyn was flattered, especially when she noticed the way Nick was smiling at her, considering she knew how there was still tension between the two men whenever they happened to interact. But her chest felt heavy—the doubt had already started to creep its way in. Piper seemed ready to continue her verbal pestering when Nick sharply shook his head in warning.

“Don’t let it get to you,” he assured—a little too late. Still, Madelyn put forth a small smile and nodded. “We should plan for Friday.”

They had work to do.

The conversation with Piper and Nick continued to replay in Madelyn’s head the remainder of the day and into the evening. Even on the carbide home (on which she insisted on, so that Nick could make it home at a reasonable hour for once), her mind was clouded with conflicting emotions. She couldn’t deny that she had felt livelier, more like her true self in recent months—but didn’t want to base that happiness on lies or deception. A part of her understood it was the way the Railroad operated, outside the fringes of society where dishonesty was a necessity.

“Remember, you can’t trust everyone.”

“Even you?” she asked.

“Especially me.”

Months later, he would put an addendum to his well-spoken phrase, holding her hand as he told her he was in her corner, and always had been. As the memory came to her, all she felt was confusion. Madelyn wanted to see him, but she wasn’t sure what she would do or say, or how her feelings would shift—for better or worse? What was stopping her from acting on impulse like she had been as of late? What if Codsworth had never walked in on them that cold March evening? Would she have kissed him and sealed the deal right then? She shook her head, breaking herself free of her delusions, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to dream of what-ifs. Instead, she needed to focus on the future and what she really wanted—if only she could figure that out.

As Madelyn walked into the lobby of her apartment building, she noticed Drummer Boy at the mailboxes, sifting through various envelopes. He regarded her with a polite smile, moving to join her in the trek up the staircase.

“Have a good day at the agency?” he asked.

She sighed, trying not to sound too disgruntled. When he shot her a concerned look, she forced a smile. “It’s been very…busy. With the Winter case, that is.”

“Right,” Drummer Boy replied, letting her half-assed excuse slide. It was difficult to bluff when she was emotionally compromised, and exhausted after a long day—and hauling herself up seven flights of stairs. “I have a note for you, from Deacon.”

Madelyn swallowed down the tightness in her chest at the mention of his name. “Isn’t he in DC?”

He had been put on a special assignment by Desdemona to make contact with the southern branch—something about helping set up a new safehouse for the newfound agents and assisting with their first round of assignments. As much as Madelyn wished she could’ve joined, her obligation to the agency and the Eddie Winter investigation kept her in Boston.

Drummer Boy nodded, handing over a folded note. “I thought it was a serious correspondence, so uh,” his cheeks became red in color, which made her feel equally flustered. “I shouldn’t have read it.”

The two paused on the third story landing if only so she could scramble to read the letter, which was hardly filled with anything important, or relevant. Rather, it was incredibly lewd, and even a modern woman such as herself was turned flushed by the contents. Of course, she realized fairly quickly as the note rambled on and became more grandiose that it couldn’t possibly be real. Oddly enough, it sparked a wave of relief as she was unable to contain her laughter.

“You know he did this on purpose to get a rise out of you, right?” she chuckled, trying to give it back to Drummer Boy who waved it away, still red in the face.

“His idea of jokes sure are…elaborate,” he sighed, lifting his blue cap to run his hand through his hair. “Too much time on his hands, even hundreds of miles away.”

Madelyn regarded his words. “Do you think he’s bored?”

“No,” he answered as they continued walking up the stairs. “The opportunity to set up a new safehouse is right up Deacon’s alley. Not that he doesn’t have the experience, but to do it all on his own is a big deal.”

“He helped with HQ, right?” Madelyn clarified. She eyed Drummer Boy carefully. “After…”

He looked solemn but held back any grief. “After the Switchboard, yes.”

“Deacon’s been a big help to Dez even before the move, he does a lot more than is asked of a regular agent or heavy,” Drummer Boy mused. “You’d think he was the second in command, or the head honcho but…”

She stole another glance when he paused, seemingly in thought. “You know our history, right?”

Madelyn shrugged, taking a reprieve on the fifth story landing. “Tom once rambled off a lot of codenames to me in-between telling me how the air was going to poison me while I slept and that I needed to take the immunization shot he invented to protect myself against ‘invisible bugs’”

Drummer Boy softly laughed, nodding along. “Well, before Dez, there was Pinky Thompson. She only became leader because of a string of organizational failures under Pinky’s watch.”

“Are you suggesting that somebody might be vying for Desdemona’s position?” Madelyn questioned. “As in, Deacon?”

“No, not really,” he replied. “Deacon would never stage a coup like that. Carrington maybe, but never Deacon,” he smirked. “He’s been around…well, before my time. He was around when Wyatt and John D. ran the show, building the Railroad into the organization into what we know today.”

She found herself amused. “I always thought he was lying when he said he helped create the Railroad. Sounded too boastful, even for him.”

“Well, depending on who you believe or what you make of the records,” Drummer Boy flashed an impish grin. “Some of the agents like to think Deacon and John D. are one in the same.”

The confusion from earlier settled back into her mind, but this time, she wasn’t sure what to make of the information. This was just more conjecture—a rumor—Railroad gossip that had been passed down from agent to agent. Deacon himself had even fanned the flames, relishing in the spotlight. If anything, it only fueled the argument set forth by Piper that Madelyn truly didn’t know anything about him—about his past, about his present…about their future. Rather than anger, she felt despair—whatever had been built between them had to end, and when it did, it wasn’t going to be easy.

On the seventh floor, the two separated to their doors across the hall from one another. Almost as an afterthought, she turned back to him, motioning to her ajar door. “I prepared a pot-roast this morning, if you’d like to join me for dinner,” she offered, feeling more awkward than she meant. Even he looked perplexed. “As my neighbor, Robby. No Railroad business. Otherwise, most of it is going to Dogmeat.”

After a beat, he laughed. “Pot-roast sounds great, Hardy.”

April 11th, 1958

Madelyn hardly recognized the woman staring back at her in the reflection of her vanity mirror as she applied the finishing touches to her makeup, searching her drawers for the perfect red hue of lipstick. Her natural golden hair had been tucked back and hidden beneath a long, wavy dark brunette wig, the soft barrels falling over one shoulder and resting across the sweetheart neckline of her dress. Gown—she could hear Jenny correcting—Madelyn reminded herself she would need to be extra careful with the borrowed garment. It would not end up in the box of ruined clothes she had ripped or stained while running around the city investigating with the agency and Railroad.

Outside her bedroom, she could hear Dogmeat happily barking, Codsworth murmuring something while a third voice laughed along. Deacon—fresh from his trip to the nation’s capital, he had wasted no time in agreeing to an undercover operation and promised a show. She hadn’t seen him since he departed—communicating through dead drops to confirm their ‘assignment’—and could feel the anxiety bubbling to the surface over her conflicted feelings for him. But that night, more than ever, she would need to suppress her emotions for the sake of the investigation and stay focused.

She slipped her feet into a pair of strappy black heels as she stood, reviewing her appearance in the full-length mirror. The strapless gown was black, with a sheen to it that sparkled under the right light. The fabric hugged her curves (and then some), loose around her legs with a slit along one slide that was almost too high for her tastes. It was unlike anything Madelyn had in her closet, and not something she would’ve expected her partner’s fiancé to own either, until it was offered as the perfect outfit for the evening’s festivities. The only problem was that she and Jenny weren’t exactly the same size—she stretched to reach the zipper again, struggling to get the right angle to make it budge.

“Miss Madelyn,” Codsworth buzzed outside in the hallway. “Mr. Deacon is inquiring about your presence. Is everything alright?”

With a defeated sigh, she opened her bedroom door for the robot, laughing at the way his mechanical eyes widened as he inspected her appearance. “Can you work a zipper?”

“Pardon, mum?”

She gave his metal chassis an affectionate pat as she walked past him, awkwardly holding the dress to her body as she walked the short distance to the main room of her apartment where Deacon was sitting at the kitchen counter, turned towards the hallway as if he had been waiting for her appearance. Or at least she thought it was Deacon—if it weren’t for his ever-present reflective shades, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The black pompadour (which High Rise had strongly hinted wasn’t natural to begin with) was gone, replaced with a short, wavy style instead, a warm ginger in color—it matched his eyebrows. He wore a different, well-tailored black suit than he had before, black wingtip shoes looking like he hadn’t been walked a step in. Handsome was an understatement—Madelyn wasn’t sure what to make of the not-so-subtle transformation—reminding herself to remain on task.

“Need some help there, Charmer?” he asked, breaking the silence. He gestured to her dress and beckoned for her to come closer.

Madelyn approached with a small nod, finding that her tongue felt too heavy in her mouth to speak. She turned her back to him, breathing in deep and straightening slightly when she felt his fingers brush across her skin for the zipper of the dress. What should’ve been a simple and quick movement had turned into another spark between the two, his touch lingering far longer than necessary, thumb sweeping across her spine. But she didn’t move away.

“You look downright sinful.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, hoping he couldn’t sense how nervous she was, how her skin had turned burning hot at his words. She focused on his hair, and curiosity got the better of her.

“Is that your natural hair?”

He smirked, one eyebrow arching up like he expected something a little more flirtatious from her. “Maybe.”

Madelyn twisted around to face him, resting one hand along the kitchen counter to balance herself. As Deacon pulled his hands back to himself, she noted the glimmer on his left hand and a new tightness formed in her chest at the sight of the golden band. Why was he wearing a wedding ring? At her confusion, he gestured to her own wedding band, causing her to clamp her right hand around the diamonds to hide the jewelry.

“I knew you weren’t going to take it off, even for the sake of an undercover persona,” he explained. “Figured we’d go for the easiest play in the book. Better to blend in than stand out.”

As uncomfortable as she suddenly felt, a new wave of emotions taking over her body and mind, Deacon was right. He was also far more of an expert at espionage than she was—he knew what he was doing, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she needed to trust him.

“We’ll need a good cover story,” she offered, nodding in agreement. Still, she anxiously twisted at the ring Nate had given her almost twelve years prior, burning against her skin. More than ever, she could feel the weight of his presence around her, the guilt compounding as she agreed to this charade—even for one night.

“What do you suggest?”

Madelyn deliberated, fidgeting with the slit of the dress before thinking of who had leant it to her in the first place. Her mother had always taught her that when in doubt, use what you know.

“I’m a nurse at Medford Memorial Hospital and you’re a retired army vet. We met when you ended up in my ward after a training exercise went wrong and I had to nurse you back to health. Sparks flew, our parents disagreed, and we had to elope. Thanksgiving weekend, 1954 in Manhattan.”

She thought about the rest of the specifics. “Catherine,” she said. Her mother’s name—not that Deacon needed to know that. “My name is Catherine. Kitty for short.”

Deacon looked stunned. “Did you just come up with all that right now?”

She softly chuckled. “Thank Nick and Jenny, give or take…the rest of the details.”

“How romantic,” he mused. “I’d say you’re better at this than you think. A natural.”

He stood, signaling to the clock on the wall that they needed to catch a cab across town, or they would be more than fashionably late to the party. Feeling more confident than she had earlier, she smiled at him. “So husband, what should I call you?”

Deacon grinned as he laced their hands. “Dollface, you can call me Johnny.”

The Third Rail was classier than Madelyn expected for a speakeasy, built into one of the abandoned subway tunnels downtown. Even if Skinny Malone and his gang of Triggermen—as he dubbed them—were gangsters, she had to give it up to them for the ingenuity of the idea. There was a certain kind of ambience to the place—low lighting and dark linens spread across the tables—seedy characters lining the walls with leery expressions, it was enough to make anybody fearful. Yet Madelyn felt strangely at ease, and it had everything to do with the way Deacon’s hand was resting along her waist.

For an hour now, they had been seated at a candlelit table, chairs pushed close to ensure their cover as husband and wife remained intact. Despite her comfort, her mind had been running wild, filled with questions about Johnny. Was that supposed to be an allusion to John D.? As Madelyn took a sip from her glass of champagne, she took a side eyed glance at him, fixating on his hair. She wondered if this was his way of shedding his Railroad persona and if for a little while, he could be himself without anyone knowing. The mystery of not knowing frustrated her even more—this wasn’t exactly the place to confront him for the truth. Instead she continued to sip at her drink, allowing herself one brief moment to think about brushing her fingers through the ginger waves before looking away.

A gorgeous woman adorned in a sparkling red dress crooned a slow song about love from the lit stage, her small band of jazz musicians accompanying her like they had rehearsed the melody a hundred times. Skinny Malone had introduced her as Magnolia—a starlet in her own right among Boston nightclubs, there as a special treat for his beloved girlfriend on her birthday. So far the evening had been as calm as one could expect when in a room full of drunken mobsters, with no sign of anyone suspicious, even as she sighted a few men so green they had to belong to the Boston police force.

“Kitty darling,” Deacon leaned to murmur in her ear. “We’ve got eyes on us.”

She nonchalantly glanced to find a man at the bar taking too many looks at them over their shoulder. In spite of his disguise, his fidgeting and whiskey gave him away. Marty Bulfinch. With a small smile she shook her head. “That’s a friend.”

Deacon nodded, though his lips twisted into a thin line. “Looks familiar.”

“Hmm?” she was genuinely curious, wondering how their paths could’ve crossed.

He frowned, quickly dismissing the topic. “Not now. Later.”

Madelyn continued to survey the crowd as she drank her champagne, giggling on cue when Deacon would provide her with information from the conversations he was eavesdropping on, under the guise of saying something nonsensical into her ear.

“You didn’t happen to sneak a weapon past the guards, did you?” he asked, fingers tightening along her waist as he took a long sip of his brandy.

She brushed her foot against his ankle, catching his attention so he’d glance down to wear she was hiking up the slit of her skirt ever so slightly to reveal the holster attached to her garter belt—a trick Piper had taught her after watching too many detective movies. Madelyn didn’t realize how practical it would become, the .22 cold against her skin. Deacon made a low sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl and it caused a warmth to bloom in her chest.

“If all else fails, there’s the hairpin in my curls,” she added, adjusting her dress and flashing him a knowing look.

He held her gaze, the candlelight flickering in the reflection of his sunglasses. “We both know how deadly you are with that.”

As Magnolia dedicated the next song to Skinny Malone and his gal, Deacon shifted out his seat and extended his arm to her. “Come on Kitty Cat, let’s dance.”

Madelyn took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, her heart racing with excitement and skin tingling alive with goosebumps. Almost immediately she was transported to that first dance at the Memory Den—the electric feeling that had engulfed her body and soul. Maybe she should’ve known then that she would be enraptured by his enigmatic nature. It was inescapable, no matter how hard she tried to deny herself the truth. But what was the truth?

Deacon tugged her close as they swayed to the slow song, dipping his head so his lips were angled near her ear. “What do you think?”

She blinked, struggling to remind herself what he was referring to. Her eyes danced around their environment, looking from the pairs of dancing couples to the patrons that sat at the surrounding tables. As far as she could tell, the only people present were Skinny Malone’s Triggermen and the people Marty Bulfinch had brought from the precinct. If any of Eddie Winter’s men were in the building, they had yet to make themselves known. She didn’t want to assume they wouldn’t take the opportunity to strike, not when the iron was hot.

“Something isn’t right,” she muttered, unsure. Madelyn focused on the bar where Marty was sitting earlier, only to find he had disappeared. In an effort not to panic, she steadied her breathing, looking towards where Skinny Malone was standing, entertaining some guests near the stage. A waitress came by with a new round of drinks, just in time for the birthday toast.

Madelyn tried to lead him closer, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Easy now, kitten,” Deacon assured, the hand at her waist tightening a little. “We have an audience.”

She flicked her gaze over his shoulder to the two Triggermen on the edge of the dancefloor, muttering to themselves as they gestured to where they were dancing. With one steady breath, she slinked herself closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “We need a distraction.”

“I like the way you think.”

Madelyn looked up at him through her lashes, and felt his fingers trail up to her shoulder and then her neck, leaving a burning path in their wake. Cupping the side of her face, she could feel the cool metal band of the wedding ring he wore, reminding her of the charade they were meant to be playing. He wasn’t Deacon, but Johnny—not her Railroad partner, but her husband. If she wanted to, she could kiss him, and blame it all on the undercover assignment. It didn’t matter what her real feelings were—she could face them later—or live in this fantasy and sin for as long as she wanted.

He noticed her hesitation. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to.”

She didn’t say anything, tilting her chin a fraction closer just as Magnolia finished her song. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the sound of clinging glasses and the echoing sounds of cheers! It faded away as Deacon’s lips ghosted over hers, and she didn’t even care if the Triggermen were watching. Madelyn fluttered her eyes closed and could feel herself drifting—

A loud crash resonated through the entire club and on impulse she pulled herself away, inhaling a sharp breath as she focused her vision. For the split second she settled on Deacon’s face it was difficult to discern his expression—was he disappointed? It quickly melted away as they both diverted their attention towards the stage where Skinny Malone had collapsed, the table knocked over and glasses shattered. Madelyn was disoriented as she rushed over through the crowd of people—there hadn’t been a gunshot—what had happened?

A stocky man in a well-made, pinstriped suit was inspecting the tray of drinks that had been discarded on the floor. “Boss’ been slipped sumthin’!”

Poison? Madelyn felt the dread settle in her chest—this was unlike Winter—he always liked to take a direct approach when killing off his competition. But she had no time to question his methods when as of late, his crimes had become unpredictable.

“Move away!” she yelled over the crowd of frantic Triggermen. “I’m a nurse, maybe I can help!”

In the chaos, nobody made to stop her as she knelt over Skinny Malone’s crumpled body, pressing her fingers to his throat to check for a pulse. Frosty white foam was sputtering from his mouth and his eyes were wide, bulging. His hands were scrambling at the carpet for purchase, but a moment later they switched to yank at his jacket and tie. It was all in vein as he lie there suffocating, choking on his own tongue—there wasn’t anything Madelyn could do, even if she was a real medical professional. She gave him a sympathetic look, before noticing the thick pocketbook in the seam of his blazer. Without a second thought she snatched it, tucking it as well as she could in the front of her dress.

Skinny Malone began to struggle, gripping the arm of his nearest Triggerman. Madelyn was swept up at that time, Deacon’s hands tight around her waist as he led her away as calmly as possible.

“Time to hit the road,” he said through gritted teeth, suppressing his distress that they would be stopped in the confusion as they made their exit.

As they left the Third Rail, Madelyn felt as though their undercover assignment was a failure. Eddie Winter had gotten what he wanted with Skinny Malone’s death and was one step further in his complete take over of Boston.

It was time to play their hand.

#fallout 4 #noir au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #madelyn hardy #deacon #nick valentine #piper wright #marty bullfinch #drummer boy #the john d. theory persists even in noir okay #piper has valid concerns #who called for undercover lovers?!#AND GINGER DEACON!?#👀👀👀#i am so sorry this is 7k+

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spicyfloaty · 4 years

Text

Give & Take | Chapter 7

pairing: kacchako

genre: slowburn/fluff

words: 3.4k

summary: Ochako's grades are slipping. Bakugo is dangerously nearing suspension, or worse, expulsion. A certain twist of fate pairs them together for tutoring sessions. He teaches her math. She keeps him from getting suspended. A simple exchange, but what if this only brings them closer than necessary?

header credits: @alexbenedetto

[READ ON AO3]

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven: This You?

“Too slow.”

Ochako’s pen comes to a screeching halt upon hearing the alarm from Bakugo’s phone, making a tiny smudge beside the halfway done solution scrawled on her notebook. Her fingers tighten around her pen, teeth chewing the inside of her cheek in frustration. I didn’t even get to finish.

“You already screwed it up over here,” Bakugo says gruffly, pointing to the beginning lines of her solution, “and here.” He drags his fingers down to the second and third lines. A pair of stern eyes meet hers and their message is as clear as day, Get your shit together, dumbass.

He takes her notebook and writes down another problem from the black notebook he’s been copying questions from, the same one she saw beside his sleeping head just a few days ago. She had never brought it up again since she knew this would only make him feel more embarrassed, but the sight of it still sends shockwaves of warmth all throughout her body.

Bakugo slides the notebook back to her, Ochako’s eyes quickly scan the new problem beneath her before giving the signal, “Go.” The timer starts as soon as her pen lands on the page.

They had been going over questions back to back for the past hour, maybe even more. She had been getting most of the answers right for the past few sessions, but Bakugo decided to take it up a notch by timing her while she solved for them. As nerve wracking as the new challenge may be, it was useful for making sure she answered every single item on Ectoplasm’s test despite the time limit he’ll be setting for it.

Ochako still had a ways to go in order to solve a problem correctly under the weight of this new kind of pressure, if anything, she still had a lot of work to do to be able to completely finish writing her solutions down before Bakugo’s phone starts wailing to remind her that she had blew it once again.

She was on the fifth line of her solution when she heard the telltale ring of failure resounding from the phone on Bakugo’s side of the desk. Just as how the questions had become exceedingly harder by the minute, so was the urge to send his phone flying to the other side of the room had become harder to resist. She knew better than to do that, of course, Bakugo had already looked upset enough as it is with her performance so far, she didn’t need to add a broken phone to the growing list of things he could yell at her about.

Bakugo silences the alarm, leaning forward to check her work, unfinished work to be more precise. He had always been this close whenever he went over her work, the scent of his shampoo suddenly becoming stronger as she waited for his judgement. His eyebrows furrow and his lips twist to a frown, “Wrong,” he huffs, “and incomplete.”

Her hand slides past her temple, making its way to her hair, raking through its soft locks in hopes of finding comfort in each strand or better yet, to release the tension and pressure building up inside her, “Give me the next one.” She says, a hint of irritation coating her words.

This time, the next question he writes down for her seemed easier to figure out compared to the previous ones. The timer starts the second she starts writing, every single cell in her body was hell bent on answering this problem as fast as she could and there might as well be smoke coming from the page with the speed she was going at. The alarm sounds and a drop of sweat falls on the last digits of her answer as she finally completes the solution.

Bakugo leaned over once more and Ochako had to forcefully shut down all thoughts about what kind of hair products he used and focused on the building anticipation in the pit of her stomach, “Did you even read the question?” He growls, crossing several parts of her solution in red ink. Confusion wrinkles her face as she checks the question on the top of the page, only for her eyes to grow two times its size upon realizing her mistake, “Ugh! I read it wrong!”

She flops herself over her desk in surrender, a muffled sound of frustration escaping her lips, “What the hell is wrong with you today?” She hears him ask. She knew the answer to that just as much as he did.

“I give up,” she exhales, her distorted admission of defeat sends her hot breath towards the desk and back to her face. Ochako hears another alarm sound but this time it was coming from her own phone, signaling the end of another session, “You can go now.” She mutters, expecting to hear the sound of footsteps rushing out the door just like it’s always been.

Instead she hears, “No.”

She lifts her head from her desk, the confused look on her face bounces off of the serious one on his, “What do you mean, no?” She asks as if Bakugo had refused to save a civilian from a burning building. She had been used to him contradicting most of what she said almost all the time, but all the times he had consistently left the room the moment her phone’s alarm went off almost made it into a solid fact, a routine at least.

“Your dumbass isn’t going anywhere until you get one right.” He orders. The first thing that passes through her head was the fact that it was Bakugo who refused to go anywhere, not her. The second thought was a big fat question mark on why he was choosing to stay this time around when he never failed to bolt out the classroom whenever their previous sessions would come to an end.

The low grumble of her belly helps her remember why these sessions never go beyond the two hours allotted for them, “I have to eat, Bakugo.” Ochako points out, she’d usually be pigging out the moment she gets back to the dorms.

Bakugo slings his bag over his shoulders and raises an eyebrow at her, “We’ll go to Lunch Rush.” Her ears perk up at the sound of the word we, “We?”

“Who the fuck else is going to check your answers, idiot?” He barks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’ll be writing while I eat?” She asks, surely she’d at least be given the time to fill her stomach first.

An impatient look looms over Bakugo’s face, “You have two hands, don’t you?” He turns away and starts to make his way towards the door, “Now stop asking questions, pack your shit, and hurry the hell up.”

Ochako did not have to be told twice for her to haul herself outside the classroom. The journey to the cafeteria was a quiet one and a weird feeling settled inside her at the strange situation she found herself in, walking behind Bakugo after school hours. To Lunch Rush. To eat. Together.

They finally arrive at the cafeteria and thankfully, there were only a few people in sight, a few unfamiliar faces of students and a couple of teachers on their laptops. The place was relatively deserted. Bakugo stops beside an empty table and turns to her, “Sit.” Ochako sets her things down onto the vacant seat and plops herself beside them, “Stay.”

“I’m not a dog.” She barked, shooting him a dirty look. He rolls his eyes and gestures to the pile of stuff beside her, “Less yapping, more reading.” He bites.

She begrudgingly takes out her textbook and starts rereading the topic they were going over just a while ago, “Good girl.” He teases, going along with that dog bit. Another shit eating grin plasters itself on his dumb face before he walks away, which was a good thing because if he had stayed a second longer, she would have pulled a Zuckerberg and smacked Bakugo’s face with all four hundred pages of her book.

Fantasies of thwacking Bakugo with her textbook along with her rereading said textbook were interrupted by the tray of food suddenly descending in front of her, its savory smell invading her nostrils and amplifying the growl of her stomach ten fold. Ochako quickly reaches for her wallet while Bakugo sets his tray down in front of him as he takes his seat across from her.

“Keep that shit to yourself.” He snaps, eyes swiftly darting to the hand making its way to her pockets.

“Oh, come on.” She whines. Ochako understood that paying for both meals was a guy thing, but weren’t those only done on stuff like dates or something like that?

Another impatient glare targets her, “Pay me back by getting your shit together.” He fires back, pointing to her textbook.

She was about to insist further, but seeing the look of finality scorning his face, there was probably no other hope in convincing him otherwise. With one final sigh, she opens her notebook and readies her pen on one hand while holding a spoon with the other.

“The hell are you doing?” He asks.

“I thought you said I’d be writing while eating?” She retorts. He says I’ve got two hands for this, right? I’m just doing as I’m told.

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to take that seriously.” He scoffs, “Now eat, dumbass.”

It’s Ochako’s turn to roll her eyes at this. She sets her pen down and places her full attention on the hot meal in front of her, picking up her fork before glancing at Bakugo’s tray. She was alone with a guy who insisted on paying for both their meals. If she didn’t know any better she’d say that this was a date, but she knew better so she was quick to dismiss the thought.

“Quit staring at my food, round face.” He barks, emphasizing the nickname to paint her as some kind of glutton. Ochako shoots him one last glare before digging in, she was a few bites in before Bakugo started to eat his own food. She notices his hardened expression slip into a calmer one as he ate with such delicacy, his chopsticks methodically removing the bones in his fish, carefully picking apart the meat as he brings each piece to his mouth.

Ochako couldn’t help but stare at him, she was stunned by the precision in each of his movements and the way he was making it all look so easy made it out to be as if he had done this all his life. She wasn’t exactly expecting him to eat like some sort of barbarian, no, but not just anyone could eat fish so cleanly, let alone with chopsticks.

Her prolonged staring and the amazed look on her face doesn’t go unnoticed, “What are you looking at?” He sneers, chopsticks stopping midway to his lips.

“I’ve never seen anyone my age eat fish like that before.” She explains, “My mom tried to teach me when I was little, but I couldn’t bear to sit through the complicated process.”

Bakugo’s eyebrows furrow at her story, “It’s not that hard.” He counters.

“I gave up after the third helping of fish.” She smiles, recalling the memory. Handling chopsticks with such care for her to cleanly debone the entire fish before she ate was not a routine she could commit to before each meal.

Bakugo lowers the chopsticks down to his plate before his lips twist to a scowl, “There you go again with that shit.”

Ochako’s eyebrows knit together in total confusion, “What?” She didn’t recall saying or doing anything to piss him off, but then again almost anything and everything could piss Bakugo off.

“Giving up.” He points out, the features of his face still contorted with a mix of confusion and annoyance, “Stop it.”

The gears in her head slowly process this and the answer of a question in the back of her head dawns on her, “Is that why you stayed?” She asks, putting two and two together. Was all of this just his own way of telling her not to give up on herself?

“Tch, never pegged you as a quitter,” Bakugo looks away, “it pissed me off finding out that all it took to make you back down was a simple fucking math problem.”

“It wasn’t simple.” She immediately fires back without missing a beat.

“To you.” He replies as a matter of factly.

“Well, of course it would be easy for you,” she reasons, “you made them.” It was only after she saw his look of surprise and the slight touch of pink dusting Bakugo’s cheeks, that she realized her mistake. Ah crap, I shouldn’t have brought that up.

Bakugo’s eyes focus on his food, “Whatever,” he mutters, picking up his chopsticks, “All I’m saying is giving up doesn’t suit you, idiot.” He punctuates his sentence by taking a careful bite of his fish.

Ochako’s gaze also finds their way to her meal, cheeks also flushing at his comment. She couldn’t help but feel somewhat giddy at the fact that Bakugo believed in her abilities to a point where he chose to stay and help her push past her own doubts. She brings her spoon to her mouth before it could break into a wide smile.

A few quiet minutes pass and despite Bakugo being the one with the slower, more careful technique in eating, he finishes first, “Can you eat any slower?” He drones impatiently.

“Shut up.” She says in a very Bakugo-like fashion. Her sentiment didn’t sound like coherent words, though, since it was muffled by the chunks of food she was shoving into her mouth at an alarming rate. He wanted her to eat faster? Then she was going to deliver.

“Disgusting.” He mumbles, earning him another glare from her.

Ochako finally finishes her food, she then turns to her side to fish out the notebook and pen she had put away a while ago, “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Clean that shit on your face first.” Bakugo points to her face, another look of disgust aimed straight at her. She raises an eyebrow, pointing to her right cheek, “Here?”

His eyebrows furrow further, “Other side.” He presses on, a twinge of annoyance lacing his voice.

She brings her fingers to her left cheek, attempting to wipe away the stain she couldn’t see, “There?” Bakugo makes another sound of frustration and before she could grab her phone to check for herself he leans over and brushes his thumb over the corner of her lip. It was quick, a brief contact of skin, but it was enough for her to shut up.

“You eat like a pig.” He says flatly. This comment would have elicited a snarky comeback from her but like she said, it shut her up.

Bakugo grabs her notebook and begins to write a question for her, he slides it back towards her and sets up the timer on his phone, “Ready to get your shit together, round face?”

Ochako tears her attention away from the heat of the skin on her lip and reads over the new problem, “Go.”

She focuses with all her might in writing her solution just in time before the alarm sounds, making sure to not be careless this time around. Ochako had been meaning to score at least 80 percent on that test for Ectoplasm’s class, but after recent events, a particular condition to be more specific, she had been determined to get a hundred. What else was ace that test supposed to mean in Bakugo’s book other than to simply get a perfect score?

Her focus momentarily wavers due to movement from the corner of her eye and faint whispers from their side. Ochako was halfway through the answer when Bakugo’s phone blares that god forsaken alarm, he takes her notebook to check her answers and she turns to her left to see that two first years were whispering amongst themselves and snickering after occasionally looking their way.

“What were you supposed to write?” Bakugo asks, eyes still trained on her work. She shifts her gaze back to him, “44.05” She replies.

“Wrong.” He deadpans as Ochako clicked her tongue in frustration, Focus!

Bakugo hands her another question, but this time, her peripheral vision catches a phone being pointed towards their direction. She whips her head to the side and confirms that one of the two students indeed had their phone out angled towards them.

“You’re never getting one right if you keep looking over there, dumbass.” Bakugo barks, stopping the timer.

Ochako turns to him, “I think they’re taking pictures of us.” She points out in a hushed tone.

“And?” He asks impatiently.

“If they are, that could spread.” She presses on further, but it doesn’t seem to get through to him.

“And?”

A puff of air escapes her nostrils, Why does he not get it? “I don’t know if you can recall, but there’s already enough rumors about us going around.” She reminds him, “This will not help.”

Bakugo’s face scrunches up, “I don’t know if you can recall, but I already asked you who the fuck cares?”

“I do!” She snaps, “Just because you’re okay with it, doesn’t mean I am, okay?.” Ochako turns her attention back to the two students beside them, trying to soften the hardened look she was giving Bakugo a few seconds ago, “Excuse me.” She begins, “Can you please stop taking photos of us? It’s not nice to take pictures of strangers without consent.”

The guy doesn’t put his phone away and the girl sitting beside him speaks up for both of them, “That ain’t in the UA Handbook, lady, we can do whatever we want.” She announces.

The beginning of a response was sitting on the tip of her tongue when Bakugo suddenly stood up from his seat to face them head on, “Put that shit away or I break it along with both of your faces.” He growled, towering over them with fierce animosity.

Both first years let out distinct terrified squeaks before gathering their stuff and scrambling away to the exit. Bakugo returns to his seat, a scowl still etched deep into his face, “Thanks.” She breathes out.

Without making any eye contact, he grabs her notebook and angrily scribbles down the next question. He slides it towards her and waits for her signal, eyes still focused on his phone.

Ochako draws in a deep breath, “Go.”

She feels the strain on her wrist as she wrote the first few lines of math as fast as she could, eyes darting back and forth from her solution to the problem to make sure she didn’t read anything wrong this time. She focuses on the goal at hand, a rematch that would ultimately decide how much she’s improved since last time, a match that would put her abilities to the test once more against the best opponent anyone could ever ask for. Despite these thoughts, she starts to feel more agitated, the pressure of the ticking seconds weighing down on her shoulders, making the pen in her hand feel ten times as heavy.

She feels a flick on her forehead which trips the marathon of thoughts running through her mind, bringing her back safely to the ground. Ochako looked up to see Bakugo’s eyes fixated on hers and with just one word, the heaviness on her chest was gone.

“Relax.”

The clouded skies in her mind clear as her breathing returned to normal, hands slowly and carefully writing the last parts of her solution. She encircles the final answer and gently places her pen beside it. Bakugo goes over her work and grins.

“Fucking finally.”

---

They walk back to the dorms, once again treading in complete silence. Bakugo was ahead of her, both earphone buds lodged in his ears. They were a few feet away from the dorm’s entrance when she tapped his shoulder, “Hey.”

He takes off one of his earphones and lazily looks over to her, “You don’t think that it’ll spread right?” She asks, her thoughts going back to the two first years.

Bakugo rolls his eyes as he opens the door for her, “Will you calm the fuck down, it’s not like we were making out--.”

Both of them stop dead in their tracks when they see the entirety of Class 1A lounging on the couches, watching a movie. Kaminari lifts his head from the back of the couch and grins from ear to ear, “Making out, eh?”

Kirishima smiles at his phone before holding it up for both of them to see. On the screen was a very high definition photo of Bakugo leaning over across the cafeteria’s table to wipe her face, “This you?”

#kacchako #kacchako fic #kacchako fanfiction #kacchako fluff #kacchako slowburn #kacchako week #kacchako week 2020 #ao3 kacchako #ao3 #bakuraka #bakuraka week #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo #bakugo x uraraka #urakara ochako #mha ochako #bnha #bnha fanfiction #mha

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phil-and-a-corgi · 5 years

Text

highschool bandfic in a nutshell - chapter 2

chapter 1

rating: t/m (swearing and also irene’s writing.)

word count: um i dont know a lot ( 2083 )

summary: uhh we have that on the first page

here if you want to read it here then here you go materinos(doesn’t include behind the scenes bants though

here read it on google docs yeah i know so professional(this one has behind the scenes banter)

SECOND CHAPTER (2)

(written by renee @dan-and-a-shibe - pete’s pov)

after finally putting on my eyeliner (i had no time to do it this morning and i looked like a garbage can filled with shit on fire) i hopped off the sink counter. sighing and putting my MAC charcoal liner back into my bag.i dabbed just a wee bit of eyeshadow because WHY THE FUCK NOT. the bell rang, signalling that i was late for first period. why do i let a bell, a mere beep for 5 seconds control where i go and when i go. it just shows how even though everyone tries to be themselves that everyone ends up being dragged by the trends of society. so i decided to sit in the background and look through tumblr. on my phone. ten minutes of scrolling through poetry and kittens. i should get going now. so i did. i walked into mr armstrong’s class.

“mr wentz may i ask why you’re late.” he asked, jokingly in a teacher’s voice. “sorry it’s required to ask that” he whispered, winking at the class.

“i know why, because he was busy being a GAYLORD”(dh quote) that try hard kid justin bieber teased.

“ok justin please explain how your bleached hair isn’t gayer than his amazing eyeliner.” mr amstrong retorted back as the whole class “oohed” at justin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(written by Irene - @feckboy69-aol - frank’s pov)

Fuck Ms. O-Conner. Fuck her class. It's the only class that I don't have with my beloved Gee and the rest of the guys I hung out with and the only class where the teacher actually expects me to do shit. Like okay, maybe there’s some nice chicks in this class and I sit in the back next to a window where I can stare out of and think of my beloved, beautiful Gee, but so what? Lorde’s (yeah, that's what her preferred name was, what a joke) a fucking bore. Honestly, so would this school be, if not for my beloved, precious, beautiful Gee and the shit going on with Ryan and Beebs’ tea drama. Oh, that and the whole of Beaver’s crowd; it was fun watching them get owned by literally everyone here.

Anyway, English class. Lorde Bitchface was screaming about the importance of “putting emotion into your poems” and using “meaningful symbolism” to give your writing “depth” like the edgy bitch she was, so I just tuned her ugly mug out as usual, grabbing my notebook and turning to a fresh page. I gripped the #2 mechanical pencil in my hands and let my mind wander and think about my beloved, adorable, precious, and beautiful Gee, which wasn't very hard. I thought about the last time we had made out (in the bathroom near Bitchface’s class in the stall that no one used) and let my hand draw what I thought. I never was a good artist, but my beloved, handsome, adorable, precious, and beautiful Gee had taught me a couple things (some about art, some about other things), so I had become pretty good. I concentrated for a good 5-7 minutes on the drawing, making every line count, and then smirked to myself at the finished masterpiece. It was stunning; well Gee was.

“Ah… Mr. Iero, why don't you tell us?” said Lorde Bitchface, looking at me with that stupid fucking teacher look that Mr. Armstrong had copied perfectly from her and would use to joke around. But I, being me, tried to pass it off with a smartass answer, something I always did that got on the bitch’s nerves.

“See now I would, but I don't do things like that for free,” I said, giving her a mischievous look. Several girls in front of me (except Hayley, that sassy lassy, who just rolled her eyes and went back the crap that Bitchface was teaching) turned around and giggled, playing with their hair in a vain attempt to try and get my attention. They knew about Gee and me; the whole school did (that's a story for another time), but they still thought they could get me. But I played along anyway, winking at them and giving them the Frank Iero Famous smoulder. The girls seemed impressed, but Bitchface clearly wasn't, her ugly face (okay, I knew she wasn't ugly, she probably got a lot of action actually with that figure, but I despised her so fuck off) morphing into one of disgusting bitch anger, her nose and eyebrows scrunched up and her lips pursed into a tight, white line. I knew she was about to blow, when a kid sitting all the way up in the front who I didn't even know existed until he spoke his next words (that would definitely be his last if I ever found him alone in a dark hallway, by the way) said, “He's being inappropriate and drawing repulsing images in his notebook, Ms. Lorde. I saw him when I went to sharpen my pencil, Ms. Lorde,”

He then turned around and smirked at me, his wavy ginger hair following him as he did, an aura of smugness about him that I did not appreciate.

I saw the anger drain from Lorde Bitchface’s face and have it replaced with a look of calmness that was actually more efficient in scaring people than her anger.

Fucking asshole, I thought, momentarily losing my cool before reminding myself that I was Frank Iero and bitches wished they could kiss the ground I walked on with their crusty-ass, chapped as fuck lips.

So when that fucking whore of a teacher gave me detention, I simply smiled and said a cheeky, “Can't get enough of me as it is, Lorde? Not that I can't see why you wouldn't want more of this,” running my hands through my hair, knowing that this was definitely gonna make the ugly hag throw a fit, which would be far more amusing than if I had just accepted the offer of yet another detention.

It worked; I got sent to the principal's office, but like hell I was actually gonna go there. I smiled to myself as I walked outside the door, giving Bitchface a cheeky salute as I went out, not staying long enough for her to scream more shit at me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(written by renee @dan-and-a-shibe - ray’s pov)

geez well this is frank's seventh detention this week and it's only wednesday. how is that even possible. well, lorde's most recent detention got him a saturday detention for the whole day and i knew he was supposed to go hang out with gee. gerard would be heartbroken if he couldn't make it to their next date. they have date night in saturday. i had to convince lorde to get him out of detention. she hadn't hated me yet, so i had a chance. while we were supposed to be writing deep poetry, i went up to her desk.

“hey um, ms lorde, uh sorry about frank. his family isn't really okay at the moment, and well, he's been acting up. more than usual. his parents have been really hard on him, especially with the detentions. i hope you can withdraw the multiple detentions from the past three days. don't mention this to him, or anyone else. please.” truth was that franks family wasn't doing to well but they weren't being hard on him, they didn't care anymore.

lorde paused for a moment. “ok then, ill withdraw the detentions. only for this week. why don't you go down to the office and tell him this detentions are withdrawn.” i knew i could do it. most ladies have more vulnerable emotions, they’re more sensitive. and that's why women are so great. and now he only had three after school detentions..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(written by Irene - @feckboy69-aol - tyler’s pov)

It was lunch for the Sophomores, so as usual, I was trying to find my best fren Josh Dun. It was strange, he wasn't anywhere to be seen, when usually I could spot his vibrant colored hair in any crowd (it was a bright yellow today). So when I entered the large circular shaped cafeteria, and didn't see him, I started to panic a bit.

He was there in the morning, we walked here together, he was there in first period, I saw him when I went to go to the bathroom, he was there during third period because I was there with him, oh no, he got kidnaped… he got bullied he's in a locker somewhere stuck I have to go, he's hurt I have to sav-

“Tyler!” I heard someone scream from behind me, interrupting my very important thoughts about Jishwa. I turned around in pure panic, ready for the news that was going to be solemnly sorrowful; news about Jishwa’s untimely death.

Alas, it was only Jenna Joseph Black, a pleasant surprise at that. I smiled in spite of my internal mental struggle, watching Jenna smiling and running up to me. The cafeteria was now starting to fill up, with cliques of people banding together in their own respectable tables, as usual.

Jenna grinned at me, giving me a friendly greeting. I didn't want her to get worried for my stupid overthinking habit. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, leading me to our lunch table which consisted of me, Jish, her, Hayley (Kiyoko) Adam, Jack, and Ryan. The others weren't there yet, me and Jen usually arrived early, Josh not too far behind us, with the rest walking together, usually bringing some mundane news about whatever they considered important in their lives. Usual conversations involved Jack and his frens coming in with their loud but awkward selves, Hayley not too far behind them, her hands crossed in silent disapprovement at almost everyone and everything. They all would then come in to our table, interrupting the meaningful conversations that Jen, Jish and I would be having, usually conversations about the possibility (or plausibility) of whether coconut sharks could or not exist, (if they did exist, where would they be swimming?) with talk about the latest song from so-and-so’s band or whether Ryan and Brendon would ever get back together, or at least make up.

But that's not what exactly happened today because Jen, ever the one to notice and care, gave me a caring concerned look that depicted exactly how much she cared and was concerned about me and Jish, her eyes gleaming in the bright-lighted cafeteria, her mouth morphing into a depressing frown.

“Where's Jish?” She inquired, the proportions of her face perfectly in line, to the point where she made everyday curiosity look like it was the epitome of perfection, suddenly standing up, probably (or plausibly) realizing that if Jish were here, he would be right now.

I slouched further into my seat, gulping, my throat feeling dry, “I don't Jen… I don't know…”

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residentanchor · 6 years

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A Lesson in Practicality 8

<<Chapter 7

Chapter 8 Summary: A look back at how Logan tried pulling this all together. Word Count: 4596

In his spare time, the random quiet cafe tucked away in the corners of the city were his favorite. Logan usually went with a book, one he read previously and didn't mind getting distracted from. His life had stagnated a bit but the pattern was one he was comfortable with. A quiet corner and a small snack provided by the cafe gave him an hour or so in peace. He could duck away and hide his face when needed but still observe the area around him. Some people had the same hobby, watching people go about their lives and just quietly observing, he just had a peek into what was hidden just underneath.

Anytime someone came in and piqued his interest in any way, Logan would observe and think of what had gotten them to this very spot at the same time. After years of quietly observing and quickly checking to see if he was right had left the hobby more than dull. Most people thought about the same things, it would get stale and boring from time to time. However, there were moments when someone would stand out and give him a bit of a shock. It rarely happened anymore but it was always interesting nonetheless. Being able to read mannerisms was never Logan's strong point. Someone would carry themselves with confidence then be fighting a battle in their head, he could never quite get it right.

The bell over the door jingled and Logan waited for the person to walk into the cafe before looking up. He quickly looked back down in uninterest, glancing over the words in his book. People could be so easy to read sometimes at a single look was enough.

Laughter caused his eyes to flicker back up over his book. The newest patron had a grin on his face as the cashier let out a laugh. He couldn't quite hear what was being said, but he decided a second look wouldn't hurt.

The man carried himself well, not quite with confidence but seemed to dance in his spot whenever he got a smile or laugh from the cashier. They could be about the same age and they even wore similar glasses, but nothing truly remarkable stuck out. The ones who smiled the most usually carried the most pain or something along those lines from his experience. Though, as time carried on and the man continued to smile, Logan couldn't help but begin to wonder. Was he having a good day or could someone truly be that happy? It had been a boring visit and they were the most interesting person he had seen all day. Logan checked around and held up his book, glancing at the pages more. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, covering his face. Just a quick scan would only take a few moments. He nearly dropped his book.

Logan hunched in on himself a bit more and tried not looking up. Had he seen that right? The man split himself into two people that morning. Logan hadn't even bothered to take the second to check why or how the thought never occurred to him. He sat up straight and looked over once more, the smile still on the man's face who was completely unaware. Years of this silly habit and somehow Logan had possibly crossed paths with someone just like him in the same city.

He covered his eyes again and did another check. Patton. Seemed to live alone in a small studio apartment and could indeed make multiple copies of himself. He had to know more, or at least dig deeper. Logan's powers never worked on himself, it didn't make logical sense, but he had always wondered if his brain just worked differently then everyone else. An autopsy on his own brain was physically impossible so this was the first chance he got to test his theory.

It took a bit but he did seem to find something but he wasn't sure what. Something metaphorically made this 'Patton' stick out like a red dot on a thermal scan. He blinked away and looked up after hearing a noise, seeing the other leaving the cafe with a small bag and drink in his hand. Logan pretended to be reading as the other left, their eyes never meeting.

He wondered if he could scan the whole city bit by bit now that he knew what he was looking for. Logan closed his book and casually gathered his things before walking out, he had research to do.

It hadn't taken long as he scribbled in a small notepad that fit into his pocket. After knowing what he was looking for, he tried broadening his range and got on a bus that stretched the city. After a few rides, he had scribbled down some notes about the people he could point out. Across the span of two weeks, Logan was certain he had found at least those in the city who could be similar to him, it just took figuring out how to bring it up to them. One stood out from the rest if only slightly, so after deliberation, Logan decided to 'accidentally' run into them and start talking. Maybe some things could be pieced together.

The next thing he knew, he was standing in the middle of a sidewalk, apologizing for bumping into a passerby and walking away confused. He remembered going somewhere to see someone, but couldn't remember who or what. He reached for the notepad in his back pocket and found it missing. He had been writing in it for two weeks and without it, he wasn't sure he'd be able to remember absolutely everything he wrote. The other people, their names, and abilities he at least was able to see where jotted down in that. Logan could only hope someone took it as notes for a novel or story someone could be writing. Most things could be re-written with a little hard work and wasn't worth the stress. The four other people in the city... Three other people. Four? He couldn't quite remember, he thought it was...

Logan decided to rethink his entire plan with a bit more caution.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come in and help, sweetie?"

Patton pulled the last bag out of the truck and turned to the driver. "No thanks, mom. I'll let you know when I'm settled in."

"Take your time, dear. Call me tonight." Patton grinned and closed the door, waving as the truck pulled away. He looked down at his few small boxes and frowned. The trip could be over in a few minutes if he hadn't absolutely promised he would just do it himself and he was far too stubborn to ever break a promise. He picked up a box and a bag and made his way inside.

He was on his third trip when he saw his mother drive by and wave. After she was out of view, Patton shook his head. His parents never did trust him sometimes. He made his way up the stairs and paused at the very top. Third floor and no help, he knew this was going to take a while.

He walked out of the stairway and to the only door at the top leading to the apartment. Shuffling the box onto the floor, he checked where the spare key would have been hidden under the fake plant and found it missing. It was early, he wasn't the first here? He turned and knocked on the door, waiting for any noise. It took only a few seconds before it swung open and he was met with his first roommate.

"Hi, I'm Patton. You my new roommate?" Patton smiled as the man stared back at him inquisitively. "Oh! We have the same glasses!" He pointed happily.

"It appears so. Salutations, I am Logan." He extended his hand and Patton took it happily. "I've already moved into the room in the very back. Do you require assistance with your belongings?"

Patton waved a hand and reached down for his box. "No need, bucko. I'll take care of it!" He perked up and walked in. "Oh, it really is all furnished! Wonderful!" Patton spun around. "So, anyone else here? Kinda thought I was going to be the first."

"You are the first to arrive beside me, feel free to take any room you see fit." Patton walked to the nearest doorway and peeked in. "I'll just take this one then! Thanks a Pat-ton!" He walked in and placed his first box down. "I'll be back with my other belongings!"

It took half an hour of running up and down stairs but Patton had all his belongings in his room before he sat down on the couch for a rest. "It seems you have finally finished moving in. Would you like a beverage? There is only water as I have not had the chance to shop for groceries as of yet."

"You talk funny, I like it!" Patton smiled up. "A water would be great, thanks, Logan!" Logan nodded and entered the room with a glass, handing it to Patton. "Thank you! So, sit! Tell me about you, I want to know more about my new roomies!" Patton took a big gulp of water and sighed in relief.

"Oh, well. I am currently employed at a bookstore and maintain a healthy yet quiet lifestyle I suppose. What about you, Patton?"

Patton put the glass down on a coaster and perked up. "Well, that's not enough! Here, I'll start. I'm Patton! I work at the library as an assistant, it's a lot of organizing and computer work! I'm an only child, and I love cats and dogs! I'm allergic to cats though, it breaks my heart when I see one and I can't pet it! Oh! I also love to cook so I'd love to help out when I can!"

"That is certainly interesting, you said you work at a library? Do you enjoy reading?"

"Ohh, yes! I like to read to the kids that come in all the time! Oh, there was this one book I read about someone's job as a dog catcher, it was so cute and sad!"

"Somehow I'm not surprised." Logan sat up. "I'm sure you have some unpacking to do, so I shall leave you to it."

It was a few short hours of just the two of them, most of the noise being Patton's rummaging and humming as he set up his room. There was a loud thumping and both people had come to investigate.

Logan had just entered the room when the door swung open.

"I've been dreaming of a true love's kiss~." The man sang and barged into the room. He froze and noticed he wasn't alone, placing down the boxes he had been carrying. "Well, hello there! I see I am not quite early enough."

"Nice to meet ya, my names Patton!" Patton walked up and they shook hands. "You've got one nice set of pipes there, kiddo!"

"Ah, yes! Thank you for noticing. I must admit, it is a bit early and still before noon. I thought I would be the first one to arrive." He looked around at the living area. "My name is Roman, am I the last here?"

Logan approached and reached out his hand. "Greetings, I'm Logan. We should still be expecting one more person."

"I see! Well, which rooms are available? I've got quite a few trips ahead of me."

Discovering one of the bigger rooms was still up for grabs, Roman immediately started moving his belongings with the help from Patton. Logan had announced he would go out and grab essentials so that they at least had some things in the fridge.

Roman didn't sing much after his entrance but did continue to hum to himself. Patton reassured him that at least while it is the two of them, he was okay with singing and started to join in.

The day was overall quiet. Patton helped out and sorted his things while Roman unpacked as much as he could before the day was over. Logan, who had unpacked completely before Patton had even arrived kept to his room as much as possible. Despite buying groceries, Roman announced that moving in day was reserved for take-out and ordered pizza with few complaints.

Everyone had tucked away into their rooms for the night when the last person snuck in. The door hardly made a sound as he shuffled in with a duffle bag and little else. He snuck around quietly before Patton had surprised him.

"Oh! You must be the last roommate!" He was practically dancing in his spot. "We all got here this morning! I'm Patton, did you need help carrying anything? I can show you to your room if you want!"

"Uh, yeah. This is all I have, just point me in the right direction." Patton walked up and waved him down the hall just passed the kitchen.

"This is the last room left so it's all yours!" Patton opened the door and flicked on the light, moving out of the way. "Just let me know if you need anything, kiddo! The bathroom is the next door down."

"Right, thanks." He hugged the duffle bag closer as Patton walked out, eagerly waving.

He dropped the duffle bag to the ground and sat on the bed, humming with content as it bounced back comfortably. He immediately shut off the light and tried to sleep before just scrolling through his phone for the night.

The next morning was a new beginning in Patton's eyes. He ran down to the store bright and early only to arrive back and everyone was still asleep. He started on a big breakfast to celebrate his new roommates. He gave them space yesterday, besides the quiet one who ducked in last night, but he was determined to break them out of their shells.

Patton giggled to himself as he cracked open an egg, laughing at his own joke.

It didn't take long for the smell of breakfast to awaken the others. Logan was first, walking in still quite tired but dressed completely for the day. He blinked at Patton and the array of food spread on the table. "It was nice of you to cook, Patton, but it's highly illogical to cook so much for the three of us."

Patton spun around with a smile. "Nope! The last little guy snuck in last night, I saw him! Figured a good breakfast was a great way to start our new friendships!"

Logan headed for the coffee pot and grabbed a mug, freezing and staring into the closet. "Would you happen to know which one of us brought in that mug?"

Patton walked over and peered inside. A big mug with 'You've cat to be kitten me right meow' was scrawled across it. "Oh, that one is mine, isn't it purrfect?"

Logan lifted a hand up to rub his eyes, fearful a headache would start forming. "I assume it fits your humor quite well then?" He focused back on the pot and muttered to himself. "I'm going to regret all of this by the end of the week."

"What are you talking about over there?"

"How much I'm going to regret all the coffee I will no doubt drink by weeks end." Logan never took his eyes off of the coffee pot.

"Aww, come on! I'm sure we'll get along great!"

"That is still to be seen. We have hardly just met and objectively it has been shown that throwing random strangers into a living space can hold negative effects. There are too many variables to be able to tell so soon."

"I just think it's too early to start doubting us. Besides, it's never a bad time to make friends!" Patton looked over as Roman entered, still in his pajamas as he stretched. "Roman! I made pancakes!"

Roman smiled at the sight. "Ahh, you are too kind, Patton was it? Thank you."

"Thank you! See, Logan? We can be civil."

Patton finished adding the last pancake onto the stack and glanced down the hall. "I'm just gonna check on him, he got in late last night but breakfast is important!"

"Oh, so he did arrive then?" Roman questioned. "Alright, bring him out so I can see if I got stuck with three nerds."

"What constitutes a 'nerd' then? How would you identify one?"

Roman just looked up at Logan and stifled a laugh. "You, for one, are a prime example if I've ever seen one."

Patton trotted down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door. "Hey, you awake?" He waited for a response before knocking once more. After a moment of silence, he bit his lip and debated with himself. Caving, he grabbed the doorknob and quietly pushed it open. "It's getting late, you still asleep?"

Curled up on the bed with his back facing the door, Patton heard a groan cry out from the lump of blankets. "Go away, dad." He pulled the blankets closer to himself. "If it's not noon then leave me alone."

Patton chuckled and started to close the door. "Whatever you say, kiddo."

The door clicked shut and he shot up in bed, looking around. "This isn't my room." He blinked and remembered. He just moved in. "...I called my new roommate dad." he covered his face and ran his hands across it in frustration. "Fantastic, great job, Virgil. Gold star on that one." He grabbed a pillow and buried his face in it.

It wasn't too much longer before he convinced himself to get out of bed and make his way into the kitchen. Patton was humming to himself and cleaning while the few remains of his breakfast were sitting on the table. "You're awake! I left you some breakfast, you just have to heat it up!"

"Uh, thanks." He tugged the sleeves of his shirt down. "Pat, right?"

"Name's Patton, but you can call me dad!" Patton smiled and laughed seeing his new roommate's face flush and glow red. "What's your name? Or do you prefer kiddo?"

"Oh, sorry. It's Virgil." He cleared his throat and looked away. "Sorry again about the whole 'dad' comment thing." He mumbled softly.

Patton waved a hand and shrugged it off. "No need to worry, we can just wash our hands of the situation!"

Virgil looked up at Patton who smiled too brightly as he dried his hands. "Dad jokes, of course, you do." Despite his words, Virgil hid his smirk behind his hand.

Virgil retreated to his room after finishing his breakfast and washing his plate. He decided to face the music, quite literally as it was coming from the living room, and meet his other roommates.

Logan had been absorbed into an old worn book and Roman and Patton were talking over the music that was playing. Roman noticed him enter and jumped in surprise. "Well, it looks like the walking personification of emo from the last decade is our newest roomie." He leaned back on the couch. "So you still post all your angsty poems on Myspace or what?"

"Aww, it's always nice to meet a fan." He walked in and leaned against the wall, keeping his distance. "What are you, a failed Disney prince reject?"

"Excuse you!" Roman stood up and fixed his hair, posing dramatically. "I am an actual prince, thank you very much!"

"Whatever you say, Prince Hans."

Roman scoffed and crossed his arms with a smirk. "Who knew mister tries-to-be-edgy likes the purity and goodness of Disney?"

"We must not be watching the same movies because pure and good are not what I would call them."

"You dare speak badly about my beloved Disney? Have you no shame, man?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I upsetting you?"

Logan slammed his book closed and stood up. "That will be enough out of the two of you. Hardly five minutes and at each other's throats, childish."

Patton stood up and walked over. "Well, it's good to see you both are so passionate about the same thing!"

"I hardly call immediately breaking out into a verbal disagreement talking passionately, Patton." Logan turned to walk out of the room. "Please do not bother me, and keep the noise down."

The sound of music coming from Roman's phone was the only noise in the room before he turned and shut it off, retreating into his own. Patton looked in dismay as they dispersed, eyes meeting Virgil's. "It's okay, Roman and Logan will come around, you'll see!"

The apartment kept quiet that afternoon and the tension could still be felt in the air. Patton walked into the kitchen for a snack to find Logan placing something on the door of the fridge. "Ah, Patton, perfect timing." Logan took a step back. "I have made a 'chore chart' if you will to try and keep things organized and civil around here. I didn't think it necessary but apparently I made the wrong assumption."

"That's fine, Logan! I'm sure we're all just tired and getting used to things. We'll warm up to one another!"

Logan looked at Patton and pulled off his glasses. "How you remain so optimistic is a mystery to me. Not one I am entirely unthankful for, however." He pulled a cloth from his pocket and started wiping the lens.

"Aww, thanks, buddy! See? We're getting along just fine!"

Logan placed his glasses back on and turned to the hall to his room. "I would disagree, we seem to have varying differences but in comparison to the others, yes. We are 'getting along' better than the other two."

Patton frowned as Logan walked out and looked around the kitchen. Having three other roommates still left him feeling all too alone in the new apartment.

The first week was anything but ideal. Patton tried keeping the peace, but Logan refused to leave his room for more than the bare essentials. Virgil was seen even less, only coming out to complain about the noise Roman was making down the hall. Roman would snark back and they would argue before Patton separated them. However, Patton was an optimist and refused to give up too soon.

"Family night?" Roman scoffed and turned away. "We aren't a family."

"I figured we could watch movies or do karaoke, doesn't that sound fun?"

"Appeasing to my nature is a smart move, but you'll never get Jekyll and Hyde to agree to it."

"If I can, would you join us?"

Patton stood determined and stared down the other. Roman sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Fine. If you can convince them then we can give it a shot. I have to agree to the movie, though. I doubt they'll want to sing, I mean. They've heard me, my voice is intimidating."

Patton jumped up and hugged Roman, bouncing with energy. "Oh this is perfect, thank you!" He ran off and Roman couldn't help but smirk back. Patton just had that energy about him.

Patton headed for Virgil's room next. He was quiet but they've managed to be civil the whole week. Any time Patton talked to Logan, he was shot down immediately, and Roman would shrug him off from time to time. He didn't hesitate to knock and crack open the door. "Hey, Virgil. Mind if I come in?"

"Sure." Virgil was on his bed with a bag and a pile of colored paper. "What's up?"

"I'm planning a night for us to hang out, I was thinking maybe watching a movie?" Virgil ripped a piece of paper off and shoved it into the bag. "I think we just need to sit down and enjoy each other's company. We can't keep hiding from one another living like this."

Virgil finally glanced up and ripped the paper once more. "You already pick out a movie?"

"No, but I'm sure there's something we can all enjoy! Roman said he would join us, but he just has to agree on the choice."

Virgil snorted out a laugh and shook his head. "So anything Disney, then? It's most of what he listens to, I swear he blasts it just to annoy me."

"You don't like Disney?"

"I do, but constantly having to hear it can get annoying, even if it's something you like." Virgil looked up timidly. "You talk to Logan yet?"

Patton frowned and shook his head. "I may have some trouble convincing him, we don't really get along. That's why I want us to try, at least once! We'll never know otherwise!" Patton watched Virgil rip the paper into a few more pieces. "What are you doing exactly?"

"I brought home some stuff and I'm making a confetti glitter bomb for the next time Roman gets on my nerves." He looked up with a smirk of pure mischief. "Don't worry, I won't use it tonight. I'll save it for after."

"If that's the best I'll get, then okay. Now, just have to convince Logan!"

"No." Patton was met with the closing of a door and froze in his spot. He stood there silently for a moment before knocking on the door once more and was greeted with Logan's face. "Patton, I am not joining you all on some frivolous attempt to get along. Is there anything else you need?"

"But why not?" Patton put a hand on the door as Logan made an attempt to close it once more. "Just tell me why. Everyone else is willing to attempt to get along, why won't you?"

"Patton, there are an infinitesimal amount of things I'd rather be doing than watching a movie with you three."

Patton looked completely baffled and raised an eyebrow. "So that's a yes? You'll join us?"

"What? No, that is not what I said."

"But..." Patton pointed at Logan. "Infinitesimal means really small. So you said there wasn't really anything else you'd rather do."

Logan jerked back in surprise and pulled out his phone. He quickly typed away and paled after a moment. "I see, it seems I have misused that word. How on Earth did you know what it meant?"

Patton smiled and puffed his chest out proudly. "I know big words too! You'd know more about me if you came out of your room and gave us all a chance..."

Logan scoffed and rolled his eyes, looking back towards his desk. He peered back at Patton and his shoulders fell in surrender. "Fine. I will join you all on this silly quest to 'get along' if that's what it takes to get some peace and quiet around here."

"Yay! You won't regret it, Logan!"

"Perhaps." Logan shut his door closed and smirked to himself. "Perhaps I won't completely regret this. We shall see."

Chapter 9>> Tag list: @cyberpunkjinx @phlying-squirrel @equipodeleo

#sanders sides #sander sides au #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #sander sides #superpower au #slice of life au #practicality fic

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mikotyzini · 6 years

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What Defines Us - Ch. 15

Good morning everyone! I mentioned in another post, but I now have Microsoft Office so I can more easily copy and past the chapters here without having to reformat everything (ugh, that was always so tedious).

So now the chapter is right here! And here’s a link to it on fanfiction.net, if you wanted to leave me a review. Chapter 15!

Also, good luck. I won’t tell you why, but good luck.

The hallways were busy and crowded - filled to the brim with a bustle Weiss had long ago learned to tolerate but still hated all the same. They were built wide and tall, yet somehow seemed cramped on the best of days, and suffocating on the worst.

There was nothing she could do about it though - the additional employees were necessary in getting this plant off the ground. Important deadlines were rapidly approaching and many processes still weren’t completely up and running yet.

“What’s this?” she asked a man standing next to a cart carrying a stack of filled crystal boxes. She didn’t bother waiting for his response before answering her own question, “These are supposed to be on the third manufacturing floor. Take them there now.”

There wasn’t a single word of argument to be heard as he took the handle of the cart and pushed it towards the elevators as quickly as he could.

“Incompetence…” she muttered to herself before turning into the nearly operational boxing facility.

The massive room held several large pieces of machinery that cost more than most houses to purchase. Feeding into each machine was a towering stack of flattened boxes - not unlike the ones the man on the cart had just taken upstairs - that would be popped into form before riding long conveyor belts to be filled with vials of Dust. From this morning’s report, she knew that the room had successfully integrated with the refinery next door, but was suffering from several internal yellow lights which needed to be resolved.

Her eyes scanned the silent machines - monstrosities that cost vast sums of money every day they sat dormant - before searching for someone in charge. Finding a middle-aged woman nearby with a green badge clipped to her shirt and a notebook in her hands, Weiss stalked over.

“What’s the status?” she asked, causing the woman to visibly start from the unexpected demand for a progress report.

“Uh, the uh, assembly line is running smoothly, but the boxing machine needs to be recalibrated one more time.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Weiss didn’t allow the woman time to answer the rhetorical question. “This needs to be working in two hours. Make it happen.”

“Yes, Miss Schnee,” the supervisor replied, bowing her head before rushing towards her subordinates.

Sighing, Weiss pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. It was going to take them three hours to have the machine recalibrated, but at least they wouldn’t lose another full day.

“Miss - uh, Miss Schnee?”

Opening her eyes at the sound of her name, she found a younger man in a white polo waving and rushing over to her. Rushing was never a good sign - rushing meant something had gone wrong. Again.

“What is it?” she snapped, irritation growing at the continued issues that shouldn’t even be occurring. There were very clear, very detailed step-by-step guides for every single process in this building - how did these employees fail at every possible turn?

“I just need your signature!” he said, holding a clipboard out to her. Snatching it away from him, she flipped it around so she could read the form before approving it. As her eyes skimmed the words on the page, her displeasure grew.

“You lost...an entire shipment of Dust?” Looking up from the authorization in her hands, she stared at the man in utter disbelief.

“Not lost!” he quickly replied, looking more uncomfortable by the second and refusing to meet her eyes. “Temporarily misplaced. It was supposed to come here, but went to Vacuo instead. We just need your signature to approve the additional transport bringing it over here.”

It was a monumental error that he was attempting to make sound like a simple mistake with an easy fix. Of course, Weiss knew better than that. She’d grown up in these factories, after all. She knew how much it cost to run the lights in the manufacturing floors for an hour. She knew how much the daily supply of coffee cost. And she absolutely knew how much it cost to reroute a shipment of Dust from across the globe.

Gritting her teeth in now-simmering anger, she swiped the pen out of his hands and quickly signed her name - there was no other option but to acquiesce, they needed that shipment here yesterday. She paused for only a second before carefully placing the date beside her name - curling the ‘2’ and slicing through the ‘7’ before shoving both items back into the man’s hands in annoyance. Before she could threaten to fire him, he smartly spun on his heel and raced the way he’d come without ever looking back. Staring after him in irritation, she unclenched her fist and tried to loosen her ever-tightening jaw.

Today was supposed to one of the happiest days of her life. Instead, she was spending it attempting to squeeze a modicum of competence out of complete and utter incompetence.

Feeling the ache in her chest, she forced her mind away from the date and back to her ever-expanding list of problems. There were a million different boxes that needed to be checked and she seemed to be the only one doing the checking. But her agitation at her employees’ repeated failures was a much better emotion to hang onto than that ache, which she needed to keep her mind as far away from as possible.

A loud grinding suddenly filled the air, followed closely by frenzied shouts of surprise before the sound cut off. Turning towards the source of the noise, she sighed when she saw the thin plumes of smoke rising out of one of the boxing machines.

Someone must have set the calibration incorrectly. That was going to cost them another day to replace the gears that had just been fried by sheer ineptitude.

Shaking her head, she left the boxing facility behind in favor of the busy corridor. Moving out of the way when two large, motorized carts transporting heavy pieces of machinery passed by, she then crossed the hall and walked onto the extraction floor on the other side - where Dust was removed from the rocks it was embedded in.

Upon entering the massive room, she was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by the sight and sounds of a manufacturing center in full production. There were employees at several of the terminals running last-minute diagnostics, but she could tell them that everything was working properly without running a single test.

There was a particular sound these machines made when they were working in perfect harmony…a soft hum that had its own unique melody. This was knowledge she’d gained over years of walking through these rooms as a child, so she couldn’t fault the new workers for not recognizing it yet. But all of the machinery was performing flawlessly at the moment. When they finished their second and third tests, this would be confirmed and eventually green-lit for operation.

Which meant that something was finally working - and ahead of schedule.

Taking a content breath, she wasn’t able to enjoy the meager victory for more than a second before a familiar flash of white drew her full attention. Off to her right, stepping around one of the extractors before giving it a nod of approval, was the very last person Weiss wanted to see on this inauspicious day.

Winter.

Straightening her posture on instinct, Weiss watched Winter make a short comment to the floor supervisor before catching Weiss’ gaze and striding purposefully over. There was something about the way Winter walked that exuded authority. Maybe it was her hands clasped behind her back, or the rigid posture, or the tightened bun...regardless, nearby employees skirted out of the way without her ever having to alter her path.

“Weiss,” Winter said after she’d stopped a polite distance away, dipping her head in greeting.

“Winter,” Weiss replied in kind - their ultra-formal greeting nearly a ritual by now. Only after the formality was completed did Winter unfurl a warm smile.

“How are you doing?”

The question was soft and caring, but Weiss didn’t feel like answering the true intention behind it at the moment.

“Everything is progressing as to be expected. Specs are up-to-date and production is running...moderately smoothly.” She gestured towards the assembly line while she spoke, and Winter’s gaze briefly followed the path of her hand before returning to her.

“That’s great to hear, but not what I was asking.”

Pursing her lips, Weiss remained stubbornly silent. She knew exactly what Winter was referring to, but that wasn’t a subject she wanted to broach right now - or ever.

Winter waited patiently for a reply that wasn’t going to come before finally turning and gesturing with her head for Weiss to follow. With no other option but to oblige, Weiss fell into step beside her sister as they made their way out of the large manufacturing floor. Side-by-side, the two of them re-entered the corridor and moved towards the bank of elevators. Where Weiss had felt cramped several minutes earlier, she now found there was plenty of breathing room - the ever-spacious halls providing ample room for walking in Winter’s presence.

“How long since you’ve slept?”

The unexpected question made Weiss’ brow furrow while the tired pressure behind her eyes re-announced itself on cue.

“I’m fine.”

The words were short and clipped as she obediently followed her older sister through the halls of Schnee Dust’s newest operating facility. A strong cup of coffee had gotten her through most of the morning after yet another night with no sleep to speak of. Another cup would be waiting for her later on - as many as she needed to carry her through the day. She didn’t need sleep when she had a steady supply of caffeine at her fingertips. And, most importantly, she didn’t need to have this conversation again.

“How long since you’ve eaten? A real meal?”

Snapping her jaw shut, Weiss glowered down the hallway and remained silent as they stepped into the next empty elevator. There were plenty of other employees waiting to be ferried to the higher levels, but no one attempted to share the confined space - instead, the doors shut with just the two of them inside. As soon as the doors soundlessly sealed, Winter selected a floor and then resumed her perfect posture.

Glancing at the number, Weiss now understood that her sister was taking them to Weiss’ office on the top floor of the building. Fine by her. At least there they would have some privacy if Winter insisted upon continuing this one-sided conversation.

“I thought you’d be in Mistral until next week,” Weiss commented as the elevator climbed into the sky, both of them watching the floor numbers illuminate in succession rather than look at one another.

“I came back early.”

“To check up on me?”

There was no response, which may as well have been a resounding ‘yes.’ Grinding her molars together, Weiss attempted to hold the indignation to a moderate level as it built in her chest.

The only reason she’d assumed it would be a normal work day was because Winter was out of town. To hear that she’d flown all the way back for no reason other than to monitor Weiss’ wellbeing was aggravating and entirely unnecessary.

“Today’s the 27th -”

“I’m well aware,” Weiss snapped before Winter could finish the thought. The blunt reply caused Winter to pause for several seconds before finally speaking again - continuing her soft, patient tone.

“I thought that today, of all days, you might need someone to talk to.”

Winter couldn’t be more wrong. Today was the very worst day for Weiss speak about what had happened. Today was the day she wanted to do anything but acknowledge the past.

“I’m fine,” she grumbled towards the wall, folding her arms over her chest and tapping one foot in agitation. In the silence that followed, her stomach gave a small jolt when the elevator came to a stop - a soft ding announcing their arrival.

The doors slid open to reveal a sparse corridor with no employees in sight. Compared to the manufacturing floors, this floor was well-decorated, with expensive paintings on the walls and living plants that required their own assistant to care for them. There were only a handful of offices on this level - Weiss’ included.

In relative silence, Weiss followed Winter’s lead towards the glass door - second on the left - which opened into a larger lobby that acted as a reception for any of Weiss’ visitors. There was a desk placed immediately inside the doorway, although it was noticeably devoid of anyone at the moment.

When Weiss glanced around the room in search of the secretary who practically lived in this chair, Winter broke the quiet.

“I asked her to take an extended lunch break,” Winter explained - the response only creasing Weiss’ brow further.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted the opportunity to speak with you,” Winter answered calmly, continuing in earnest when she heard the sigh Weiss let slip. “I knew today would be difficult for you -”

“Winter,” Weiss interrupted, holding up one hand in an effort to prevent her sister from saying anything more. “I’m fine. Today is a day like any other. There's nothing special about it.”

The response would have been more believable if her voice hadn’t cracked in the middle of delivering it, but, instead of arguing, Winter smiled sadly and placed her hands behind her back as if she didn’t know what to truly do with them.

“I had a feeling you might say that...” she commented before turning her blue gaze back to Weiss. “I would do anything for you, you know that?”

“I know,” Weiss replied, fully understanding that what Winter said was true. When Weiss had been younger, her sister was one of the only people she’d had in her life to lean on for support. Winter had done her part in ensuring that Weiss was protected - as much as was possible given their family circumstances. It still hadn’t been easy, but...Weiss shuddered at the thought of what it could have been like without her sister.

Thankfully, the answer made Winter nod in content.

“I know we weren’t able to grow up as normal people do,” she continued. “There was always so much pressure to be perfect, on you more than anyone else. I worried how that would affect you…”

Weiss frowned, unsure if the comment was vaguely insulting in some way - as if Winter might be implying that she wasn’t able to handle the pressure.

“I think I managed just fine.”

“I know you did. You thrived in it. But at what point does perfectionism begin to affect you?”

The question appeared rhetorical from the way Winter’s gaze unfocused, then drifted into a distant corner of the room. When Winter did return to the present moment, she took a step sideways to lead them towards the solid wood door of Weiss’ office.

“Have you thought anymore about returning to Vale?” she asked as they walked, hopefully failing to notice how the mere mention of the city was enough to make Weiss flinch.

“No.”

The answer was a complete lie. There wasn’t a day that passed without Weiss grappling with whether or not she should leave Atlas - she considered it each morning before heading to a job that served only as a distraction, and each night while attempting to find some semblance of sleep in a house that would never be her home.

But the idea of returning to Vale terrified her far more than the reality of staying away did. That life had ended - this was her life now. One of these days, she had to accept that.

And Winter would have to, too.

Reaching the office door, Winter finally stopped and turned to Weiss with caring eyes that were almost too much sometimes. Knowing what Weiss had done, how could Winter still look at her in that way? Weiss wasn’t the one who needed compassion or concern right now. She wasn’t the one who’d been forced into months and months of doctor's appointments and physical therapy.

“I only want what’s best for you,” Winter said, her eyes never leaving Weiss’ so she would know that the words were true. Sighing at the sincerity, Weiss tried to let go of her stubbornness and at least recognize that her sister was looking out for her. And, even though she didn’t believe she deserved any of that kindness, the fact that Winter still extended it was worthy of gratitude.

“I know,” Weiss replied softly, dipping her head a fraction of an inch in deference. “I appreciate that - I really do.”

Satisfied with the answer, Winter nodded her head once before opening the office door and gesturing Weiss through. Willingly obliging, it was only when Weiss’ eyes found the room beyond that her feet planted to the floor. She actually took one step backwards, only to hear the sound of the door closing behind her. A second later, Winter placed one hand on Weiss’ shoulder and gently prodded her forward.

She’d only been annoyed before - now she was on the verge of steaming mad.

“Weiss, this is Dr. Marigold,” Winter explained, gesturing to the petite blonde woman who was rising from one of the comfortable leather chairs situated in front of the desk. “Doctor, this is my sister, Weiss.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the woman politely replied, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Agitated by the intrusion into her personal space, Weiss wanted very much to ignore the greeting, but she failed - the social training ingrained too deeply for her to circumvent so easily.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said in a clipped voice, quickly shaking the woman’s hand before turning to Winter with a meaningful glare. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I have work to do.”

“I’ve already cleared your afternoon schedule.”

The sentence made Weiss spin back to Winter in disbelief.

“You did what?”

“I cleared it,” Winter repeated, not wilting at all under Weiss’ withering gaze. Instead, Winter stepped closer, setting one hand lovingly on Weiss’ shoulder while dropping her voice to a whisper. “If you won’t talk to me, you need to talk to someone.”

“I’m fine,” Weiss spit out through gritted teeth. The response only managed to make Winter sigh while the briefest expression of hurt flashed through her eyes.

“Please, Weiss. Do this for me? Fifteen minutes - that’s all I’m asking.”

There were so many words Weiss wanted to say right now - none of them very nice - but she could say nothing while company was present. The incredulity and annoyance would have to wait for another day when their conversation would remain private.

“If I do...then you’ll drop this? For good?” she asked instead. Winter was slow in responding - her nod a hesitation late - but she did nod in agreement.

“If you want me to, yes.”

This wasn’t at all what Weiss wanted to do right now, but if she could put up with it for a few minutes it would be worth finally escaping the subject altogether.

“Fine,” she huffed out in response, hastily sitting on one of the chairs in the most disgruntled way she possibly could.

“Thank you,” Winter replied softly, squeezing Weiss’ shoulder again before quickly exiting the room and pulling the door quietly shut behind her. Once the room fell silent, Dr. Marigold took the seat in front of Weiss and watched her intently. It was a gaze of careful analysis that made her want to squirm in discomfort, but she refused to grant the woman the vindication.

“How has your day been, so far?” Dr. Marigold asked after several seconds. It was a simple question, but every bit of the woman’s persona reeked of too much concern. It was hard to find that level of concern believable, even though the veneer was genuine.

“It was wonderful until two minutes ago,” Weiss quipped in reply, folding her arms across her chest in what she knew came across as a defensive position. But she was defensive. This was her office and her sister had invited a goddamn shrink into it.

“Your sister is worried about you - that’s the only reason she would go to such great lengths to help you.”

“So I’ve heard,” Weiss replied before rolling her eyes. Falling silent, she stared out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of her office while clenching and unclenching her jaw in anger. She’d always known that Winter would try to help, but to do this? This was nearly unconscionable.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” Dr. Marigold finally ventured to ask.

“No.”

More silence followed as Weiss refused to look anywhere but the freshly-cleaned window glass. The cleaners had actually missed a small spot. She’d have to point that out to them later...

“Your sister told me a little bit about what happened. I can only imagine how difficult this has been for you…”

That statement brought Weiss’ eyes snapping back to the woman, feeling a sudden surge of fire burn through her veins.

“You can’t even imagine what this is like,” she replied, her voice low and angry. “Unless, somehow, you’ve also lost your partner and best friend - all because of a mistake you made. Because of your own failings.”

She glared at the woman while waiting for a response, but Dr. Marigold was silent for several seconds before speaking again - undeterred by the hostility.

“Sometimes, when traumatic events happen, we forget that even those who escaped physically unharmed can suffer emotional injuries -”

“I’m fine.”

How many times must she reiterate that sentence before it became true? She couldn’t not be fine. She couldn’t be weak or broken. ‘Emotionally injured’ wasn’t a label someone in her family could ever accept.

“You might be walking fine and speaking fine, but what about sleeping? Eating?”

Pausing, Dr. Marigold finally caught Weiss’ gaze - her own yellow-brown eyes emitting open empathy and compassion for stories and woes she’d yet to hear.

“What do you like to do in your free time?”

“I try not to have any,” Weiss answered easily, pulling away from that understanding gaze.

There was no one more involved in the day-to-day tasks in this building than she was. Even her father had seemed mildly impressed with the level of commitment she put into getting this factory up and running ahead of schedule. Each day she came in earlier than anyone else. She stayed later. She worked weekends. There was no such thing as a day off for her. When she did end up away from the office, she brought work with her and spent her evenings consumed in the fine print until she might literally fall asleep at her desk.

Free time wasn’t a part of her schedule by design, for it was in the moments when life slowed down that the tidal wave of emotions began to erode the edges of her mind. The doubt...the agony...the overwhelming sense of loss...

“I understand today is an important day for you.”

The comment succeeded in making her flinch in pain - if that had been the doctor’s intention. Weiss had started the day determined not to acknowledge the date and its significance. It would’ve been much easier to accomplish that goal if life wasn’t set on reminding her at every possible turn.

“It was supposed to be,” she replied, dropping her gaze and watching her fingers curl and uncurl in her lap.

“Do you ever think back on what happened?”

It was a stupid question, and she gave the woman a look that said as much.

“Would you think about it?” she shot back sarcastically.

Even though she’d removed all free time from her schedule, her brain always seemed to find pockets of time to dwell on the past. No matter how busy she kept herself, no matter how much work she did, her mind found moments in which to needle her heart with agony. When she walked from meeting to meeting, waited for a cup of coffee, or was driven home from the office - there were still small gaps in her schedule that were more than enough for the wave of emotions to wash against her levees. The moments, though seemingly minor, constantly threatened to unravel her...preventing her from ever feeling whole.

Even if she could somehow manage to block out these portions of the day, there was the problem of sleeping…as soon as she closed her eyes the memories came back - the forest, the blood, the hospital, the blank way silver passed right over her. If she did manage to fall asleep, it was with the assurance of nightmares - a replay of true events or new tortures her mind created just for her personal viewing. They were filled with ‘coward,’ ‘failure,’ ‘your fault,’ and the worst of all…‘I thought you loved me.’

So, yes. While she attempted to keep herself busy at all times and hours of the day, she still thought about the past - constantly. There were triggers all around her - the smell of flowers, which she’d ordered removed from the building to be replaced by scentless plants. The smell of baked goods, causing her to alter the path taken to work to avoid passing too closely to a small bakery nearby.

In every way, the world beckoned her to look back - and, when she first arrived in Atlas, she made the mistake of listening. There were messages between her and Ruby still trapped in her scroll. There were photos, saved voice messages, saved video messages. She’d spent nearly an entire day crying after going through them, and hadn’t dared glance at them again. Instead, she silently grieved, and grieved, and grieved, for the love they’d lost.

“Have you spoken with anyone about it?”

“No.”

That was a pretty simple answer. Of course she hadn’t spoken to anyone about what had happened - besides when she’d still been in Vale. Everyone had needed a summary when Ruby had gotten hurt, but that hadn’t meant they needed to know how Weiss felt about it. There’d been no reason to mention the rampant guilt and anguish that spread through her like an infection...taking over her system the instant it was clear Ruby was never fully coming back.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Dr. Marigold followed up.

“No,” Weiss still replied - another easy answer to give.

Evidently undaunted, Dr. Marigold leaned forward and rested both elbows on her knees before clasping her hands together.

“You’re not alone in this,” she remarked quietly. “You have people who care about you. People you can lean on for support.”

“Who?” Weiss asked, anger again beginning to swell in her chest at the woman’s continued lack of understanding. “The friend whose sister I abandoned? Or that friend's partner and girlfriend?” She shook her head at the idiotic idea. “The only person I’ve ever felt comfortable being honest with is gone. And she’s not coming back.”

When Dr. Marigold leaned away, Weiss shook her head again - this time in annoyance that the woman had managed to pull that information out of her.

“Have you ever thought about how that day might have hurt you too?”

“Do I look injured to you?” Weiss snapped, leveling a steely gaze across the space between them.

“I work with huntsmen - many of them,” Dr. Marigold continued, ignoring the sarcasm. “And I can tell you that physical injuries aren't the only things that leave scars behind. While you may appear uninjured, that might not be the case.”

Weiss scoffed at the psychoanalytical attempt at rationalizing her behavior.

“Clearly you don't know much about my family. We aren’t exactly known for our mental weakness.”

“Does your family name grant you invincibility?”

“Basically,” she retorted, using the answer to be haughty and confrontational. However, Dr. Marigold didn’t take the bait. Instead, she looked at Weiss closely, carefully, as if she could read the guilt and insecurity tattooed on Weiss’ skin.

“How does it make you feel that you’re sitting here, ‘unharmed,’ while your partner is still in and out of the hospital?”

Weiss immediately felt her face contort in pain and rage at the question. In and out? Ruby had been released and readmitted to the hospital? Why? Had something gone wrong? Were there complications? Were her injuries worse than initially diagnosed?

“How would it make you feel?” she weakly shot back while struggling to regain control of her spiking emotions. Unfortunately, Dr. Marigold took the question seriously and furrowed her brow with great thought.

“It would make me feel...very guilty, I believe,” she answered sincerely. “I would be sad...distraught...maybe even angry that the results had been so unequal - where I was able to walk away when she could not. That’s not very fair, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Weiss mumbled, finally agreeing with something the woman had to say.

The results hadn’t been close to fair...and there had been absolutely nothing Weiss could do about it. She would’ve gladly taken all of the pain for herself...but if she couldn’t do that, couldn’t they at least share in the repercussions? Why had Ruby been forced to shoulder everything? Why hadn’t there been some way for Weiss to alleviate her partner’s burdens?

“Can you tell me what made you leave?” Dr. Marigold asked. The quiet question was innocent enough, but it touched on the one subject Weiss refused to discuss with anyone.

“I’m sure Winter already provided you with a rundown,” she replied before checking the clock - making the motion as obvious as possible.

“She told me about how successful your team was, and how talented your partner was personally. She seemed very proud of what you were able to accomplish with them.”

The longer Dr. Marigold spoke, the harder Weiss clenched her teeth together. But the doctor continued regardless, seemingly oblivious to Weiss’ growing anger at her former team being spoken about so casually.

“She also mentioned that your partner was very special. ‘Extraordinarily talented’ I believe were the words she used. How did it make you feel to have a partner who was able to hold a small candle to yourself?”

Squeezing one hand into a fist in her lap, Weiss frowned at the woman sitting across from her.

“Ruby was always better than me,” she answered in quiet anger, annoyed by the way Dr. Marigold refused to use Ruby’s name. “She did more than hold a candle to me - she blew me away.”

Dr. Marigold nodded at the statement.

“That must have made it even more difficult to see her fall in battle. We expect our heroes to always be there for us -”

“Then she shouldn’t have gotten in the way!” Weiss shouted at the woman, rising out of her seat as frustration and anger flashed past her boiling point. “I never asked for her help! Why did she always insist on being so - damn - selfless?”

The room became deathly quiet as hot tears sprang into Weiss’ eyes. Quickly retaking her seat, she raised one shaking hand to wipe across her eyes while trying to pull herself together.

Dr. Marigold didn’t seem at all disturbed by Weiss’ outburst. In fact, she appeared rather unsurprised by the sudden display of emotion. Weiss should have seen this coming...and she should have been better equipped to guard herself against such mental intrusion. It was always this way with these people - they would needle and needle away at a sore spot until their patient inevitably lashed out, then they would use that fit of temper as proof of whatever point they were attempting to make.

Knowing this, she should have done a better job remaining calm and collected. She shouldn’t have allowed her emotions to get the better of her.

“When you say she shouldn’t have gotten in the way…” Dr. Marigold began quietly. “What you’re saying is that she shouldn’t have saved your life.”

A few minutes ago, Weiss had been successfully masking her lack of sleep with copious amounts of coffee, but suddenly she felt every bit as tired as she should. Not just tired - she felt drained, as if her willpower had been sucked right out of her.

Given her current state of weakness, she allowed herself a few additional seconds to regain control and place an iron cage around her raw emotions. She forced the tears back inside, where they belonged, and clamped the lid shut on her wretched past. Only when she was confident in her ability to survive the rest of this conversation did she look up and meet Dr. Marigold’s gaze dead on.

“I’m saying that she should have saved herself,” she answered steadily.

They both understood the implication of that statement. But out of Weiss and Ruby, who was more valuable? Who was the better fighter? The better leader? The better sister and better friend?

Between the two of them, who was the better person? Who was more deserving of a long, happy life?

“What do you plan to do now?”

Opening her mouth to reply, Weiss found no words to use for what should be another simple answer. Confusion began to mount as she realized that, for the first time that she could remember, she didn’t have a plan for the future.

What would the future hold for her? Growing up, this had been an easy question to answer. She would hone her skills, be admitted to Beacon, and become a world-renowned huntress. She would save lives. She would wipe away sour taste her family’s name left in people’s mouths. She would make a difference.

Maybe her downfall was that she hadn’t dreamt large enough, because she’d partially accomplished all of those objectives before her life came crashing down upon her head. Even more than her childhood delusions of heroism, she’d found a family who’d accepted her unconditionally, discovered hidden depths of power she’d never known existed, and learned what it meant to be truly selfless.

These days her only ambition was to muddle through the days while avoiding the past. She lived from minute to minute, one second to the next. Instead of charging towards lofty dreams, she was drifting through an endless sea of doubt and self-loathing. Instead of having purpose and direction, she was...lost at sea.

That fateful day had changed everything in the blink of an eye. That day had taken something from Weiss. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, but a part of her had disappeared along with Ruby’s memories.

“I'll figure something out.”

What would she do when this new Dust facility was up and running? When her eighteen hour workdays dropped to twelve or ten? Would she run off to whatever plant was next on the list? Would she just keep running, forever, until one day time caught up to her?

They were supposed to spend eternity together. They were supposed to spend every day of the rest of their lives together. Instead, Weiss had been forced to confront a life without Ruby. And who was she without Ruby?

“From what I've been told and what I've heard, you’re an incredibly talented and capable young woman. I know that this type of situation must be scary and unfamiliar to you, but I want to help. I don't want to see you self destruct.”

It might already be too late for such a sentiment, but Weiss didn’t bother to say so. Instead, she glanced at the clock again and mulled over a question before finally asking it aloud.

“If you had any advice for someone like me, what would it be?”

The answer would likely be of minimal use to her, but she’d been taught too well to collect the advice of highly-skilled professionals whenever the opportunity presented itself. Seeing as how Dr. Marigold had gathered far more information than Weiss had been willing to provide, she would begrudgingly admit that the woman was highly skilled.

Seeming to sense that this was the one opportunity to offer some words of wisdom, Dr. Marigold thought carefully before responding.

“This exile of yours - sequestered away from your friends and teammates - understand that it’s your choosing. No one asked you to leave. In fact, they’d probably like for you to come back -”

The comment made Weiss scoff in disbelief. The idea that Yang would welcome her back was almost laughable, but Dr. Marigold continued on as if Weiss hadn’t just interrupted her.

“Guilt and fear are powerful emotions, but we can’t let them control us. In most cases blame can’t be placed solely on any one party, but we blame ourselves completely whether or not we’re at fault. If I were to give you any advice, I would suggest that you try to see the difference between punishing yourself and truly working towards forgiveness - from others, but mostly from yourself.”

Forgive herself...Weiss would never do it. Not as long as Ruby was still in pain. Not as long as Ruby’s life was still in shambles. And even if Ruby somehow made a miraculous recovery...Weiss might not even forgive herself then.

Nodding in acknowledgement of the advice, even though she wasn’t willing to accept it, her eyes shifted again to the clock before she stood up.

“Our fifteen minutes are up,” she said, shaking the woman’s hand again when Dr. Marigold stood to join her. “It was very nice meeting you. Please see yourself out.”

Rather than immediately head towards the door, Dr. Marigold rustled briefly in the bag Weiss had failed to notice sitting by the chair before placing a small, white card facedown on the edge of the desk.

“Feel free to call me anytime. I’m more than happy to come back.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Weiss replied, walking over to her desk chair and picking up a document that had been left for review. She held it up as if she might read it, but her mind wasn’t capable of absorbing any of the letters on the page. Instead, she stared at it blankly until the sound of the office door closing signaled that she could finally relax.

Dropping the page onto the desk, she reached across and picked up Dr. Marigold’s business card before immediately throwing it into the garbage can. Satisfied that any trace of the woman would disappear with the next cleaning crew, she walked over to the side of her office and stood in front of the glass windows looking out from the top of Schnee Tower - overlooking the bustling Atlas city center below and the massive expanses of forest off in the distance. In the surface of the glass, she could just barely see a reflection of herself - a ghost of the girl she’d once been. The dark circles under her eyes refused to be hidden by any amount of expensive concealer. Her skin was gaunt and her clothing hung off of her shrinking frame like she was slowly starving to death.

Closing her eyes to remove that image from her mind, she turned away from the glass.

She was fine.

She was fine, she was fine, she was fine.

The shaking in her limbs was the result of skipping breakfast, not the conversation she’d just experienced. The sharp ache in her chest was from the stress of her job, not the despair of being worlds away from the people she loved.

Sighing, she opened her eyes and walked back to her desk. Stopping down, she picked the business card out of the trash before sticking it into one of her desk drawers in case she needed it as a reference later. As she did so, her gaze fell upon Myrtenaster - who leaning against the back of the desk chair right where she’d set it this morning.

Picking up the weapon, she spun it in her hands over and over again while pacing the length of her office - savoring the weight of metal that was more familiar to her than anything else she owned. It was like an extension of her own body and, as such, she brought it with her to and from work every day even when she had no purpose in doing so. She didn’t need Myrtenaster here. She didn’t need Myrtenaster period. Yet...she refused to be separated from her weapon.

She’d always considered it to be the one possession in the world that was hers and hers alone, but now even Myrtenaster was burned with the memories of another. It was as much Ruby’s weapon as it was her own. How many hours had they spent down in the workshop together while Ruby tinkered with the weapon and Weiss ‘supervised?’ How many adjustments had Ruby made and then personally tested before every single aspect of the weapon felt iron tight?

It was the one possession Weiss still had that linked her to her partner. It was the only thing she’d refused to let go of, because it felt like she could communicate with Ruby through the etchings in the blade. Somehow, someway, through the microscopic alterations and painstakingly crafted upgrades, Ruby spoke through Myrtenaster.

As her pacing slowed to a stop, Weiss closed her eyes, wrapped her fingers around the grip and squeezed tightly.

‘How does it feel? Does it feel awesome? Do you like it??’

A small sob escaped while tears burned behind her eyes once more. Her weapon was perfect because the person who’d been in charge of working on it spent countless hours ensuring it was perfect. Ruby devoted hours and hours of her life to making sure Weiss had a wonderful weapon to fight with - all while never expecting anything as much as a ‘thank you’ in return.

Holding Myrtenaster upright and touching the cool blade gently to her forehead, Weiss stood still as a statue while her shoulders shook with emotion.

“I’m sorry...I’m so, so sorry…” she whispered before another sob crept out and the first wave of tears spilled over. “I didn’t mean it…you know I didn’t m-mean it...”

Of course she wasn’t mad at Ruby. How could she be mad when she would’ve done the same thing without even thinking? They were teammates - all of them had been prepared to lay down their lives for one another. It was just...that Weiss never expected that she’d be the one who needed saving…

If she was mad at anyone, it was herself. For not being better. For being in the situation where she needed to be saved, to begin with.

She loved that Ruby was selfless. She loved that Ruby never hesitated to help someone in need. She loved that, in a world where everyone looked after only themselves, there was someone like Ruby out there making a difference. Of all people though, Weiss didn’t deserve to be the one Ruby saved. Weiss didn't deserve to be the one Ruby sacrificed herself for.

As the tears continued to fall, Weiss clenched Myrtenaster tightly in one hand and tried to draw an iota of strength from the weapon that had once been her backbone.

Every time she broke down like this, it felt like it was more and more difficult to piece herself together again. It was as if the very act of crying was eroding the edges of the puzzle pieces in her mind - allowing nothing to fit perfectly back together the next time around.

And she was so tired to crying by now. One of these days, there would be no more tears left...right?

When the tears slowed to a light trickle, she opened her eyes and whipped Myrtenaster down to her side, sending a snap through the air. After wiping her free hand across her eyes to rid them of the remaining moisture, she stared out of the window towards the forest in the distance and the perpetually snow-capped mountains even further beyond.

Dr. Marigold brought up the subject of fairness - and she was right. How was this fair? While Weiss marched around barking orders at subordinates, Ruby probably hadn’t been allowed to walk around on her own. While Weiss had been spending restless nights in her mansion, Ruby had been stuck in a hospital bed. While Weiss wrestled with the decision of whether or not to leave Atlas, Ruby hadn’t even been able to go home.

And while Ruby toiled through months of physical therapy, probably unaware that she might never regain full strength in her hand, Weiss was a world away - never having to suffer any of the consequences of her own mistake. There was no struggle in her ivory tower. There was no difficulty outside of what she created for herself.

How was this fair?

At the very least, she should be forced to fight for the privileged breaths she took. She should find the road as difficult and tedious as the one Ruby must travel. Only then could the subject of fairness even begin to be discussed.

Striding back to her desk, Weiss jabbed the intercom button to one of the other assistants.

“Have an airship ready for me in three minutes,” she ordered before rushing out of the room with Myrtenaster in hand. Still waiting in the empty reception area, Winter immediately stood and walked over to join her.

“I know you’re angry -”

“No,” Weiss cut her sister off, shaking her head. “I’m not angry. But now that I’ve fulfilled your request, I’d very much appreciate if we could leave the matter be.”

For a second it appeared as if Winter wanted to press the issue, but instead she sighed and nodded her head. It was at that moment that her eyes found Myrtenaster, and she turned back to Weiss in surprise.

“Where are you going?”

“I have somewhere I need to be,” Weiss answered, ignoring the worried gaze and ducking around her sister to walk back into the hall.

“Why do you need Myrtenaster?” Winter pressed while following Weiss to the elevators and watching as she pressed the button to summon the next one.

“Believe me, you’d much rather I had Myrtenaster with me than not,” Weiss commented lightly.

“Weiss...where are you going?”

Done with the conversation, she stepped into the arriving elevator and watched as the doors blocked out concerned blue eyes.

“I’m going to make things a little more fair.”

The elevator was enveloped in silence and her stomach dropped when it was pulled further into the sky. It slowed only a matter of seconds later, causing her to shake Myrtenaster with the beginning of anxious jitters.

There was one more level to Schnee Tower - the rooftop.

The doors opened and she was greeted by a cold blast of wind and the steady roar of engines. Blinking her eyes against the steadily rushing air, she left the elevator behind and strode purposefully towards the airship that was waiting for her - waiting to take her to the forest.

#RWBY #White Rose #Weiss Schnee #Ruby Rose #What Defines Us

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iowastatedailyarchive · 6 years

Text

The I.A.C. Student, Vol. 1 No. 1 (7 August 1890)

A happy 128th birthday to the Iowa State Daily! To celebrate, here is the first issue, dated 7 August 1890. Included are the actual pages and the text to every story.

Some quick thoughts after reading it... So. Many. Periods. In headlines. Though women are on staff, there are no female pronouns when talking about student life and achievements after college. A lot of the writing is dry, recapping event activities in chronological order, especially visible in the baseball game recap. The writing style can take some real getting used to. The mission statement is on the second page, not the front page. Only one story, a tribute/obituary, has author initials on it, the other stories are done without a byline (a practice that’ll go on for decades.)

I’ve corrected some of the grammatical and punctuation errors; some I’m not sure about and there don’t seem to be any rules for comma usage, which can be a challenge — sorry, copy editors. The newspaper also had no guide when it comes to titled works, as it uses both title case, italics, and quotation marks. I could make notes on some of these stories to give them historical context, including the story that hints at the Dinkey, the military notes piece, and the literary societies, but maybe another day. This is already quite long.

Quick reference for the stories in this issue

Headlines in brackets are my creation as many items don’t have headlines — a practice that’ll last for a couple decades.

PAGE 1 Masthead and staff The Joint Session: A recap of the session that brought together all of the college literary societies. Are our Courses too Heavy: An examination about if IAC students are worked too hard [Join a literary society, freshman]: Editors tell the freshman they’d be wise to join one of the college literary societies.

PAGE 2 The IAC Student: The mission state of the newspaper Passing in Panorama: A long piece about life at IAC during the course of a year Philomathean: A recap of the literary society’s first meeting of the school year (debate topic: Should Congress have appropriated $5,000 for the benefit of the Pan-American Congress)

PAGE 3 Welch: A recap of the literary society’s first meeting of the school year (debate topic: That longer terms of office and less rotation would be a benefit to the United States government) Crescent: A recap of the literary society’s first meeting of the school year (debate topic: That a two-thirds vote should be sufficient to convict in a trial by jury) Cliolious: A recap of the literary society’s meeting on 2 Aug (debate topic: That an international copyright should exist) Alumni Notes: Blurbs on various college alumni and where they are in life [An Iowan at Harvard?]: A brief about a frugal man at Harvard

PAGE 4 Christian Association Notes: Some notes and thoughts of the YMCA/YWCA, one of the new organizations on campus [YMCA/YWCA proven worthwhile]: The opening reception of the YMCA/YWCA for the term show that the org is here for the better [Social notes and updates]: Briefs on a new student, a professor’s party, and updates on the decoration sessions. What Are You Here For?: Make sure you are at IAC for the right reasons [YMCA/YWCA reception a success]: A recap of the YMCA/YWCA opening reception [Notes on mail call, vocal music]: Quick notes on mail call and an upcoming concert Athletic Notes: Blurbs about athletics at the college, which is still in its infancy. The Vets Hold an Interesting Session: A recap of the Veterinary Medical Society meeting, which included discussion of Anthrax.

PAGE 5 Advertisements: An assortment of advertisements from Ames and Des Moines businesses.

PAGE 6 Baseball: A inning-by-inning recap of the freshmen baseball game. Of note, baseball is the latest craze sweeping the campus. Engineers: A recap of the Engineering Society’s first meeting of the school year Christian Endeaver Society Entertainment: A recap of the music program and ice cream social hosted the Christian Endeavor Society, a program of the Congregations Church in Ames Advertisements: An assortment of advertisements from Ames and Des Moines businesses.

PAGE 7 Military Notes: Blurbs about the happenings in the military arm of the college [Science Club]: A recap of the Science Club’s first meeting of the school year, including a look at a meteor which was donated to the college museum The Library: An update on the Library as it improves its card catalog plus a look at how useful the library is to students Bachelor Session: A recap of the Bachelors’ first meeting of the school year (debate topic: That the state should have absolute control of the liquor traffic within its borders) [Tennis association stalls]: The creation of the tennis association has stalled. (Tennis will soon be the big sport on campus.) [Railroad desired to connect Ames, college]: Some junior civil engineers are working on plans for a railroad to connect Ames to the college.

PAGE 8 Scraps from our waste basket: Odds and ends of things often about other colleges, but also some words of wisdom and silly observations [Strange noises in the night]: Brief about a proctor trying to locate students up to no good Tribute to Chas. J. Cotey, ‘87, late professor, Dakota Agricultural College: A tribute and obituary to Charles J. Cotey, an alumni and successful businessman [Why successful freshman can falter]: Quick take on why a successful freshman can quickly falter in schoolwork [Social notes and more]: Blurbs about sports, events, students, faculty, staff, and college life

Page 1

The I. A. C. Student.

Issued Fortnightly During College Year.

Intelligencer Job Print, Ames, Iowa.

Subscription 50 cents per term. Single Copies 10 cents. On sale at Book Stores. Advertising rates made known on application.

Contributions Solicited. All communications should be addressed to

THE I.A.C. STUDENT.

G. H. SCHULTE. Bus. Mg’r. Ames, lowa.

F. E. Davidson ‘90, G. H. Schulte '90, Miss Kate Stevens 90, E. S. McCord ‘91, J. E. Spaan '91, Miss Clarice McCarthy '91,

F.C. Stewart '92, W. H. Cochran '93, Miss Ella Curtis '93, R. H. Fairfield '93, E. E. Faville ‘93, A. M. Harvey '93.

THE JOINT SESSION.

An Interesting Program Presented to an Appreciative Audience.

In obedience to a custom of many years, the five literary societies of the college held a joint session in the college chapel on Saturday evening, July 26th.

The audience was not as large as might be wished, as many of the students spent the evening elsewhere. The great difficulty in preparing a creditable program is the very short time available for preparation. It is a fact that our joint sessions do not rank with the average literary society session either in interest or merit. However the last was the best we have heard for some time.

Mr. Meredith acted as chaplain of the evening, reading a very interesting chapter of the scriptures. For a change we would like to hear a simple earnest prayer from one of the students, as an introduction to our literary sessions, instead of the scripture readings.

Messrs. Minchen and Adams rendered a very choice selection of guitar music, and were loudly encored. Their reputation is well established as two of our best musicians.

Mr. Bishop in behalf of the various societies welcomed the audience m a few appropriate remarks.

“The Little Red Hen" was next delivered by Miss Charlotte Barrows. Miss Barrows was fortunate in the selection of a declamation. Her delivery is simple and uneffected.

The next performance was an oration by Miss Kate Stevens entitled "Physical Culture." She reviewed the standards of manhood and womanhood of all nations; clearly showing that all united the ideals of beauty, strength and power. She pointed out the tendency in America to-day, to cultivate the intellect to the exclusion of the body, clearly portraying the results necessary to follow if a halt is not called to this unsystematic development. Miss Stevens is one of the ablest students of which the I. A C. can boast. She is a clear thinker and always thinks to a purpose.

The song by Miss Ward was well rendered and duly appreciated by the audience.

The debate was "Should the National Election Bill Becomes Law?" Mr. Hodson opened the debate in a brilliant manner. Mr. Graham led the negative. It was at once apparent that he was prepared to debate. He looked at the question from a conservative point of view, clearly portraying the evils which would necessarily follow should the bill become a law. Mr. Starkey, the second speaker on the affirmative is a radical partisan, and of course, thought the bill ought to pass. Mr. Thomburg replied to the arguments in a telling manner.

Mr. Hodson in his closing speech waxed eloquent, and brought down the house. Mr. Graham closed the debate in his quiet characteristic matter. He being a senior having passed up Polit. and Psych. of course made the best debate.

After music by Messrs. Minchem and Adams, Mr. Clyde Jones told us of the “Behring Sea Controversy." Mr. Jones has a very earnest manner of speaking and held the attention of all the audience, not excepting a few smart (?) folks who had been giggling and passing notes during most of the entertainment.

Impromptu speeches were next in order. Messrs Stewart, Dyer and Olmsted and Miss Alice Mann responding. The speakers were well prepared and got off some good takes on the audience.

Mr. Lovejoy sustained his well known reputation as a declarmer when he rendered Ingersol's Vision."

G. H. Schulte next told us of "Ilis Experience in Courtship." It will be remembered Mr. Schulte won first honors in the decathlon contest in '88. His rendering is direct and forceable. He was frequently interrupted by bursts of applause.

The vocal duet by Messrs Morton and Cochran was one of the best we have heard in some time.

The Parody by Miss Elmira Wilson was well written and distinctly read. In prophetic language she told of the future of the I.A.C. girls.

Mr. Dean next favored the audience with a very fine sketch of our Departed Hero," Dr. Welch.

A tableaux closed the entertainment, and the joint session was once more a thing of the past.

Are our Courses too Heavy.

We have heard many students complain that too much work was required of them. They make comparisons between the work required here and at other schools, which do not require more than one-half as much of their students as is required by our faculty. This is no argument against our course. If these same grumblers will but look at the records of I. A. C. graduates and compare their success with those of the graduates of these other schools they will find the odds all in favor of the I. A. C. It does seem however that students of some of our courses have more required work than others.

15 hours without laboratory work is hardly on & level with 16 hours, and 7 laboratories.

We think however that instead of the latter course being made easier the other should be made more difficult.

That as much work should be required to obtain a degree in the general as in the engineering courses.

[Suggested headline: Join a literary society, freshmen]

To the new students we would say: You cannot afford not to be a member of one of the college literary societies. Do not put it off until next term, but join at once, and go to work. No matter if you cannot debate like the seniors or orate like the juniors. They were once freshmen, but by hard persistant effort have secured that greatest of all attainments, the power to speak readily in public. No matter if you do not expect to follow a literary profession. There are times in every man's life when it will be hundreds in his pocket if he can clearly and readily state his thoughts in public. A thorough knowledge of parliamentary law and usages is as essential to a thorough education as a knowledge of mathematics. The literary society fills a place in our educational system which can be filled by nothing else. It is a place where character is formed, where wit is sharpened, where thought unfolds in its grandest magnificence.

Observe the society workers, those who seem to carry their society in their mind and heart continually Those who are considered the best literary workers. Follow them after they have left college and have mingled with the world, and we will venture the assertion that 99 times out of 100 you will find them the most successful men in life. No matter whether they graduated with honor or were "voted over." Marks do not make the man. It is the ability to hustle, to move men, and things that gives them this advantage over their competitors. See to it then that you not only have a trained intellect, and a large fund of useful knowledge, but the ability to hustle in this hustling world.

Page 2

THE I. A. C. STUDENT.

The succession of events that break the routine of college life is now specially marked by the appearance of a paper that will make a complete record of their [occurrence].

THE I. A. C. STUDENT now comes to the Students, Faculty, Alumni and Friends of the institution for the first time. The policy of its managers is simple and easily understood. We shall try and publish a College Newspaper. THE I. A. C. is our field and we shall endeavor to advance the institution in every manner possible. We shall not attempt to run a scientific or literary Magazine, and we doubt if there is a demand for our ideas on politics or religion. It is our object to create a genuine college newspaper, one free from all [alliances], and in this work we invite all the [friends] of the institution to help us.

Passing in Panorama.

"History repeats itself." Nowhere is the truth of this saying so clearly shown as at the I. A. C. Not that we are working in a rut, our students are as enterprising as the students of other colleges. But human nature is always the same, and under similar conditions manifests itself in similar ways. In the main each year is a [repetition] of the previous one. The Freshmen are always green, the Sophomores always boastful.

The first week of the term is characterized by trunks, handshaking, introductions and general miscellaneousness. At the President's office, candidates for Freshman standing are telling the President how smart they are—how they've passed up algebra and geometry, and that they think they ought to be admitted without an examination. The Sophomors, Juniors and Seniors would "like to see you a moment, privately, President Chamberlain.”

Soon come the skip-tum-a-loo pig-in-the-parlor socials where all are expected to be as if they had been acquainted with each other all their lives, instead of an hour.

Toward the latter part of April little knots of Sophomores may be seen here and there talking earnestly. This is an indication of the coming of the Freshman picture and the great Freshman-Sophomore "scrap" attending it.

Them follows the reception. The Sophomores spout and strut while the Freshman stares admiringly and says to himself, That's Fine. He informs his neighbor, ”that when a man gets through this college he knows something."

At this period the toughs of the Freshman class, begin to come into prominence. The nights on Freshman floor are now hideous. Next day the salute is, "Been to see the President yet?”

The Freshmen organize a ball team and try tilts with each of the three upper class nines successively. Perhaps they are successful, perhaps not—it makes no difference. No more is heard about ball during the remainder of the term. All have turned their attention to tennis and mashing.

The first of May brings the book-agents. They tell tho boys beautiful stories about pleasant vacations of travel, golden crops of suckers and the immense value of the experience acquired.

The Freshmen and Sophomors are wondering where the [battalion] will spend Decoration Day. Some say at Boone, others Marshalltown, and Nevada, etc, etc.

Up to this time nothing has been heard of the Juniors. All seem to think that they are for ornament only. But, behold! the time of the junior ex, draws nigh. The animal making that unearthly noise in the next room is not a demented bovine, but only a Junior ex, speaker rehearsing his oration.

With the fare days of June, comes the event of the year—Col. Lincol'n reception to his officers and Co. G. captains, lieutenants and sergeants—how they scramble. Here's a little advice boys, On such occasions adopt this motto, "send your mail early and avoid the rush.“

The closing days of the term are days of hurry and hard work. The last Sunday finds many vacant seats in chapel. The sophomores are making out their surveying plots, the juniors are wrestling with engineering and literature, while the seniors are preparing for Monday's examination in psychology.

Vacation is to short. In four weeks the trunk act must again be performed, while the freshmen come swaggering along, puffing and sweating in these heavy uniforms. (Been showing off on the the train you know). First of all, the social must be attended to. Then all eyes are turned toward the orchard. Emigration sets in toward the west, and the sentiment of the times seems to be, 'Go west young man, and fill up with apples." The season advances and the President forbids the indiscriminate appropriation of fruit. Then it is that apples are hauled in by the sackful in the wee small hours of the night; then it is that Jerry and the proctors spend sleepless nights.

When the grapes are ripe, the orchard loses its charm, and the vineyard becomes the center of interest. Before, grape-time came the class picnics. They are very pleasant affairs, but like the Colonel's reception are apt to cause the boys some anxiety.

After the picnics are over, all are talking about the State Fair. Are we going? When? How long to stay? Is Co. G. going? The same questions and the same indefinite answers. Why can's people vary their conversation some? This Fair question is a dry chestnut.

The Fair comes. It is over. O how tired! O how sleepy next morning, when the jingle rings.

The year's work now rapidly draws to a close. The seniors are "burning midnight oil" over their theses. We come to commencement week. Decoration of the chapel is in progress. The upper classes do their work quietly and with dispatch, but the freshman can't agree on what they want to do, nor how to do it. They waste the so much time that they have to finish up while the rest are at supper.

During the exercises of the week, every fellow sticks to his best girl, having in mind the fact that a four month's vacation is close at hand. The final day comes. The noble seniors march upon the platform for the last time. How grand to distinguish one's self by forgetting his oration! How awe inspiring the scene! How relieved the audience when it is over, and cramped limbs and poisoned lungs are permitted to gain their normal condition! Congratulations come now, Tears flow freely, Tis over. We are off for four month's vacation. Goodbye.

Philomathean.

The Philomatheans held their first regular session of this term Saturday evening the 2nd, inst.

The society was called to order at the usual time and after devotional by the Chaplain, the president Mr. Howard, was installed.

The outgoing president, Mr. C. D. Davidson, in his usual pleasant manner thanked the society for the honors given him, and gave the members a few valuable hints which we hope will be remembered.

Next on the program came the debate. The question was: “Should Congress have appropriated $5,000 for the benefit of the Pan-American Congress.” The question was ably debated by Messrs. Faille and Fairfield as leaders and Messrs. D. A. Thornburg and Jackson as assistants.

Miss Lane read a very amusing parody which was not only amusing but also interesting. The subject has been for the past two or three weeks, an all absorbing theme in the I. A. C.

Mr. Roddis then gave a selection from Will Carlton, “Making an Editor Out’n O'Him."

The two minute speeches by Misses Walley and Stevens and Mr. Reynolds were nothing very weighty, but " A little nonsense now and then is relished by the best of men.”

The voluntaries by Miss Stevens and Mr. Wooding were very good indeed, and were enjoyed by all. Miss Stevens pictured very beautifully the story of a "Union Spy," and Mr. Woodring rendered the familiar but none the less amusing poem, “The Snack in School.”

Mr. Peterson, of Des Moines, then addressed the society, giving some reminiscences of his school days and some ideas as to the value of society work.

The literary part of the program was interspersed with some charming selections of music.

During the business session Mr. Brown was initiated, thus adding another good member to the society.

Page 3

Welch.

Saturday evening when the society boll ceased ringing the Welch boys quietly settled into their chairs and prepared themselves for the intellectual feast of the evening. They were complimented by the presence of a number of visitors.

An address of welcome by President F. E. Davidson opened the evening program, and the work of the term.

During the session declamations were rendered by Messrs Kent, Raymond and Rickets. An interesting essay was read by Mr. Waterhouse, and a medley of splendid merit by Mr. O'Niel.

Mr. Christie's speech on Mexico, showed us its political history; and possibilities for the future, as well as a glimpse of its resources, and geographical peculiarities.

Mr. Emerson spoke on the question of American fisheries and presented a reasonable solution to this perplexing problem.

An able debate was given on the question “That longer terms of office and less rotation, would be a benefit to the United States government." Messrs McCord and Jones handled the affirmative and Messrs Angus and Henry the negative. The debate was given to the affirmative.

An oration on James A. Garfield was next delivered by Mr. Bramhall. It was a production of excellent merit and was highly spoken of..

Several excellent declamations were given as voluntaries.

The society is to be congratulated on having added to its list of members, the names of Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Lewis.

Crescent.

The society was called to order by the Vice President, R. M. Dyer, Miss Quint being appointed secretary. The roll call by Mr. Spinny showed that many were absent from the room.

The question for debate was:

Resolved: That, a two-thirds.vote should be sufficient to convict in a trial by jury.

Mr. Spinny the first speaker on the affirmative showed that in reality a majority vote rules in case of trial by jury, and that a law to that effect is in force in some countries.

Mr. Dyer the first speaker on the negative holds that there is no balance between right and wrong, and a man is either wholly right or wholly wrong. He further makes the remark that, if he should ever be so unfortunate as to be called up in court for trial, for stealing watermelons or chickens, he wants the unanimous vote of twelve jurymen to convict him.

Mr. Beyer, attacked the watermellon argument. Mr. Peterson volunteered. He is in favor of the jury system as it is, but states that he would rather be judged by a judge than by a jury under present conditions. In speaking of the possibility of bribing one or two members of the jury, he says that it is done and often a criminal is set free in that way, but under the present system, it does not often happen that the innocent are convicted. He holds that it is better for fifty or one hundred, or any number of criminals to go unpunished than to convict one innocent person.

Mr. Cory in his oration reviewe four gov't. He holds that the American theory is the solution of the problem of gov't.

Miss Nichols showed in her oration that he is radically opposed to foreign emigration.

Declamations by Misses Williams and Ward were well delivered.

Mr. Shaul in his five minutes speech discussed the Moroal Progress of the ninetenth Century.

The different pieces of music were well rendered, and the crescents may be proud of their own quartette.

Cliolious.

The Cliolian Society met August 2, with the attendance not as large as usual.

Owing to the "tennis party” some of the members were absent; among them our president and vice president.

Miss Jennie Morrison was chosen to preside during the evening.

Miss Sadie Barrows favored the audience with a pleasing piano solo, after which Miss Garth read a touching poem—The Bridge Keeper's Story.

Miss Boyd's essay, "Abilities and Opportunities," was well read and showed much thought and careful preparation.

The question for debate was:

Resolved: That an International copyright should exist.

The leaders on both affirmative and negative being detained at the tennis party on account of the rain. Misses Morrison and Thornburg handled the question with marked ability.

The judges decided in favor of the affirmative.

Our thoughts wandered to home and Mother for a few minutes, while Miss Garth sang “Some Day I'll Wander Back Again."

“A Railroad Episode," by Burdette, was nicely rendered by Mable Owens.

The current events arranged by Misses Freed and Porter covered a wide range of subjects.

Miss Charlotte Barrows and her assistants demonstrated in an amusing pantomine, that it is better to let well enough alone[.]

Miss Doolitle read a beautiful essay entitled "Mary and Martha," which was [written] by one of her former pupils.

Miss Justas rendered “Boat Song," by Mendelsshou, after which the society adjourned.

[Suggested headline: railroad accident in Nevada]

A young man named J. P. Oleson working with a bridge gang at Nevada, tried to board a moving train, and missing his hold, had his foot crushed so badly that it had to be amputated, Dr. Fairchild performing the operation and brought the boy to the sanitary building where he is now getting along nicely.

Alumni Notes

‘87. C. F. Curtis, of Nevada, Sundayed with friends at the I. A. C.

‘83. Attorney O. C. Peterson, of Des Moines, was a welcome visitor at the college.

‘85. C. S Bowie is superintendent of the electric light system at Tacoma, Washington, and draws a good salary.

‘88. W. L. Thomson and E. K. were recent visitors at the I. A.C.

'89. C. H. Stearns, Professor of National Sciences in Drake University, is rusticating among the mountains of Colorado.

‘84. T. F. Bevington is city attorney of Sioux City, an exceedingly lucrative position

‘87. F. W. Mally has resigned his position in the University of Illinois, and accepted an appointment in the U. S. Entomological commission.

‘88. Besides being professor of agriculture in the Texas Agricultural College, Geo. W. Curtis has lately been made director of the state experimental station.

‘89. M. W. Thornburg is taking a post graduate course at the college, and has charge of the preparatory class in physiology.

'89. P. H. Rolfs principal of schools at Lawler, Iowa, is spending his vacation at the I. A. C.

‘89. B. T. Green has left the college for a needed vacation preparatory to entering upon his duties as professor of mathematics in the Presbyterian college at Fort Dodge

‘76. Mr. J. F. Hardin and wife (Mamie Carpenter of class *77.) have just departed from a two weeks visit at the I. A. C. Mr. Hardin is engaged in law and real estate business at Eldora, and makes an annual pilgrimage to his Alma Mater.

'84. Miss Mannie Wilson, recently graduated from the normal college at [Framingham], Massachusetts. She will teach in the Bay state the coming year.

‘82. Geo. W. Catt is a bridge engineer at Seattle, Washington, and is reported to be worth half a million.

‘84. E. J. Nichols, when last heard from was engaged in engineering at Texaskania, at a [salary] of two thousand.

Miss Sloan, daughter of C. H. ('84) and Emma Porter Sloan (‘85) will enter the I. A. C. as a student in 1906.

Fred Faville, the orator of '87, has resigned a very lucrative position with the government at Baltimore, M. D. During his stay there Fred devoted his spare hours to the study of law, and will enter the senior law class at Iowa City in September.

[Suggested headline: An Iowan at Harvard?]

A young man graduated at Harvard Law school last June, who had completed the four years collegiate course at Harvard, followed by three years in the Law school, and has supported himself throughout the seven years, coming out with a balance of $5,000 in his pocket. When we remember that the expenses at Harvard is not far from $1,000 per year, we are led to believe that the gentleman was either a Des Moines boodler or an Iowan book agent.

Page 4

Christian Association Notes

The Y. M. and Y. W.C. A's of the I. A. C. are the last societies organized here, but not the least. They are destined, here as in other colleges, to become prominent factors in the affairs of the institution. They will, as nearly as possible, take the place of the church, which the student enjoys at home, but of which he is deprived here. They like the church bringing up the standard of morality in localities, will raise that standard at college. Then as the standard of morality rises, the need of strict rules becomes less. A little observation among different colleges, will show how much more pleasant for both faculty and students it is when the students are governed by the desire to do right, rather than by proctors and ironclad rules.

Although these associations may not in every respect take the place of the church, as one of the principal means of growth in spiritually, they surpass the church. A splendid opening is here afforded for active Christian work.

To confine ourselves to our own associations, we may say that they have made a good start in their work. They organized near the close of last term, the Y. M. C. A. with a membership of 92, which has since been raised to 116, and the Y. W. C. A. with about 60, which has also been increased.

A full set of committees have entered upon their work. The Wednesday and Sunday evening meetings have opened with good attendance, which should however be increased.

In truth, the associations have taken up with ready hands and hearts the work which destiny has designed they should advance. THE STUDENT wishes them Godspeed.

[Suggested headline: YMCA/YWCA proven worthwhile]

When the Y. M. and Y. W. C. A’s were talked of here, some were opposed to organizing, preferring to run along awhile in the old rut. They doubtless think differently now.

Receptions, like the one given at the opening of this term, are just what we need, and should have at opening of every term. They are just formal enough to be worthy of an intellectual and moral set of students, and informal enough to gain with ease the object of their inauguration.

[Suggested headline: Social notes and updates]

Freshman Hewstreet of Ames, who was at Cornell last year is with us this term.

Prof. Knapp gave a Lawn Tennis party Saturday evening at Woodward Place. Those who were so fortunate as to be invited reported a most enjoyable time.

In the LATE report of the decoration sessions held at the I. A. C. we noticed that an oration by R. F. Hodson, entitled Eulogy on Abraham Lincoln, and also one by F. E. Davidson, entitled, Our Destiny, were by mistake left out.

What Are You Here For?

No doubt most of our students would answer, if asked this question—work. But would not some at least think that their object in coming to college a very vague one. When we see students trying to shirk their work or selecting an easy course, we have serious doubts of their success. They seem to be seeking a good time, little dreaming that they injure no one but themselves. Were you sent here, or did you come? Are you searching for a royal road to learning, or are you willing to toil weeks, months, and years, in training and developing those faculties which nature has most bounteously bestowed upon you? This is no place for idle dreaming, but a place for effort, for work; sincere, honest and faithful work.

[Suggested headline: YMCA/YWCA reception a success]

The Y. M. C. A. and Y. W. C. A. gave their first reception on Friday evening July 25th, to which a most cordial invitation was extended to all the students.

The reception was held on the first floor of the Main Building.

The balls were elegantly decorated, and the artistic arrangements of the decorations made them more inviting than ever before showing the taste of the ladies of the Y. W. C. A.

The reception committee were Misses Morrison, Mills and Roberts assisted by Messrs Reynolds, Norton, Merrill and Shoemaker and the hearty welcomes which were extended to all, insured each one, of other than an unpleasant time.

The principal feature of the reception was the tendency on the part of everyone present to be entertaining, and in this way all were made to enjoy a pleasant evening. An appropriate program was carried out consisting of the following:

Recitation, Legion of the Organ Builder, G. W. Randiett.

Sextette, Miss Mills and Mr. Norton, accompanied by Misses Nichols, Chamberlain and Messrs Norton and Reynolds.

Reading, A Tale of the Two Cities, Mrs. Chamberlain.

Piano Duet, Mrs. Barrows and Mrs. Owens.

Monologue, Auntie Doleful's Visit, Miss Curtiss.

Recitation, The Soldier's Death Dream, E. E. Faville.

Vocal Duet, The Pilot, Messrs Cochran and Norton.

Address, J. C. Norton.

[Suggested headline: Notes on mail call, vocal music]

We are much pleased to see the tear of the "want-a letter-student," quickly dried up, as he rushes out for his noon day mail, all on account of the promptness of our mail cart.

The next attraction is the cantata "Ruth the Moabitess” to be given in the chapel Saturday evening, August 9. All lovers of vocal music look [forward] to this coming event, expecting a treat. The societies will give way to it and a large attendance is expected.

Athletic Notes.

The I. A. C. A. A., is out of debt and is in a prosperous condition.

Trotter and Chicago. run a 100 yard race the other evening, Chicago won by several yards making it in 17 seconds.

The new vaulting polo costing $6.50 is in constant use up to date. Foster, Davidson and Strong seem to be about equally skillful in using it. Look out for a record of 10 feet this fall.

Prof. Weihe has kindly consented to teach a class of athletically inclined students to use the bars. The boys like to see the faculty take an interest in student matters.

Quite a number of the boys have purchased running shoes and suits. Some good records will be made this fall. Davidson is reported to have made the 100 yards in 10 5-10 seconds last week.

In the state field of Michigan, Burnette of the M. A. C. won 10 first prizes and two seconds.

Yale's noted sprinter, Sherrill, lowered his 100 yard record 10 1-5 to 10 seconds at the spring meeting, May 12. Another Yale man, Williams, broke the inter-collegiate 120 yard hurdle race, his time being 16 3-5 seconds.

The best record ever made in any intercollegiate meeting on throwing the ball was made May 17, 1879, by R. H. Treman of Cornell University N. Y. He throwing 379 feet 6 5-10 inches. W. Zmunt, of the I. A. C., last term beat this record by several feet, on the I. A. C. grounds in the presence of some fifty spectators.

Our boys must bear in mind that if they expect to do anything in the next state field day that they must begin to train at once and keep up their training, one cannot get in condition to make records without severe training.

The Vets. Hold an Interesting Session.

The Veterinary Medical Society held a very interesting session at their hall, August 1, 1890.

The following responded according to program.

First a speech by Mr. Whitbeck, subject “Fistula." The subject was ably discussed by all present.

Next was a speech by J. Replogle on the subject of Caponizing. His talk was interesting and instructive.

Following this was a paper by Mr. Sorenson on the subject of Anthrax, which was readily discussed by the society on account of its being one of the most complex diseases that a surgeon has to treat.

Mr. Ingmand then spoke of The Out-look for Veterinary Practitioners, which was well received by the society. Volunteers were called for Messrs Heck and Austin responded.

Several new members were initiated at the business session and became regular members of the society.

The Society with Professor M. Stalker as president is enjoying great prosperity and cannot help but benefit its members.

Page 5

Advertisements

L.B. Abdill, books and paints (Des Moines)

Bigelow & Smith, dry goods (Ames)

L.M. Bosworth, drug store and magazine subscriptions (Ames)

Canier Bros. & Herman, shoe store (Ames)

Geo. G. Tilden, clothing (Ames)

W.G. Randall, rest house (Ames)

Page 7

Military Notes.

The officers and non commissioned officers have guard mount every Thursday evening at seven o,clock. By this plan guard mount can be more thoroughly learned than if taken on regular drill days, while it also leaves more time for brigade drill.

Chief trumpeter Goldsmith not having returned to college; Mr. Henry has been promoted to that position.

The military dept. has bought a new drum.

Miss Belle Gaston has resigned as Capt. of Co. G, and Miss Kate Porter is now in command of the company,

By order of the trustees, the students rooms must be inspected each morning, by the steward or persons appointed by him. Col. Lincoln has turned over the work to the Captains and first Lieutenants, who take their turns, as officer of the day. There is already a marked improvement in the appearance of the rooms. The plan meets the approval of the students; why not go a step further, and abolish the present procter system. Make the officer of the day, responsible for the good order of the school, this is in part a military institution, and certainly military decorum would not be to severe on the boys.

The officers of the day report that the sanitary condition of the old college needs attention.

The new students form a [separate] squad under the command of Lieut. Dean.

[Suggested headline: Science Club]

The Science Club held their first meeting for this term last Friday. Although they had no regular program, yet they had a very interesting session. Mr. Henry Rolfs read a paper on the crossing of con, deduced from experiments begun by Prof. Crozier in '87. Prof. Osborn presented for examination some pieces of the meteor which fell in the northern part of this state. These pieces were donated to the college museum by trustee Secore.

Prof. Pammel gave the result of a study of the seed coats of the genus Euphorbia to determine the species; and also mentioned the recent experiments in sterilizing milk in order to destroy tuberculosis bucilli. Considerable interest was taken in discussing these papers. The club appointed a committee to select a scientific periodical which shall be donated to the college library. The next meeting of the club will be held on Friday, August 14. All interested in science are invited to attend.

The club is doing excellent work, and the students in the scientific course can not afford to slight the meetings. Devote an evening to the science club and you shall be well paid for your time.

The Library.

The latest improvement in the library is the labeling of the books upon the outside. Each book is to have, and most of them already have, a label upon the back showing at once the class to which it belongs and the number of the book in that class. The books in any class are arranged alphabetically according to the newest approved system. This will be a great aid to those wishing to find books. There is already a catalogue of cards containing, both the titles and the names of the authors arranged alphabetically. These cards give the class and the number of the book in the class and the directory on the door gives the alcove in which that class is found so that any one with a little practice can find any book there.

The library contains about 8000 volumes. Each department contains the best books on that subject. The departments in science and engineering are especially strong and new books are being added every year. Yearly all the leading magazines are taken and have been bound and an index secured 80 that articles on any subject that has been discussed in them can be readily found.

Few students appreciate until they have visited other colleges the advantages they may enjoy in the library here. The opportunity it offers, by giving them access to a large collection of books not largely novels or histories but just what every student needs to supplement bis text book if he is to do thorough work, should not be overlooked by those deciding what college they will enter or students in recommending their college to others.

Four of the leading dailies and a large number of weekly papers and scientific journals are taken giving full information on the leading events of the day.

It opens at 10 o'clock in the morning and remains open during the study hours of the day except from 1 until 2 in the afternoon. During the time it is open any person is at liberty to use any book or paper in the library but are not allowed to take them from there without a written order from the professor in the department to which the book belongs.

Bachelor Session.

The Bachelors opened by roll call and quotations, the chaplain not being present. After this Mr. Branvig favored us with the selection “Rock Me to Sleep Mother."

The next exercise was [an] essay in which Mr. Kanfman told us of the “Sub-Treasury Scheme.' He presented in an able manner the stand of the Farmers Alliance and pointed out the [impracticable] points of the “Ware house plan."

The next on the program should have been an oration but the orator was "not present or accounted for."

There being some misunderstanding about whether the old or the new music committee was to procure musicians, the president called in vain for music.

The question "Resolved that the state should have absolute control of the liquor traffic within its borders” was advocated by Messrs. Eaton and Swift, and opposed by Messrs. Brandvig and Steel. Messrs. Oggel, Scott, Ballreich and Bishop responded to the call for volunteers, so that the subject was discussed in all its phases to some extent. It was decided in favor of the affirmative. The debate was followed by a by a five minutes speech in which Mr. Dewell ushered us into the affairs of [Newfoundland].

This was followed by a solo, "Some Day I'll Wander Back [Again]," by Miss Garth.

In the two minute speeches, Mr. Ballreich did not loose anytime on the subject “Mr. Blaire's proposed Reciprocity Treaty." Mr. Armstrong made a big speech for such a little man, about the "Summer Vacation." Mr. Graham was at a loss to know how much he could tell us about “The tennis party” without getting into trouble with the boys. Mr. Muhs in talking upon "The prospects of the I. A. C. said the present senior class would be a benefit to the world when it graduated.

The closing exercises was an oration by Mr. Chamberlain entitled, "Spain in America." He said "the Spaniards, the real explorers were justly entitled to the rights of such, but while other nations sought to settle for humanity's sake she came for the wealth of the country. Mexico and [Peru] will ever stand as monuments to show the treachery, cruelty and deceit of the Spaniard. They came not to settle but to conquer. Her treachery betrayed herself. Thus are visible the causes of the fall of Spain in America.”

[Suggested headline: Tennis association stalls]

An attempt was made by two or three of our wideawake students to organize a lawn tennis association. A meeting was held, a constitution adopted and everything seemed favorable for the new association, but for some explainable reason no officers have been elected, and nothing further done. It seems as if the rule is true here, as well as elsewhere, that in all such enterprises two or three must do the work, while the rest enjoy the fruits of their labor. But if for any reason these leaders of industry drop out of the ranks, there seems to be no one able or willing to take their place, consequently the enterprise usually entirely ceases.

[Suggested headline: Railroad desired to connect Ames, college]

The Junior Civils are at work in laying out a railroad to Ames. There has been much speculation upon the advisability of putting in a motor line between the college and town. The first cost, it is true would be rather great, but think of the advantages of a rapid transit line. We believe if such a line was constructed and properly managed, that the [attendance] of the college could be easily doubled, provided, that students were given the option of rooming in Ames or at the College. Again, this would result in more friendly relations between the people of the city and school; under the present system, they know little and care less for college matters; because they know but little about them. Three hundred students boarding in town would change all this. It would change Ames into one of the most enthusiastic college towns in the west, and we would no longer be regarded as the inmates of some charitable Institution.

Page 8

Scraps from our waste Basket.

Castles in the air do not bring in any rent.

The light that never was on sea or land must be a skylight.

The trouble with justice is that she does so little besides holding her scales.

After you have weighed your neighbor in the balance, drop a nickle of fairness in the slot of self examination and ascertain your own moral avoiurdupois.

The Boston school of technology had over one thousand students on its roll books last year.

In the last fifty years only 4,468 students out 6,669 appointments have been admitted to West Point, and of these only 2,305 have graduated.

At Rutgers three hours work in the gymnasium is required of freshmen and sophomores, and all the students are tested and special lines of work are recomended.

Considerable attention has been attracted by Cornell's "Congress.” One of the professors is elected “President of the United States," and the students compose a congress which holds weekly meetings.

Callanan college of Des Moines, has about 100 students in its school of science. Liberal advertising is what did it. Who knows how many are taking the summer course of science at the I. A. C?

Highland Park college of Des Moines is putting in the finest electrical laboratory and testing machinery in the west. Pres. Longwell is a most successful business man, and his name alone insures the success of the new college.

A number of seniors have already secured positions which they will occupy soon as the term closes. There is always a demand for our boys. Some will go to Michigan, some to Texas and some to California. Thus it is that the influence of the I. A. C. is felt throughout the breadth and length of the land.

What made the sea-sick? Why was the water-pail? What did the hob-punch? How did the ginger-ale? How is the milk-maid? When did the cow-slip? What did the mutton-chop? Where did the cat nip? Why did the gun-whale? How does the ocean squall? When did the sea-mew? Why did the base-ball?

[Suggested headline: Strange noises in the night]

Last week, one evening while Mr. Schoemaker, the head proctor was absent from the building, the newly initiated proctor found it quite difficult to watch both floors. Noises arose from different quarters which the inexperienced proctor could not locate definitely. Shorie the next evening, when the same noises arose, resolved to spot the boys, and "hand them in," after watching patiently in the dark halls for an hour or so it was given up as a bad job.

Tribute to Chas J. Cotey, '87, Late Professor, Dakota Agricultural College.

In a few years our silent friend mastered business principles and acquired business facilities rarely [equaled] and seldom excelled in this age of industrial and business pursuits. Along the journey of his brief life, he stamped upon his fellowmen his peculiar fitness, tact or genius for manipulating the finer and more [important] business machinery. It is said he worked with ease and held his ideal of justice always uppermost in all his transactions. He believed that

"All are not just because they do no wrong; But he who will not wrong me when he may— He is truly just."

He remembered his friends at all times; he thought of the sick in their affliction; he had a charity that extended sympathy and the open hand; he was reserved in manner to a modest degree, yet he quit himself like a man in contact with his fellowmen. His power over self was a characteristic most golden as he stood in a manner dumb on many trying occasions. An expert in business, a lover of justice, the students' sincere friend, a faithful husband,—he died battling with disease.

C. A. C.

[Suggested headline: Why successful freshman can falter]

We have often heard the question asked why it was that students who made the best records during their Freshman year often make but average or poor records further on in the course.

Usually these students are in advance of their class when they enter and need not devote much time to their studies in order to make good recitations. Such a course instead of developing the mind, rather tends to cause habits of carelessness. Consequently when new studies aro taken up, these students often find themselves out-ranked by students who entered with but little preparation, but who by habits of careful study, during their first year's work, can now readily lead their class. If you are ahead, don't waste your time, but devote it to library or society work that you may not fall behind.

[Suggested headline: Social notes and more]

The National Game at the I. A. C. is saved from an untimely death, and is in a fair way to recover its usual vigor. The freshmen have a strong nine and they know it, consequently they are anxious to play any body. "Scrub” games are the rage now. Last Friday evening the junior and soph's played the freshmen and prep's on the cottage diamond, the study bell found three innings played and the score 10 to 6 in favor of the higher class men. Richardson acted as umpire. During the game Mitchell hurt his hand so badly that it had to be sewed up.

The seniors are wrestling with Theses.

Problem 1. Given, apple orchard, main building, Jerry, to locate the Prep.

Problem 2. Converse of problem 1. Given main building, prep. Dr. Fairchild to locate choleramorbus.

Hereafter there will be drill twice per week.

There is a fairly good attendance at the Sunday morning breakfast, which is given at seven o'clock.

Mr. Shaul is now our proctor at the cottages, while Mr. Schulte sits as ruler among the freshies and preps, in their heavenly realm.

Some of our seniors find it hard work to comply with the present ruling of the faculty. That is to get up all their back studies but five hours recitation per week.

A number of Cottagers inspired by the Base ball mania, made up a purse and purchased a base ball outfit. They may now be seen batting muffs and tieing up dis-located joints.

During the first week of the term a large field of grain lying north of North Hall was partly destroyed by fire supposed to have originated from a spark from a passing locomotive.

One of the members of the "soph." class, Mr Raymond, has become quite prominent as a bugologist, having made certain discoveries in the life history of one species of saw fly.

John Wood our janitor is now the happy possessor of a horse and buggy. He now rides like a "gentlemen." Boys, get a “stand in” with John and you may get a chance to take his bay out some day.

During the vacation the third floor of the New Cottage was partitioned off into six fine rooms. The boys, successful in securing these rooms were in luck and now put on more style than is in vogue on the second floor M. B.

A meeting of the Freshman class was held last Thursday evening, and the following officers were elected: A. M. Harvey, Pres.; Miss Flora Nelson, Vice Pres.; W. H. Cochran, Sec.; and E. E. Faville, class Historian. At the close of each election the newly elected officers made short speeches.

There is a great improvement in the condition of things at the cottage dining-hall this term. The meals are so well prepared that the boys can scarcely wait until the jingle rings. They crowd in the hall calling on the name of Austin the dining hall proctor, begging him to ring the jingle. But it is too bad that the boys can't keep from scrapping” right at the table.

The French gutters of the main building have been patched and painted. The prep. as well as the freshie is requested to keep his pedal extremities out of the same, lest perchance, a misplaced [banana] peeling cause him to knock some of the cornice off of the stone finish about the windows below, in his descent, in which case he would be held responsible for injury to college property.

Freddie Muhs, our enterprising comanche comrade is making his way through college, it is said, by flipping pennies. Such boys are sure to make their mark in the world. We like to see the enterprising self-made man.

#iowa state university #student life #Iowa State Daily #college media #student media #ames iowa #iowa history

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ryik-the-writer · 6 years

Photo

CHAPTER 7: Tail Tale

A03

-,-,-

The cawing of birds woke Belle early the next morning. When she opened her eyes she could see the beautiful dark purple transition of night into morning as the gentle lap of the low tide tickling her toes.

She sat up to stretch, the seaweed blanket Rumple must have covered her with sliding to her waist.

“Wow.” Belle mused, studying the intertwined seaweed strands. Rumple’s intelligence level continued to perplex and amaze her.

Speaking of the merman, Belle could see his form swimming just past the rock cluster, rising from the water every few seconds to place shells of some sort on the rocks.

Belle waddled into the chilly water, taking her time so that she didn’t bring her temperature down too quickly. She really needed to borrow a wetsuit from Merlin or she was going to catch pneumonia.

“Hey.” Belle greeted as she climbed atop of the rock. She nearly knocked the shells he had gathered back into the water as she tried to steady herself.

The merman shot from the water, jumping halfway on the rock and causing the shells and water to fly.

“Belle!” Rumple greeted excitedly, his face nearly colliding with hers.

Belle laughed and leaned back. “What are you doing?”

Rumple smiled and handed her one of the shells. “Food.”

Belle took it from him and studied it, noticing now that it was a mussel of some kind.

“Oh, thank you Rumple.” Belle smiled, though she grimaced at the salty, squishy texture. She could feel his eyes on her as she ate, watching each empty shell she laid down. He would push more her way, making sure she had enough to eat. It was adorable, but Belle wondered if it had to do with his biology or instinct. She really wanted to know about his kind without treating him like a specimen under a microscope.

“What do you want to do today?” Rumple inquired excitedly when all the shells were empty.

Belle pondered on that. She really should be heading back to the house and prepare for her inventor’s visit, but yesterday had been so magical that she didn’t want to leave. There was so much left for her to learn.

Not to mention she was still groggy from being under water so long and did not want to travel yet.

She glanced around and caught site of the books Captain Jones had lent her, and an idea came to her.

“How about I read to you?

Rumple smiled lightly. “I’d like that. Hop on?”

Belle nodded, adjusting her bag safely behind her as she waited for Rumple to turn on his stomach.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Rumple suggested softly, holding out his arms to her and nodding.

Belle caught on and held her bag over her head as she slid into his arms, squeaking when he used his tail to lift her from the water. She locked her legs around the base of his tail as he swam backwards further, amazed by how quickly they were moving despite her weight.

Finally Rumple stopped and gently rested his hands on her waist and his head on her shoulder, smiling excited as he waited for her to begin reading.

Belle giggled and fished out worn copy of Legends of the Deep and flipped to the chapter concerning the legendary Megalodon.

Rumple scoffed when she finished the first page. “Those over-sized brutes. Glad they stay at the bottom of the ocean where they belong.”

“They…exist?” Belle gasped.

“Of course,” Rumple answered nonchalant. “They feed off whale and squid carcasses. Quite revolting really.”

Belle laughed at his pinched face. “You’ll have to tell me more about what’s down there, one day.”

“I’d like to.” Rumple purred against her shoulder.

Belle sighed and lazily followed the glow down his flickering tale.

“You know,” she mused as she ran her fingers over the jagged fin. “I never did ask what happened to your fin? Was it one of the boats?”

Rumple paused, lifting his head from her shoulder and staring at the remains of his fin.

Belle glanced back, hoping she hadn’t insulted him, but found him to look quite passive about the incident.

“Hm…oh, well there was a human in…this black skin…the thing you had on the day we met.”

“The day you met me, you mean.” Belle chortled, recalling how she nearly drowned the first time she saw him. The second time went smoother, even when she had hit her head. Third times the charge, as she was actually conscious during their introductions.

“A diver, then?” Belle continued.

“Yes,” Rumple nodded. “But…it had this spear…and it threw it right at me.”

Belle’s breath stilled in her throat. Someone attached Rumple? She hadn’t heard any legends of a diver coming across the merman.

“And the diver hit you?” Belle inquired, nodding at his tail.

“My fin, yes.” Rumple answered, swishing the torn appendage in the salty air. He grimace at the memory, at the still vibrating twinge of pain from the impaling, and even worse, the fear of the diver as it swam closer. He recalled the feel of the squishy sand between his fingers as he gripped the ocean floor, panic outweighing the pain.

“I was pierced, and I had to escape so…” he paused, not needing to say anymore.

“That’s awful.” Belle gasped, turning around to hold onto his shoulders.

Rumple stared at her, the pain in her eyes hurting him more than the phantom ache he felt in the remains of his fin.

“It was a long time ago.” Rumple concluded, smiling in hopes of comforting her. “And…the diver didn’t come after me once I left the area. I found these waters…and you.” He added the last part carefully and lifted a hand to her face, trailing down the soft skin.

Belle smiled, pulling Rumple into her arms. “I’m glad something good came from that horrible day.” she said.

Rumple awkwardly copied her motions until their salty skins were brushing.

With his face hidden from her sight, the merman could remember the blurry details of that day. There had been no pain when the diver had speared him into the sand, but there had been an indiscernible fear. The diver had had a second spear that Rumple was certain was destined for his throat. A quick decision had him ripping his fin free and slapping the second spear back at the diver, stabbing him in the dead-center of his hand. Even under the water the merman could here the diver’s enthralled screams of pain. Now feeling the intense pain and smelling blood, he dodged out of the area screaming as the remainder of his fin bled and flapped in the currents.

Rumple gulped, the memory making his insides cold.

Belle felt his heartbeat increase against her chest and pulled him back. “Are you okay?” she inquired gently.

Rumple stared into her eyes, so blue and alive like the ocean. The diver hadn’t had eyes, had seemed to have any soul at all. How could Belle come from the same species yet be so different? So…amazing?

Rumple smiled, leaning into her hand.

“I am thanks to you.”

Beyond the safety of the empty cove, an onlooker used an ancient telescope to watch the interaction between the biologist and the merman. Seeing all he needed to see, the onlooker lowered the telescope and turned away, a small dark smile spreading on their lips.

-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-

I’m sure most of you can figure out who the mysterious diver is but that doesn’t mean I still can’t have fun with it :p

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #foxmurphy #Ryik's Fics #ouat au #mer!Rumple #mermaid #rumbelle au #salt water

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itsaudreyhornebitch · 6 years

Text

Kastle College Professors AU Part 4

(A/N: So I lied earlier. One more part after this. Sorry if you’re not a fan of the slow burn, but whatcha gonna do? I’m only, like...75% happy with this chapter? So let me know what you think!)

READ ON AO3 HERE

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue

Despite the fact that the university operated a dry campus, Frank always kept a bottle of scotch in the bottom right drawer of his desk. The good stuff—Lagavulin—and it was for special occasions only. He had purchased it 7 years ago—on his first day teaching at the university—and it had remained in his desk for years afterward, collecting dust. It turned out that Frank wasn’t all that great at celebrating. Didn’t often see many reasons he considered important enough to break out the good stuff. The day his first article had been published, he’d bought himself a Twix bar at lunch as a special treat; after his promotion to Associate Professor, he’d gone with David and Curtis for a pint and crawled into bed early; when he was awarded the Alfred P. Sloan Research Fellowship, he’d taken the kids to Coney Island and bought them so much junk food that Frankie Jr. threw up on the way home.

But never once did he break out the scotch. Not that those weren’t momentous life occasions for Frank—they were. But he had never really been one for ostentatious celebration; never the guy to throw a party in his own honor. He was, he told himself, waiting for a moment truly worthy of ceremony for the Lagavulin.

Since meeting Karen, however, he’d broken out the bottle on three separate occasions. The first time had occurred about a month and a half into their working relationship, when Karen realized, mid-rant about her latest run-in with Danny Rand, that it was her three year anniversary of earning her PhD. She’d jumped up from her desk so suddenly, stopping mid-sentence, that she nearly gave Frank a heart attack. He’d watched, half-confused and half-charmed, as she’d run out to the coffee shop to buy herself a cupcake. (She was, and always would be, a firm believer in celebrating the little things). She had looked so excited, rummaging around in her desk drawer, searching for a candle to blow out, that Frank had figured “why the hell not,” and offered her a congratulatory drink.

The second time had followed about a month later, when mid-term student evaluations had come out. They’d both sat on the floor, getting slightly tipsy, and read theirs out loud to each other. Karen had laughed until she’d toppled over when one of Frank’s students wrote, “Dr. Castle is kind of like a sexy shark—like he looks really good, but I’m super scared of getting too close to him, because he might bite my head off.” For a solid week, every time Frank approached Karen’s desk, she’d hummed the Jaws theme song under her breath.

The third time had taken place only three days ago, when Frank finally removed the duct tape boundary from across the office. At some point in the nearly 4 months since Karen had moved in, the clearly-delineated separation between “his” side of the office and “her” side of the office had completely broken down. Karen’s little potted succulents—which needed direct sunlight—had ended up on the windowsill behind Frank’s desk (she assured him that they didn’t need to be watered every day, but he kept an eye on them just in case). When one of Frank’s bookshelves collapsed, he’d moved a great deal of his heavy, forbidding Physics books to Karen’s side (her Maggie Nelsons and Searles were beginning to look quite cozy pressed up against his Capassos and Sobels). And the former no-man’s-land between their desks had become what Karen affectionately called “the family room,” which she had filled with floor cushions “thrifted” from Foggy’s apartment, all carefully placed around a low coffee table. It was where they sat to eat their take-out dinners, and where Karen did her grading when her desk became too restricting. After much prodding from Karen, Frank had finally admitted the duct tape line was a farce, and pulled it up with great ceremony. She had clapped, he had bowed, and they’d toasted with a glass of Scotch.

It turned out that Frank found a lot more worth celebrating with Karen around.

So when David Leiberman knocked on Frank’s office door at 7PM on Friday evening, he figured it was cause enough to break out the good stuff one more time. After the obligatory hugs, and the thinly-veiled references to how much they’d missed each other, Frank set about pouring a generous glass for his friend.

“So how long you in town for?” Frank asked over his shoulder to David, who was somewhere behind Karen’s desk, probably snooping. He looked down at the glass in his hand, then tipped in just a little more of the amber liquor. It was a Friday after all—no work in the morning.

“Just until Sunday night. I’m speaking at a conference at the Kimpton,” David looked up from his current task of closely examining every inch of Karen’s bookshelf. He ran a finger along her collection of titles, smiling when he noticed a copy of The Fundamentals of Photonics wedged between Witness and Memory: The Discourse of Trauma and Speech Acts.

“You should have called ahead—I would have planned something. Maria has the kids this weekend,” Frank walked over to David, who had pulled out one of Karen’s books and was thumbing through it. (It was, he noted with interest, filled with the most bizarre and incomprehensible shorthand he’d ever seen). He put it back in its place and accepted the glass from Frank.

“Well, you know,” David shrugged, taking a sip and humming in approval. “I wanted to surprise you. See the look on your face and all that.”

“Didn’t take you as the kind of guy who went in for dramatics,” Frank leaned back against Karen’s desk, observing his friend with a keen eye.

David dragged a hand through unruly curls, looking sheepish.

“Also I just kind of forgot.”

“Ah, there it is,” Frank lifted his glass in a mock-toast. “That sounds more like you.”

“Wouldn’t have made much of a difference at any rate, I’m afraid,” David continued his perusal of Karen’s little library. “They’ve got me booked at the conference all weekend. Wouldn’t have a spare minute anyway.”

“I could’ve at least planned for you to see the kids. Frankie Jr’s starting to talk about building his own computer. I figured that was a conversation for Uncle David,” Frank ran a knuckle against the polished wood of Karen’s desk, wondering idly if she was planning on returning to the office sometime soon.

“Ah, well that just gives me an excuse to come back again,” David gave one last, lingering look at the bookshelf before turning to inspect the rest of the office. “Maybe bring the kids with me next time. Make a trip out of it.”

Frank watched David wander about the space, and noticed the way his eyes caught on all of Karen’s little touches—the lingering imprints of her scattered about. Her succulents on the window sill, her pink Himalayan salt lamp, the gauzy blue curtains she’d hung in the window (she liked to close them in the afternoon to watch the way they played peek-a-boo with the sunlight). He paused to inspect the sticky-notes Karen had stuck to the wall by the door—little memos she left for herself about errands to run or sources to look up. (The one that read, “Yell at Frank about leaving the window open overnight!” in large, bold letters had him biting the inside of his cheek to keep an amused chuckle down).

“The, uh—the place looks different, Frankie,” David tried for casual as he turned to Frank, hands in his pockets. Tried to look as though he hadn’t been impatiently biding his time until he could loop the topic of conversation around to Karen. “More…lively,” he rocked back and forth on his heels slightly, grinning.

During the far-too-infrequent Skype conversations they had managed to catch over the past few months, David had begun to notice an increase in the amount of times Frank made mention of his office mate. It had started off-handedly, with Frank dropping in a small detail about her every once in a while—“and then Karen walked in and almost spilled her coffee all over my radiometer, so I had to deal with that shit.” Just carelessly bringing her up in passing, almost like an afterthought. Then, after a while, it became Frank relaying long, complicated stories about his latest adventure involving Karen—“so she fuckin’ signed me up for this interview with a freshman, David. I was ready to strangle her.”

More and more, Karen began to leak into every conversation David and Frank had. It was a progression so natural that it took David a month or so to catch on.

Until finally, he noticed Frank using that oh-so-special word when talking about Karen: we.

“So we decided to order take-out and do some grading”, or “we were tired of the radiator always going on the fritz, so we brought in a mini-heater”, or “we left the window open the other day and a pigeon fuckin’ flew into the office and shit on my desk overnight.” Frank didn’t even have to mention Karen by name—every time he said “we,” David could safely assume he was including Karen. He didn’t think Frank realized he was doing it—but at some point, every story he told was about Dr. Karen Page. Him and Karen. Karen and him. Always together. And David was incredibly eager to figure out what that was all about.

“Now it actually looks like a human spends time in this room, instead of a robot,” David ran a finger across one of Karen’s sticky notes for emphasis.

“Yeah. That’s all Karen,” Frank swirled the Scotch in his glass, grinning to himself. David doubted Frank knew how dopey that grin looked, or he would have worked harder to cover it up.

“Hmm,” David continued his leisurely walk about the office. “Lots of very un-Frank things going on here,” David gestured vaguely to the floor cushions. “Can’t really imaging you sitting on one of those.”

“Eh,” Frank shrugged, “it’s not so bad. More comfortable than my desk chair. And Karen likes ‘em.”

“Seems like Karen’s changed a lot around here, huh?” David wandered over to the loveseat that had been wedged between the two desks. As he sat, he noticed the soft-looking throw draped over the arm—Karen again. “I would have thought you’d have a harder time with someone coming in and invading your space. But it seems like you’ve handled it quite well.”

“Yeah, well. Turns out I don’t mind it so much.”

“If it’s the right person, huh?” David said with a knowing little smile.

And it was that smile that had Frank instantly suspicious of where David was leading their seemingly-innocuous little chat. His friend had a habit of talking in circles, leading you around and around the topic of conversation he really wanted to discuss, until it drove you crazy. Frank hated it—had no patience for the whole thing. He stared at David with narrowed eyes, fingers tapping against Karen’s desk as he took a sip from his drink.

“I mean,” David continued, nonchalantly, “it just seems like anyone else, and you’d be dying to get rid of them. Get your space back. But with Karen, you don’t mind one bit. Just interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” Frank spoke slowly.

“Yep,” David took a sip of his scotch. “Just interesting.”

There was a beat of silence, during which David sat coolly under Frank’s assessing gaze.

“If you want to say something, just say something, man,” Frank sounded slightly annoyed. “Hate it when you beat around the bush.”

“Not saying anything, Frankie,” David held his hands up defensively, but the quirk of his lips gave him away. “Just making some casual observations.”

“Yeah, I know you too well to believe that any observation you make is casual,” Frank set his glass on the desk and crossed his arms. David had to stop himself from laughing at how stereotypically-Frank the move was. “So why don’t you try that one again, buddy.”

“Well, I guess I’m just wondering,” David paused, crossing one leg over the other and throwing his arm over the back of the loveseat, “you know, very casually,” he emphasized the word with a raised eyebrow, “when you’re going to get around to admitting that you’re in love with Karen Page.”

David had never seen Frank go so still before. It was a little alarming, watching his muscles freeze up rigidly, his eyes unblinking, mouth pressed in a hard line—David was half worried that he wasn’t even breathing. For a full fifteen seconds, Frank stood there, unnaturally still, while David sat patiently, waiting for an answer.

It was the loud sip David took from his glass that seemed to shake Frank out of it.

“I—” Frank coughed, clearing his throat, then tried again. “No idea what you’re talking about.” But his voice lacked certainty—sounded a little edgy.

“Yeah,” David nodded, as though Frank’s response were exactly what he expected, “see, your words say ‘no idea what you’re talking about,’ but that incredibly strained pause you just took, plus,” he gestured to Frank’s face, “that terrified look you’re wearing say otherwise.”

Frank felt that familiar little throbbing begin between his eyebrows—the one that only David seemed able to incite. Suddenly, he forgot why he was so happy to see his friend only moments earlier.

“I’m not in love with Karen,” Frank tried to summon up a little conviction, but missed the mark by miles. Instead, he sounded like a petulant child who refused to admit he’d taken the last cookie while his hand was still in the jar. “We’re just friends.” The words felt wrong in his mouth, heavy and unwieldy. Tasted like vinegar on his tongue—the way lies always do when you’re body decides to reject them.

“Hmm,” David hummed a little disbelieving sound, and brought a hand up to his chin in a thoughtful gesture. “Now normally I would take you at your word, you being my closest friend and all, but I’m afraid you have a particularly bad case of chronic emotional constipation, Frank. It’s just one of your many quirks.” He shook his head sadly.

Frank sputtered indignantly, before remembering that arguing with David was pointless. Always had been—the man was like a dog with a bone when he was trying to press his point. And suddenly, Frank didn’t have the energy to fight it.

“You’re a smart guy, don’t get me wrong,” David waved a hand in the general direction of Frank’s many framed degrees. “But you’re unbelievably shit at understanding your own emotions.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re here to enlighten me?” Frank’s voice had a sardonic edge. He moved from Karen’s desk, grabbing her swivel chair to drag it in front of David. He sat down with a heavy thud.

“Only if you’ll allow me,” David sounded way too amused—too pleased with himself. The throbbing in Frank’s forehead ticked up. “I only enlighten the willing.”

Frank leaned forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, eyes narrowed and searching David’s face. The other man, for his part, tried to maintain a look of blasé innocence.

“Talk,” was all that Frank said. He hated to admit it, but he was actually curious as to what David had to say. Because, as painful as it was, David did have a point, and Frank knew it—he had never been the best at sorting through his own confused jumble of emotions. And—yeah—he’d been having some complicated feelings about Karen for a while. Some complicated, white-knuckled feelings that sometimes left him a little breathless and gutted when he looked at her. So as much as it hurt him to admit, he’d take David’s insight if he was offering it.

“Well,” David made a big show of stroking his hand across his jaw thoughtfully, “you’re a hard guy to read, I’ll give you that. But over the years I’d like to think I’ve become well-versed at recognizing the various mating rituals of the elusive Frank Castle. I’d say I’m somewhat of an expert. Maybe the only one in the world.” David was clearly enjoying himself, if the shit-eating grin on his face was anything to go by. It wasn’t often that Frank let the conversation veer into emotional territory, and David planned to savor the moment. Frank, for his part, was not amused.

“If you’re gonna be a little shit about it—,” he made as though to get up from his chair, and David lurched forward to stay him with a hand on his arm.

“Now, now, Frank,” David shook his head. “Don’t be so hasty.” Frank’s jaw ticked in that dangerous way—the way that said he was running out of patience. But David noticed, with some measure of satisfaction, that in spite of his annoyance, Frank settled back into his seat with little resistance. “I’m just having some fun.”

“I’d appreciate it if your fun wasn’t at my expense,” Frank grunted. Having to turn to David for guidance was painful enough—but adding unnecessary teasing on top of it was a bridge too far.

“Well, one of us should be having fun. From the look on your face, you’d think you were having a fucking root canal, instead of a conversation with a dear and valued friend,” David tried not to sound bitter about it. He did not succeed.

“Yeah, sometimes talking to you feels like a fuckin’ root canal, buddy.”

“Do you want my help or not?” David held his hands out in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture.

“No,” Frank managed to speak through painfully-gritted teeth.

“But you need it.” It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

A beat of silence, then:

“Yes.”

David had never heard the word so grudgingly muttered. He let the quiet stretch out between them, as though checking to see that Frank was truly done with his complaining. When he was satisfied, David continued.

“So let’s look at this from my perspective, huh?” He leaned back on the loveseat once more, looking vaguely philosophical. “I’ve known you for a long time, Frank. A long time,” he repeated for emphasis. “And you’re not exactly an easy guy to get along with. I mean, let’s be brutally honest: you’re a bit of a misanthrope. You’re inflexible, you’re unapproachable—you’re stubborn as hell. You can’t handle criticism. It’s practically impossible to pull any sort of real, meaningful, emotional conversation out of you. I mean, you’ve got your walls built up a thousand feet high. And I’m saying this as someone who loves you, man.”

Frank would have been offended, but he was far too self-aware to even pretend David’s assessment was inaccurate. Insulting, sure, but not inaccurate. Instead, he settled for grumbling in acknowledgement.

“I mean, it took you years to even learn how to tolerate me,” David pressed a hand to his chest. “Some days I’m still not sure you really do.”

Frank snorted, which David took as confirmation.

“So what am I supposed to think when this Karen comes into your life, and all of the sudden…you’re none of those things? Not with her.” David leaned forward to make sure he had Frank’s attention. His voice, suddenly, sounded much more serious. Almost pleading. “I mean, come on, man. Look around you.” David gestured to the office, which was filled with little pieces of Karen everywhere he turned. “You’ve allowed this woman to come into your life and just—just turn it into something else. And not in a bad way,” David quickly amended, holding up a hand when he saw Frank frown. “Actually, in a really great way. I mean, this room feels like it’s alive, man. Like it’s a home. It’s a fucking office in a university building; that’s as impersonal as it gets. But it feels like a home. Do you get how crazy that is? How weird it is for me to see all this, and know that you had a part in creating it?”

Frank wasn’t looking at David. He was focused instead on that throw blanket of Karen’s just over the other man’s shoulder. It was soft and plush—with a pattern of roses stitched around the edges. It was so not Frank. But dammit if he didn’t love that fucking throw blanket. Because it was Karen’s throw blanket. Because she’d bought it the day after she’d walked in on Frank taking a nap on the couch, and thought “I bet he’d sleep better with something warm.” Because it was more than just a blanket.

“And it’s not just the office, Frank. It’s you.” David swept his hand up and down in Frank’s direction. “You’re different, man. You talk about Karen all the fucking time. I mean, all the time. I wish you could hear yourself. You’re voice gets all…all tender and shit. It weirded me out at first, gotta be honest.”

Frank scoffed.

“It’s true,” David shook his head. “You talk about her like she’s some kind of magical being that you can’t believe wandered into your life. With, like, this reverence I can’t wrap my mind around. It’s like you’re thinking about her all the time or something.”

And Frank jerked back at that. Because David had hit it right on the mark.

It was true. He thought about Karen constantly—what she was doing, who she was with, if she was having a five-cups-of-coffee kind of day or a just-tea-for-me kind of day. Sometimes, when he was alone, he stopped and thought about the fact that Karen was out there, wherever—talking to other people, making them laugh, telling them crazy stories, caring for them in that quiet, graceful way of hers—and he started to feel jealous. Jealous of the fact that she was somewhere else, saying beautiful things, having soft little moments, making weird little jokes, and he wasn’t there to see them.

Shit. Frank’s fingers started doing that fidgety thing they did when he got overwhelmed.

“I just—I don’t know, Frank,” David scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve gotta be honest with you, because from the outside, it looks like you’re head over fucking heels with this woman. I mean, there’s no other explanation.” David smiled, but this time it was sincere—no trace of mocking or mischief. “All I can say is that the Frank I knew about four months ago isn’t the Frank I know now. You just—you seem happy. You seem content. Like you’re, I don’t know, the sunshiney version of yourself. The version of yourself that doesn’t kind of also hate yourself.”

Fuck.

David was right. David was so, scarily right. Karen made him feel like he wasn’t so much of an asshole. Made him feel like a functioning, living, breathing real boy. Frank knew he could be difficult. Gruff, unfriendly, demanding, exacting. But the moment he crossed that threshold and saw Karen at her desk, making faces as she read through her students’ essays, all of that just dissolved. He became someone who was gentle. Who could be content and unburdened and relaxed. Someone with hands made to hold.

“I mean, just answer me this, Frank,” David waited until he had Frank’s eyes on his own to speak, his voice solemn. “Does it ever scare you sometimes, what you’d be willing to do if she asked you?”

Frank’s answer was a strangled kind of noise—something a little animal. David, being particularly knowledgeable in the numerous nuances of Frank’s grunts, could tell that it was an affirmation.

“Good,” David nodded, running a hand through his messy hair. “Good.”

There was a pause, in which David could almost see Frank’s mind at work. The idiot, he thought, he really didn’t know he was in love.

The two men sat for a moment, silent. The office felt saturated in something strong—something that felt like inevitability.

After a minute, David spoke again.

“And, I mean…obviously you’re attracted to her.” Frank recognized the tone of David’s voice—it was the way he spoke when he was trying to lighten the mood after a serious conversation. “I mean,” he shifted in his seat, “I saw pictures of her online. Now, I’m a married man,” David pressed an adamant hand to his chest, “but come on.” He raised an impressed brow at Frank.

Frank chuckled, and the tension in the room broke.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t know how I get any work done.” Frank dragged a hand over his face. “Fuck.” The curse didn’t have any power behind it, only a kind of delighted, terrified resignation.

“Yep, buddy,” David leaned forward and patted Frank’s shoulder. “You’re in love. Scary, huh?”

Frank let out a huff, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

“You know, I find it kind of weird that you needed me to explain that to you,” David picked up his scotch, which he’d abandoned on the arm of the loveseat sometime during the conversation. “I mean, you’ve been in love before. You were married, you moron.”

“Wasn’t the same,” Frank was staring at his hands—his fidgety, restless hands.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t the same?” David furrowed his brow. “Isn’t love just…love?” He wouldn’t know, he’d only been in love once. It had only ever been Sarah for him.

“No, it—it’s just different,” Frank couldn’t find the words to explain what he meant, and that was an uncomfortable sensation. “Just—just more, this time. More of everything.”

Falling in love with Maria had felt like jumping off of a cliff. It had happened so fast—too fast for Frank to even think. One moment he was just Frank, and then the next, he was in love, and married, and a father. Like he’d tipped over the edge, and fallen into this new life. And maybe that’s why their marriage hadn’t lasted—you can only free fall for so long before you hit the ground.

Falling love with Karen had felt like falling asleep in the bathtub—letting go one muscle at a time and sinking into something warm and safe. Like waking up slowly on a Saturday morning and knowing that nothing in the world could touch you so long as you stayed in bed. Like going home. And that, somehow, was just so much more. He had built something with Karen—he hadn’t just fallen into her—he’d created something with her.

That’s probably why he hadn’t recognized the feeling earlier; he’d never felt it before. Never felt it like this.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered, “I need another fuckin’ drink.”

Karen Page, you are such a fucking coward. As Karen stepped into the cool night, leaving the warm, whiskey air of the bar behind, the thought entered her mind unbidden. A spineless coward.

Hitching her bag further up her shoulder and shoving her hands ruthlessly into her pockets, Karen shook her head at the thought, as though she could make it go away. She’d just spent the past two hours sitting at the bar with Trish, trying to go over some changes to the other woman’s dissertation proposal. Trying being the operative word. Because the entire time, all Trish wanted to talk about was why Karen hadn’t admitted her feelings to Frank yet. Every time Karen had asked a question about a source for the lit review, or about how the dissertation panel selection was coming along, Trish had countered with a question about Karen’s cowardly refusal to just make a confession already. An embarrassing amount of time had passed, uneventfully, since the afternoon of the pit bull video, and Karen was still carrying around her feelings for Frank like her own private burden.

Avoiding a puddle of what looked disturbingly like vomit, Karen continued her trek back to campus, and wondered (not for the first time), why she’d bothered to tell Trish about her situation. The woman was so nosy—as all natural-born reporters were. It was just that—god—it was so nice to have female friends to confide in, and Karen had never been any good at keeping her feelings bottled up inside. They always needed to find an outlet—and Trish had been Karen’s outlet. Karen’s nosey, over-involved outlet.

It’s not that she didn’t want to tell Frank about her feelings. She did—or at least she thought she did. Of course she had some apprehensions about the whole thing: What if he didn’t feel the same way about her? What if it made things awkward between them? What if their entire friendship fell apart because of it?

But she also had a lot of hope—hope that he would be understanding. Hope that he would maybe—just maybe—return her feelings. Hope that, even if he didn’t, their friendship would be strong enough to overcome the awkwardness that would inevitably ensue.

And Karen was brave, damnit. It was part of her identity—something she felt defined her. Unafraid of new experiences, unafraid of failure, unafraid of getting hurt. Which was why it was so annoying that she had such a mental block about telling Frank how she felt. But it just seemed so…so fucking important. Massive. Life-altering.

Karen smiled and waved at one of her students, who was frantically running to the bus stop, as she reached the outer edge of campus. She wondered if Frank would be in the office when she arrived—he didn’t have the kids this weekend, and he liked to use the Fridays they were with Maria to spend some guy-time with Curtis. If he was there, Karen resolved, tonight would be the night she would tell him. She was sure of it.

But then again, she’d made the same resolution a million times over the past few weeks. She was going to tell him over Chinese food last week, but had ended up distracted by his explanation of how quarks had been discovered. Then she had planned on telling him a few days later, as they sat in the car on the way to a party at Foggy’s (at which she had avoided Matt like the plague)…but she’d lost her nerve when Frank started singing along to Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Shining Star” under his breath, and she’d fallen in love with him all over again. And, more recently, when Frank had come over to her house to watch the premier of that ridiculous fantasy show she liked to watch on HBO, but she’d decided she didn’t want to tell Frank she loved him with an incestuous sex scene playing in the background.

So maybe Karen wasn’t that great at keeping this particular resolution. She huffed out a sigh, watching her breath become mist in the chilly air, and tilted her head back to look up at the stars. She supposed, in the grand scheme of things, that this wasn’t so terrible a dilemma. She was lucky, she told herself, if the most pressing issue in her life was how to tell a man she loved him. What a beautiful problem to have. To be capable of love—to be filled with the stuff—to the point of overflowing. As she walked forward, breathing deeply of the winter-sweet air, Karen felt a brief and startling rush of euphoria—felt, for a mere moment, how unbelievably magnificent it was to be alive. To be breathing and heaving along; to be on the brink of something huge. And as quickly as the feeling had rushed upon her, it faded away, leaving Karen with a mystified feeling.

As she neared the Physics building, she looked up toward the window of the office. Noticing the light was still on, her breath caught in her throat. He was there—she would tell him tonight. Surrounded by the little home they’d made together, out of books and ungraded papers and takeout cartons, she would tell him that she loved him.

She paused a moment, to watch the play of shadows as they danced before the window. She saw what was clearly Frank’s shadow move across the back wall of the office—then her heart sank as she saw another shadow follow close behind.

Shit. Frank had company.

Karen scuffed the toe of her boot along the sidewalk, and contemplated turning around and just going home. She didn’t want to interrupt whatever he had going on—probably Curtis stopping by before they left for “boy’s night.” But then she remembered that she’d left her laptop on her desk, charging. And she couldn’t go the entire weekend without her laptop. With a sigh, because her big confession would have to wait, she made her way into the building.

“No, no, no, that’s not what happened.” David’s voice, he knew, was beginning to slide ever-closer into “drunk slurring” territory, but he wasn’t too bothered. That’s the thing about being tipsy—you’re never bothered by anything when you’re tipsy. “Listen, listen,” David reached out in an attempt to grab Frank by the shoulder, but leaned forward a little too far and almost slid right off of the floor cushion he was sitting on. Catching himself quickly, he continued adamantly. “You were the one who gave Lisa the baseball bat, Frank, not me. So technically it was your fault.”

“But you were the one that gave her the ball, David.” Frank, while beginning to show his own signs of inebriation (glassy, unfocused eyes; diminished coordination), was slightly less tipsy than David. He, at least, was able to maintain an upright position on top of his own floor cushion. “If I’m gonna take the blame for giving her the bat, then you gotta take the blame for the ball.”

“But—”

“Nuh uh,” Frank pointed sharply at David, cutting him off. His arm barely avoided knocking over the almost-empty bottle of scotch that sat between them on the coffee table. “You were also the one that bet her she couldn’t hit a ball over the roof. Like an idiot.”

“I—hey—,” David held his hands up defensively. “How was I supposed to know she’d actually try to do it? I’m not a—a—,” David searched for the right word; couldn’t find it. “A person who knows the future.” Close enough.

“You—but,” Frank sputtered, disbelieving. “Have you met my kid, Lieberman? How could you not know she’d try?”

“Yeah but, I mean, how was I supposed to know she’d break three windows?” David was grasping at straws. “I thought she’d, y’know, have better aim!”

“She was eight,” Frank exclaimed, exasperated.

“Yeah, but—I mean,” David made some vague gesture with his hands—Frank wasn’t sure what it was supposed to signify, “she was a very mature eight.”

“Sarah agreed with me that it was your fault,” Frank shook his head.

“Yeah, but Sarah—,” David stopped suddenly, his eyes unfocusing on Frank and refocusing on something else (with great effort). Frank watched, puzzled, as David’s facial expression changed almost instantly into something he could only describe as manic glee. “Well hello there!”

Frank turned around, following the direction of David’s gaze, and saw Karen standing in the doorway of the office, a dumbfounded look on her face. She looked like all of his fantasies come to life.

“Karen.”

David may have been slightly-sloshed, but even in his altered state, he noticed the way that Frank said her name—in that soft, thoughtful little way. Like even just speaking it out loud was a privilege he couldn’t believe he had. It was still a little disconcerting for David to hear.

“Well now I know how it feels to be the only one who wasn’t invited to the party,” Karen leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and a smile fighting its way to her face.

“That was my entire life story in high school,” David muttered. Karen snorted, tilting her head in David’s direction with curiosity. Suddenly, he seemed to remember that it was generally considered polite to introduce yourself to people you hadn’t yet met. “Oh, I—,” he attempted to jump up from his cross-legged position on the cushion, but snagged his foot on the leg of the coffee table in the process, tumbling to the ground instead.

Karen jerked forward, arms out, as though in attempt to catch him. Frank, whose reactions were slowed by the scotch, reached out to help a solid three seconds too late, and let his arms drop limply to his sides.

“Well shit,” David didn’t even make an attempt to get up. He just laid on the floor, sprawled out, staring up at Karen. “I’m David. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I, uh—I actually know who you are,” Karen managed to stifle her laughter long enough to approach David and offer him a hand. “I’ve seen your picture before. I’m Karen.”

David took her hand, and she leaned back, using her weight to hoist him into a sitting position. Instead of releasing her hand once he was upright, David shook it (with a little too much zeal).

“Back atcha, Karen,” David’s grin was downright ridiculous. “About seeing your picture, I mean.”

Frank, who had been watching the exchange with trepidation, decided to cut in. He wasn’t entirely sure David could be trusted to talk to Karen while drunk—the man had never been particularly fantastic about keeping secrets while sober, and he tended to get extra chatty when he was buzzed.

“Uh, sorry about taking over the office, Kare. We can be out of your hair if you need the space,” Frank watched Karen release David’s hand and turn toward him with a smile. For a moment, Frank felt his heart squeeze roughly in his chest at that look. He’d had a similar reaction to her smile before, but now he had a name for it. Now he knew why it hit him with such inescapable force.

“Don’t be ridiculous Frank,” Karen dismissed him with a wave of her hand, “I wouldn’t ruin your fun. Just came to grab my laptop.” She pointed over her shoulder to her desk.

“Oh, you should stay!” David clapped his hands together. “We were just reminiscing about the time Frank let his daughter hit a baseball through my front window!”

“That is not what happened,” Frank glared pointedly at David, “and I’m sure Karen has more important things to do.”

“Uh,” Karen looked back at her laptop, which was waiting for her with a half-finished syllabus, “I actually don’t really have anything else going on.”

“See!” David threw his hands up. “It’s cosmic, uh,” he cast about to find the right word, “It’s—kismet! The lady has no place to go on a Friday night, and we’re having a party. Meant to be.”

Frank gritted his teeth. If Karen stayed the evening, the chances of David saying something terrible and embarrassing shot way up. But he also didn’t like the idea of Karen going home alone to an empty apartment when she could be here, with him.

“You sure you don’t have something you need to do?” Frank looked at Karen, who was grinning at David, obviously entertained by his befuddled state. “You don’t have to humor us or anything.”

“Nope,” Karen shook her head, sending her curls flying back and forth. In his tipsy state, Frank thought they looked even more like spun gold than normal.

“Oh, ignore him,” David scoffed at Frank. “He’s just worried I’ll say something embarrassing to you. Like tell you about the time he gave blood without eating beforehand, and when I went to pick him up and take him to lunch, he passed out in the Chipotle.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank put his head in his hands. He was going to regret this entire night, he could already tell.

David laughed, patting the floor cushion next to his own in an invitation for Karen to sit. She cast a quick glance in Frank’s direction, silently asking his permission—she really didn’t want to intrude on their time, as she knew that Frank didn’t get to see David all that often. When he shrugged resignedly, she took her seat next to David (who noticed, with utter delight, that Karen reached out to subtly squeeze Frank’s forearm in ‘hello’ as she sat).

“That story sounds amazing.” Karen unbuttoned her coat, tossing it in the general direction of the coat rack. “Do go on.”

“Actually, uh,” David looked confused for a moment. “I think that was the whole story.”

Karen almost choked on an unexpected laugh.

“But,” David was quick to add, “I have a lot more where that one came from.”

“Careful, buddy,” Frank raised a warning brow at his friend, “you’re not the only one with ammo here.”

“Yes, but all the stories you have about me are charming,” David planted an elbow on the coffee table and cupped his chin in his hand, grinning widely. “I’m a charming man.”

“Not nearly so much as you think you are,” Frank rolled his eyes with a smile.

Karen watched the interaction with great interest. It was so fascinating to see Frank converse with David—to see him so at ease with someone who wasn’t her. There was an affection behind Frank’s eyes that warmed Karen right down to her toes.

“Alright, alright,” David sighed, “I’ll only tell the stories that make you look good. Though I don’t have as many of those.”

Frank grabbed a pen from on top of the coffee table and flung it at David’s head. David’s reactions were too slow to be of much help, but luckily Frank’s aim was equally as impaired, so the pen missed by inches.

Karen shook her head, lips quirking. “I feel bad that I don’t have someone here threatening to tell all of my embarrassing stories.”

“Well, you’ll just have to tell them yourself,” David reached behind himself to find the discarded pen. He flung it back at Frank, who didn’t even attempt to dodge it, it was so off-course.

“I’m afraid Frank already knows most of my embarrassing stories,” Karen sent Frank a look that David could only call ‘lovesick.’ Jesus, these two, he thought with an internal sigh.

“Well I don’t,” David pinned Karen with an eager look. “And that hardly seems fair.”

And that was how Frank ended up sitting on the floor of the office listening to Karen recount the story about how she had been absent on the day they taught sex-ed in 6th grade, and had been so scared there’d be a quiz over it when she got back, that she locked herself in the hallway closet with the encyclopedia and read the entry on “sex.”

(Just as it had the first time, the story had him laughing and groaning in equal parts).

This had been followed up by an anecdote from David—about the time he’d tried to scare his kids on Halloween by turning the house into a haunted mansion while they were at school, only to succeed so tremendously that Zach literally shit his pants. That, somehow, turned into David talking about how much his kids loved their Uncle Frank. Frank had a sneaking suspicion that David had willfully steered the conversation in that direction in order to talk him up to Karen. Play wingman.

It worked, because as Karen sat there, engrossed in David’s story about the time Frank taught Leo to play “Smoke on the Water” on the guitar, she felt those soft parts of her heart devoted solely to Frank thump wildly.

Frank was content to watch his best friend and the woman he recently realized he was in love with bond. Occasionally, he did interject a correction when he felt that David was telling a story inaccurately (which was often, because David was prone to exaggeration). But for the most part, he sat and listened as Karen charmed the pants off of a slowly-sobering David (as he knew she would), while David did a little charming of his own. There was an entire stretch of conversation that left Frank baffled, as David and Karen realized they were both super fans of the Discworld series. This led to a long and winding conversation about how amazing Terry Pratchett was (Karen went off on her little rant, one Frank had heard many times before, about how Pratchett was the world’s most severely-underrated fantasy author). It was nice, seeing everything just click. Karen made sense here—with him. In his life.

It wasn’t until two in the morning that David finally decided to call it quits. Frank was surprised that his friend had lasted that long, as he wasn’t exactly a night owl these days.

“Alright kids,” David had managed to speak around a yawn, “I’d love to do the whole all-nighter thing with you, but I’m shit out of energy.” He stretched with his arms above his head, and his back made a rather disturbing popping noise. God, he was getting old.

“You need a ride to the hotel?” Frank began patting at his pockets, looking for his keys.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” David pulled out his phone. “Uber’s easier. I’m trying to get my 4.8 passenger rating up to a 5 anyway. Don’t know why the fuck I got docked .2 points.”

“I’m surprised your rating is that high, honestly,” Frank muttered, shaking his head.

“Hey—I’m a great passenger. Very polite. And extremely not-murdery. Which, y’know, is important.” David began gathering up his coat and his scarf, bundling up to protect against the chilly, early morning air.

Karen stood up to say her goodbyes.

“It was great meeting you, David,” her voice was muffled by the big bear hug he pulled her into, with her face smashed against his scratchy scarf.

“You have no idea how great it was,” David gave her a squeeze before releasing her. Frank shrugged when Karen shot him a quick, amused look.

“Am I gonna see you again before you leave?” Frank asked.

“Well Sarah wants me to stop by Maria’s on Sunday to pick up a casserole dish we left at her place forever ago. Apparently, it’s a very important casserole dish. So if you stop by, then yeah,” David was looking at his phone, so he didn’t see the way Frank froze up at the mention of Maria.

But Karen did. It was so strange—every time the conversation veered toward mention of his ex-wife, Frank got a little cagey. Like he wasn’t exactly comfortable talking about the other woman with Karen. And she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why; everything else seemed to be fair game with Frank, but only Maria was a topic non grata.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll definitely stop by,” Frank sounded a little guarded—a little uncomfortable. He grabbed his own coat from the rack. “Let me see you off man.”

Karen stayed behind in the office as Frank walked David to the curb to wait for his ride. She wanted to give them some alone time to say goodbye.

Whenever Frank left the office, he seemed to take a majority of the air with him. It felt colder when it was just Karen—lonely.

With a sigh, she sat on one of the floor cushions, then decided that she needed to lay down, grabbing another one to pad her head. Staring up at the ceiling, with its cracked crown molding, she thought about the Maria problem.

Not that Maria herself was a problem. Just that Frank’s unwillingness to even broach the subject of Maria felt a little…off. Usually, when a man didn’t want to talk about his ex, it was for one of two reasons: he was either still bitter about the break-up, or he was still in love. Karen knew that it wasn’t the former with Frank—there was no anger there, not toward his ex-wife. He never seemed tense or irritable after picking up his kids at her place, or spending the afternoon with her at Lisa’s baseball games.

But she also didn’t think it was the latter—or, at least, she hoped it wasn’t. As far as she could tell, Frank actually kind of liked Maria’s new boyfriend. She didn’t think a man still in love with his ex-wife would be so forgiving of a romantic rival.

Which left Karen confused. She couldn’t think of any other reason he would get so damn tense every time Maria was mentioned. (She, of course, did not even consider the most obvious reason of all—that Frank wasn’t sure how to bring up the woman he used to be in love with to the woman he was currently in love with).

After a few minutes, Karen began to drift off, her eyes growing heavy. She was awoken what felt like mere moments later by a gentle hand on her head. She cracked her eyes open to see Frank crouching over her, his thumb rubbing across her temple.

“Time to go home?” His voice was quiet, and he smelled like crisp, outside air. Karen breathed deep.

“No. Not tired,” Karen shook her head. She wanted to talk.

Frank raised a skeptical brow, but the adamant look on Karen’s face brokered no argument. She had that “we need to talk” look. With Karen, that look never terrified him the way it did when other people wore it. Karen’s “we need to talk” was always gentle. With a sigh, he tapped her head lightly. “Up.”

Karen lifted her head, and Frank took its place on the cushion.

They sat, facing each other, nothing between them, close enough that the toe of Karen’s right foot brushed Frank’s knee. The position should have felt strange; a little too intimate. But it didn’t. It felt natural. There was something about the atmosphere at that moment—the way a room always feels after it’s been cleared of good company—like the lingering effects of comradery still hang about. It felt like the kind of space where a man like Frank and a woman like Karen could rest against each other.

There was a moment of silence—relaxing, comfortable silence—then Karen spoke.

“You never talk about Maria.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Said in that way Karen had when she was trying to set the topic of conversation; letting you know that this is what you were going to talk about, regardless of your feelings on the subject.

Frank made a kind of grunting noise. Karen, like David, knew him well enough to recognize it as a confirmation that he was listening.

“I just…” Karen trailed off a little bit, biting her lip. “I just think it’s strange, y’know? You talk about your kids all the time. About David. And even Curtis. But not Maria.”

“Does that bother you?” Frank began to absent-mindedly pick at a loose thread on the seam of his jeans.

“No,” Karen shook her head. “You don’t have to talk about things you don’t want to. That never bothers me. I was just curious.”

“Hmmm,” Frank made a considering noise. After a moment, he nodded to himself. “Do you—” he thought about how to phrase the question. “Are you curious about her?”

Karen brought her hand up, chewing the end of her thumbnail thoughtfully. “Yeah, I kind of am.”

“Why?” His voice was quiet—curious.

“I guess because,” Karen lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Because I feel like I know everything else about your life. Except for the parts that have to do with her.”

“Okay,” Frank nodded again, rolling his shoulders. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” Karen pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She looked so small that way, Frank felt something delicate twinge in his chest.

“Uhm,” Frank scratched the back of his neck. “She lives in Westchester. She works in the HR department of a pharmaceutical company. She’s on the PTA, but she hates it. She plays tennis with her friends on the weekends. She has one brother, who—”

Karen interrupted him with a chuckle. “I feel like you’re giving me a fast facts sheet about her, Frank. I don’t need to know her social security number.”

“Well you’re the reporter, Page.” Frank cocked his head to the side and smirked. “Ask better questions.”

“Okay, uhm,” Karen scrunched her nose in thought. “How’d you meet?”

“I was getting my Master’s in Material’s Science at MIT. She was working in a little bakery across the street from the library. I had my eye on her for a while before I got up the nerve to ask her out. And the rest is history,” Frank shrugged.

“’The rest is history’?” Karen scoffed. “You can’t just end a story with ‘the rest is history.’ It’s bad storytelling.”

“Oh, well excuse me,” Frank grinned. “Didn’t know I was being graded on my handling of narrative, Dr. Page.”

“Sorry,” Karen didn’t look at all apologetic. “Continue.”

“Uh. We dated for three months before she got pregnant. Asked her to marry me the day she broke the news. We were together for five years.” Frank pinned Karen with a pointed look. “That better?”

“Not much, but it’s something. You are definitely not a natural-born storyteller,” Karen shook her head sadly.

“I’m a scientist, Kare. Not Dr. Seuss,” Frank nudged Karen with his foot.

“Thank God for that,” Karen frowned, “His books always creeped me out as a kid.”

Frank chuckled, shaking his head. Karen was always dropping strange little tidbits about her life into conversation, and then never explaining them. He supposed it was just part of her appeal—she was mystifying.

Karen played with the hem of her shirt as she thought.

“What’s she like? Y’know, as a person?”

Frank didn’t quite know how to answer that. Some days he thought he knew Maria like he knew himself, and other days she felt like a stranger. People were like that, he supposed—full of secrets and contradictions and private little corners. And maybe that was part of the problem with the two of them, he’d never learned how to uncover all the parts of Maria that she kept hidden away.

After a moment of thought, Frank spoke.

“She’s…a great mother. Just a natural at it—compassionate, understanding, but tough. Doesn’t let those kids get away with anything. If they turn out alright, it’ll be because of her,” Frank glanced up at the ceiling.

Karen poked his thigh in a “go on” kind of gesture. “Uh, she’s traditional, I guess. When we were married, she did the whole wife staying home with the kids thing. She grew up Catholic, so--y’know--very concerned with doing things the ‘right way.’ A lot of times we didn’t really agree what the ‘right way’ was. Or if it even existed.” Frank sighed. He looked down at Karen, whose eyes were somewhere far off. When she noticed his pause, she glanced at him.

“More,” she said quietly. “I like hearing you talk like this.”

“She’s—uh, a very passionate person. She loves really hard, and she hates maybe harder. Everything’s black and white to her—no shades of gray. Makes her hell to argue with. Just unable to compromise; unable to see anyone else’s side.”

Frank began to fidget a little bit, picking at a loose thread on the floor cushion. Karen watched the movements of his fingers.

“She’s stubborn as hell, too. Doesn’t know how to walk away from a fight. Doesn’t believe in it.” He paused. “But she’s loyal to a fault, and fearless. And generous—gives a lot of herself to other people.” Frank was a little bit surprised how effortlessly all of this was coming out. It might have been Karen—how easy it was to be honest when she was watching him with those understanding eyes—and it may have been the fact that he’d been holding all of this inside of him for far too long.

“She sounds like an amazing person,” Karen’s smile was far away, as she tried to hold an image of Maria in her mind. Tried to piece her together with Frank’s words.

“Yeah, she is. I think you two would get along.” Frank tapped a knuckled against Karen’s knee gently.

Karen thought for a moment, about how to best ask her next question.

“So why, uh—” Karen squirmed a little, nervously. “Why didn’t it work out with you two?”

Frank had been expecting it, so he wasn’t surprised. Of course she’d want to know about the break-up—wasn’t that always the most dramatic part? Frank might not have been a great storyteller, but people, he knew, liked endings. They liked to have a tidy little bow wrapped around their stories.

“Well,” Frank let out a puff of air, “we only dated for three months before we got married. You know, those three months are exciting; the honeymoon period,” Frank ran a hand over his jaw. “Lots to talk about—your past, your family, your future. It’s like, just getting to know someone else—it takes up all your time.” He dropped his hand to pick at the cushion again. “Then she was pregnant, and we were talking about the kid nonstop. Planning, panicking. And then the wedding—all the arrangements and preparations. Then we actually had the kid, and your life just becomes being a parent. Talking about school and sports and punishments and how to not fuck them up for life.”

Karen was captivated—she always was whenever Frank spoke like this, candidly. He didn’t often talk about himself for more than a moment at a time, but when he did, Karen was mesmerized.

“Being a parent—I mean, that shit consumes your life. You just forget how to be the person you were before. And you forget how to be a couple. Strong couples—they survive. Because they remember what it was like to just be the two of them, as a team,” Frank paused, staring off. “Maria and I…we weren’t together long enough to get to that place before being Mom and Dad. We skipped passed that whole stage.”

“So what happened? You just…woke up one day and realized you…” Karen trailed off, unsure, “you just weren’t in love anymore?”

“Actually, something like that,” Frank tilted his head in a half-nod. “We went out on a date this one night, and we made this rule, right? That we wouldn’t talk about the kids? Not even once—no kid talk. And it was…it was rough. We sat there, for two hours, with nothing to say to each other.”

Karen tried to imagine it—sitting across from Frank without anything to say. Tried to imagine feeling awkward or unsure around him. She found that she couldn’t.

“We just…I guess we didn’t really have anything in common, y’know? Didn’t remember how to talk to each other. We’d never learned.” Frank ran a hand across his jaw. “We’d gone from getting to know each other, to being married with kids so quickly. Never took the time to figure out if we worked together.”

“Hmmm.” Karen chewed her bottom lip, brow furrowed. She’d only been in love once before Frank, and it had ended badly. Like ‘I will call the cops if you show up at my apartment again’ badly. So she couldn’t imagine love ending any other way—ending peacefully, on its own time. “Do you still love her?”

Frank jerked back, surprised. He had not been expecting that question.

“I mean,” Karen was quick to clarify, “like, in the way that one human being loves another human being. Generally.”

“Generally?” Frank frowned, confused.

“You know, in a—” Karen gesticulated vaguely, searching for a way to explain herself. “In a kind of ‘you’re terrific at being a human and I’m glad you exist’ kind of way.”

“You’re asking me if I’m glad my ex-wife exists?” Frank chuckled.

“No—I mean, obviously you’re glad she exists, I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Frank gave a lopsided grin. “Yeah. Think I always will love her. I’m just not in love with her.”

Karen knew as much, but it was still a relief to hear him say it.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and Frank’s grin slid into something a little softer.

Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to grow thicker; become heavy with something that felt an awful lot like anticipation. Karen became newly aware of just how close she and Frank were sitting. She could even see the tiny laugh lines beginning to form at the outer corners of his eyes; could probably count his lashes if she tried.

She’d forgotten, over the years, that love could be such a physical sensation. That it was more than just the head and heart that got involved, but the body as well. That it could make your spine tingle so deliciously—that it could make your skin feel like it was buzzing. The pull deep in her gut ached pleasantly when she looked at Frank, and Karen smiled. It felt so good to be alive. It felt so good to want this strongly.

Frank noticed his heart begin to thud uncontrollably in his chest, as his eyes flitted over Karen’s face. She was just so fucking beautiful, staring at him like that. With those wide, gentle eyes, and that sleepy little smile. Looking at him like she had all the time in the world—like everything she had was there, in the room, between the two of them.

“I—” Frank spoke, and his voice came out husky. Karen’s fingers twitched with the sudden desire to reach out and drag down his throat, feel the vibrations of that deep, low voice pulse through them. She curled them into her palms instead.

He cleared his voice—tried again. “I learned a lot from Maria. About myself.”

“Oh yeah?” Karen’s voice was equally as wrecked—breathy.

“About what I want.” Frank’s eyes darted down to Karen’s lips, so quickly that she didn’t register the glance. “About what I need.”

“And what would that be?” Karen felt herself swaying slightly, almost imperceptibly, closer to Frank. He noticed, with singular interest, the way her bottom lip was glistening. Fuck.

He was going to do it. He was going to tell her.

He could taste the words on his tongue—sweet and right.

“Karen, I—”

The chorus of Styx’s “Mr. Roboto” cut through the thick undercurrent of breathless tension that permeated the room. Karen jerked back at the sound, startled.

“Motherfucker,” Frank muttered under his breath. David. He wouldn’t answer the phone for anyone else, but if David was calling, it was probably important. He jammed his hand into his back pocket—a little more violently than strictly necessary—and ripped out his phone.

“David?” The man’s name came out like a bad word. And, at that moment, it felt like a bad word

Karen watched while Frank listened to whatever David had to say, observing the play of emotions flit across his face, mostly exasperation and disbelief.

“Are you sure you don’t—.” A pause; a sigh. “Well, did you check—?” Another pause. A heavier sigh. Then resigned acceptance.

“Yeah. I’ll find it. Give me a minute and I’ll be there.” Frank hung up, his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Everything okay?” Karen’s voice vacillated somewhere between concerned and strained.

“David left his wallet here. It’s got his key card in it. And the concierge won’t give him the spare without his ID, which,” Frank groaned as he stood up, “is in his wallet.”

“Oh, well,” Karen bit her lip uncertainly. “I guess I should probably be getting home anyway. It’s late—uh, early.” She corrected, massaging the back of her neck. A small part of her was hoping that Frank would say something else—anything else—to address the moment from earlier. To at least recognize that something had been happening there.

Instead, he just looked at her over his shoulder as he rummaged around for David’s phone, something tight and pulsing in his eyes. Something she couldn’t even begin to name.

“Want me to drive you home?” He found the phone under the loveseat, sliding it into his pocket as he watched Karen shrug into her coat.

“No, that’s okay,” Karen smiled mildly. “I want to walk. The cold air will keep me awake.”

“Okay.” Frank stood a little awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

“Okay.” Karen nodded to herself. She paused a moment, mulling something over in her head. Then she took three steps across the office toward Frank.

“Thank you,” she spoke quietly, leaning forward with her hand on his arm, brushing a kiss against his cheek. In a moment, all of Frank’s awareness centered in on the feeling of her lips against his skin.

“For what?” He barely breathed it out.

“For everything, Frank,” Karen shrugged lightly, releasing his arm. “For being exactly who you are, I guess.”

By the time Frank was able to respond, Karen had already waved goodbye and walked out the door. He waited until he heard the elevator ding open before letting out a long string of expletives.

He was going to kill David.

#kastle #kastle au #karen page #frank castle #the punisher

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