You know, the more I think about it, the more I enjoy believing that the last scene in STXI isn’t actually the beginning of the Enterprise’s five-year mission. New headcanon is that there was a bunch more team bonding on the trip back to Earth on impulse engines, followed by more debriefing than you could shake a stick at. Some sort of final exam arrangement for everybody who’s technically not a graduate of the Academy yet. Graduation, promotions, assignments, commendations and then… a whole lot of waiting, I expect.
Probably the Enterprise gets docked in a planetside shipyard to make it easier to repair all the damage to her hull. Kirk and Scotty go to keep her company and end up taking construction shifts because they both want to have a hand in rebuilding her. Bones takes Uhura home to Georgia to relax and hang out with his mom (further favorite headcanon is that Bones and Uhura became besties at the Academy. It drives Jim nuts, especially because he assumes [incorrectly] that they are always talking about him. One of the only civil conversations Kirk and Uhura ever had as cadets was the one in which they figured out which of them would go home with Bones for which holidays).
#SATURDAY MORNING IN THE BANNER STARK HOUSEHOLD #TONY GOT UP AND MADE COFFEE AND GOT THE PAPER #AND NOW BRUCE(OR MILES) IS STUMBLING DOWN THE STRAIRS #AND TONY IS JUST FULL OF AFFECTION AND CONTENTMENT #IT IS GONNA BE AN AWESOME WEEKEND #RDJ
I feel like Miles is a kid who sleeps until at least 10 a.m. and Bruce wears himself down to the bone during the week, so this is how the weekends always go, Tony sneaking downstairs early and letting the dogs out and drinking his first cup of coffee barefoot on the deck before he heads inside to read the paper and start the crossword puzzle and sudoku (but he never finishes them, even when he can, because he and Bruce share them). And he’s in the office downstairs, in the sun, with a dog sleeping at his feet and the business section in his grip when he hears the first footsteps on the stairs.
And maybe it’s Bruce, maybe it’s Miles, maybe it’s both of them. Because sometimes Bruce smells the coffee and wakes to that, and some other times, he rolls onto the cold side of the bed and jerks awake when he realizes Tony’s not there (something he’ll never admit to, but Tony can always tell because those are the mornings when Bruce comes through to the office and puts his nose in Tony’s hair for a minute before he steals the newspaper, like he woke up afraid that their life together was a fever dream, and only touch proves otherwise).
And sometimes, Miles stumbles out of bed to pee and stays up, and some other times Jarvis mews in his face because he’s hungry (he won’t come down with Tony and the dogs, he is sleeping with his boy, thank you very much). And then there are the times when Miles comes down quietly, and sits with Tony without saying anything, and Tony knows there was probably a bad dream somewhere in his morning, but he never needles, and Miles only sometimes tells.
And because sometimes, Bruce decides to shower before he comes down, or Miles shouts at the dogs for coming into his room to bother Jarvis, or a phone rings, and the two of them end up awake at about the same time, already chatting and teasing on the stairs. And those are the best mornings, if Tony’s honest, because those are the mornings he knows he can con them into anything, the ones where the day is full of mini-golf or go-karts or double-feature matinees or spending two hours screwing around in the mall, days when they borrow Dot or invite Ganke along for the ride, and days when Tony totally forgets that he ever lived alone.
MY HEART THOUGH
Carlos as a child, watching old monster movies with his grandparents. Eyes wide and rapt behind his new glasses, shoveling handfuls of popcorn into his mouth as he watches men in white lab coats scheme to save the world. Tomorrow, the glasses will be broken for the first of many times. Carlos is an anomaly, small and dark-skinned, soft where his classmates are bright and hard. They have nannies; Carlos lives with his grandparents. They trade baseball cards; Carlos shyly befriends the school librarian. His brand-new glasses are broken, once, twice, too many times to count, and Carlos trudges home with skinned palms and ripped clothes, aching with something he can’t name. He loses himself in celluloid, and dreams of being a hero.
Carlos as a teenager, gorging on books about physics and quantum mechanics and obscure mathematics, scrabbling for the seams of the universe so he can blow it wide open. Carlos grows into his body, but never his brain. Always an anomaly, always an outlier, an endless game of catch-up where he doesn’t know the rules. He reads science fiction by flashlight, Ellison and Asimov, Heinlein, Bradbury, dreams about the sky overhead and the earth beneath his feet. Hungry and desperate for something he can never quite explain. All he knows is it’s always just beyond his reach.
Carlos as an undergrad, arguing hypotheses and theories into the early hours of the morning, kissing and being kissed, fucking and being fucked, furiously quantifying the world in a language he can understand and laughing with relief when it finally consents to be quantified. He still reads science fiction, still watches his old movies, but guiltily. The longing they inspire is something blurry and imprecise, and he has bigger things to be concerned with now: grad school, and research, and funding. The anger and the old, furious shame that burns when he goes into an interview, with his new suit and his new haircut, and pinpoints the exact second he’s written off as a diversity candidate. Top of his class, already published. Still an abnormality.
meowgon: appreciate the terriers but a cat driving would be even better
meowgon: wink nudge
…I can do cats. I am nothing if not a good
Title: Misunderstanding of Current: Or, In Which Carlos Talks to a Cat About Gender and Relationships
Notes/Warnings: Rated T maybe for language, Carlos/Cecil, gender stuff, cat stuff, trans stuff, transCarlos, lots of me making shit up about night vale oh well, hope it’s to everybody’s liking~ (should I put a big ‘cis lady’ disclaimer on here?)
“Carlos, a scientist, contrary to popular belief, does not actually live in his lab.”
When you were ten, you won second place in the junior division of the Microbiology and Cell Biology section of the Orange County Science & Engineering Fair. Your project was a four month study on Staphylococcus aureus and its effects on cell regeneration in mammalian subjects afflicted with skin cancer. When you explain this to people, it makes you sound like a genius—you are, but that’s not why you won. You won because, unlike many of the older, more driven students participating, you entered the Fair because you loved the idea of having four months (four whole months!) not only to yourself, but during which you would be allowed to do exactly what you wanted to do, without other kids looming over your shoulder, making comments, eyeballing you, knocking over your things, hitting you, calling you names…well. The list goes on.
I’ve written some pretty goofy porn in my day, but I have a feeling this story’s going to top them all. A snippet from my current Night Vale WIP:
“This is just…urgh, this is awful,” Cecil says miserably. “You’re going to hate me, Carlos, I’m so sorry.”
Carlos’ stomach plummets. He was right — something’s wrong. Something’s wrong, and now Cecil’s upset, and—
“I’m not going to hate you,” he says. What he does hate is the nervous quaver in his voice, the way he desperately wants to keep touching Cecil even though the other man told him to stop. He takes a deep breath and releases it again and forces himself to meet Cecil’s unhappy gaze; he keeps his hands where they are, splayed carefully over Cecil’s stomach. He adds, “I promise,” and this, at least, makes Cecil relax a little.
“I forgot the paperwork,” Cecil says finally.
That…is really not what Carlos expected him to say. “What?”
“I know, I know! I’ve ruined everything!” Cecil rakes a hand through his hair, looking utterly distraught. Carlos is still stuck on the paperwork thing.
“Paperwork,” he says. “As in…paperwork.”
also carLOS can you imagine carlos, carlos coming to this terrifying small desert community where the clocks don’t work— where TIME DOESN’T WORK— where nothing makes sense and you’re A SCIENTIST and there’s this radio host, this overwhelming radio host who looks at you with these overwhelming unblinking shadowed eyes, you can never quite tell how many eyes, and he seems DANGEROUS, he seems too much, what nonsense he talks on the radio (how can this place really be like this how can he really be like this??) once when you are telling him about your science (NOT FOR PERSONAL REASONS, you are SERVING THE COMMUNITY, this senseless dangerous community falling over itself about street cleaners, you are here to help) you watch him nodding and his jaw is inexplicable as the Void (WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU) and he is making a note on his blackberry, his long dark fingers typing slowly (the keyboard is still touchy from the blood, he explains and you want to shout and kiss him), and you offer him a pen and he throws it on the ground and stomps on it NO CARLOS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THIS, WRITING INSTRUMENTS ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, and he doesn’t make any sense, you want to touch him, you want to undo his absurd buttons and see if he trembles as you tremble, you want to graph the angles of his face, you’re a scientist, you find yourself calling him almost every day— not for personal reasons!!! you tell him and yourself— to tell him important science announcements— for safety— and to listen to his low voice curl excited around your ear, and to hear him stutter into the receiver, you hear him on the radio talking about you, how could you not hear? and how can he talk so brazenly like this, you’ve never felt like this, and you touch your hair absently and self consciously and you’re so aware of your body and your mouth and his mouth and he’s looking at you, he’s always looking at you and you don’t know what to say, his words build a new universe inside of you and he’s weird and weird and weird and you’re— you’re a scientist, and you listen to him say good night, good night, and you close your eyes because he’s so much and his world is so big and you’re a scientist and your heart shivers inside of you
because of science
I like the idea that Carlos is just as weird as Cecil in his own way, only it’s less noticeable because of Night Vale’s utter…Night Vale-ness. Contains mild spoilers for Episode 27: First Date.
Also at AO3, for those who prefer things there.
Carlos normally gets his produce from the Night Vale Green Market Co-Op, but they still haven’t hosed down the blood from last Sunday’s incident and he figures he’ll stick with the Ralph’s until the numbers on his Geiger counter are a little more normal. His basket is nearly full and he’s trying not to be too obvious about inspecting the cantaloupe for teeth and hair when the back of his neck prickles. Carefully, Carlos turns to see what’s behind him.
The being shifting from foot to foot in front of the organic produce is tall, painfully and mind-bogglingly tall, with gleaming blue-black skin and three sets of wings and a head that blurs from human to bovine to avian to human again. Incongruously, it’s also wearing a faded Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and battered Chuck Taylors, but in spite of its clothing Carlos knows, deep in his gut and deeper in his heart, that the creature’s an angel.
Once, such a realization would’ve sent him scrambling in a blind panic to his car, where he’d huddle on the floor of the backseat and babble notes into his phone and wait until the parking lot was empty before he’d dare emerge again. Now, he just idly wonders if the wings are cosmetic or if the angel actually uses them to fly. They seem far too tiny for all that there are six of them, and the angel is really quite tall.
Carlos gently sets the cantaloupe he’d been holding into his red plastic basket and says, “Hi.”
“Sorry to bother you,” the angel says. Its voice is deep and musical, and makes the hair on Carlos’ arms stand on end. “Are you Cecil’s scientist?”
Carlos smiles at the phrasing. “I suppose I am, yeah. Can I help you with something?”
All seven feet and however many inches of the angel curve down into Carlos’ space like a flower bending towards the sun. Its eyes are wide and strange; their color is the hot, pale blue of the desert sky at midday. “Please,” the angel says. Beautiful and terrifying, painfully polite. “Can you tell me if I’m real?”
“I…” Carlos blinks, puzzled. “Sorry, what?”
explicit; futurefic; derek/stiles
(but mostly about stiles, a bunch of foul-mouthed marines, unfinished business, and going home again)
They recruited him right out of high school. He doesn’t know why he accepted, he. He just did. Maybe because at eighteen he’d already seen more death than a lot of people did by eighty, and maybe this was a chance to get around it, get ahead of it, put an end to it. Some of it. Death itself can’t be stopped, not without something worse. Maybe he thought they’d show him how to be the something worse.
OK BREAK FOR A QUICK UPDATE BECAUSE THIS COULD BE RELEVANT TO YOUR INTERESTS:
the only way to clear up and incredibly foul mood is to happen upon an Avengers AU where Natasha has to do all of Clint/Coulson’s house repairs because they would never call a handyman but know nothing about houses either. A scene with Natasha under the sink being judgey about their social lives and fixing the plumbing is a cure-all for all the ails you.
Human friends of the Hales once gave tiny Derek a teddy bear. Within five seconds, he managed to claw it up, and oh, the tiny tears and lifelong trauma. Lifelong.
Years later, Stiles gives Scott and Allison’s werewolf kid a teddy bear. Derek is all “not on my watch!”, but everyone thinks Derek is just being weird (because Derek is weird), right up until there’s a teddy bear full of holes and a sobbing baby werewolf.
Stiles wants to know what Derek’s grand idea for werewolf toys is, then, if stuffed animals are off the table. They go to Toys R Us. Stiles assumes Derek has some particular toy in mind, but when they get there Derek just starts wandering around, staring at everything kind of intensely.
Then Derek starts semi-stealthily poking the toys with a claw, testing. Everything that holds up goes into the cart. Everything else … leaves Stiles swearing under his breath, shooting unsubtle looks around to see if anyone is watching as he stuffs shredded toys to the back of the shelves.
Five hundred dollars of werewolf-resistant toys later, they’re back in the car, Stiles clutching the wheel and swearing to never go toy shopping with Derek again, ever, ever, what the hell. He meant what kind of toys did you have as a kid, not let’s go to the store and rip the stuffing out of five different kinds of Kermits.
"I don’t remember having any toys," Derek says, shrugging. He has a hard plastic light-up toy on his lap and looks hilariously self-satisfied.
Derek had siblings, cousins, a mini-pack around his own age and the woods to play in. Scott and Allison’s kid doesn’t have any of that — the woods are too dangerous now — and Stiles is right, she needs something to help with her instincts, to hone her senses—
(“Hone her sen— Derek, she isn’t even a year old yet!”)
—to hone her senses, and every last one of the toys they just bought will be perfect for it. Most of them say “educational” somewhere on the label. None of them even remotely resemble a teddy bear.
The next time Stiles tries to go to Toys R Us, he’s kicked out on sight. Derek also gets Scott kicked out of Target and, more dramatically, gets everyone banned from FAO Schwarz in New York. Worst werewolf family vacation ever.
My grandfather had this song on a record, and he used to play it for me as a kid. Somebody I respect once told me that if someone does it all, ordinary people feel like they don’t have to do anything. And I think the point of democracy is that everyone has to do their part. [http://sam-storyteller.dreamwidth.org/175733.html]
Original copyright Alan Silvestri.
ETA: The download limit seems to have been reached, but I will send it to anyone who wants it; just ask. You can comment here, or at my primary soundcloud account (rionsanura), or at my lj (sanura), or ask on my tumblr (rionsanura) or my youtube channel (rionsanura).
E Eaug c#m Eaug
E Eaug c#m Eaug
E Eaug c#m Eaug
A Aaug f#m B
E Eaug c#m E7
A Aaug f#m A7
g#m E Fdim Fdim
f#m f#m am am
em C c#dim B
em C c#dim (C em)
G C D G/D
A A D D7
"We’re only here to look,” Derek says sternly, and Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he almost strains something.
"Yeah, I know, I got that the first eighteen times you said it." They’re walking past the dog kennels, and every one they pass has a hopeful, happy face nosing at the bars. It’s breaking Stiles’s heart. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea."
It’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes now. “This was your idea.”
"I know! But look at them, they just wanna go home with someone." Stiles shoves his hands firmly in his pockets. “I never even thought I was that much of a dog person."
"Maybe we should’ve gone to a pet store."
"No. No, absolutely not, I mentioned the idea to Scott and had to sit through like five of those Sarah Mclachlan ASPCA commercials. He totally Clockwork Oranged me with sad animals; no way I’m willing to see what he’d do if I actually bought something from a store.”
Derek sighs, rubbing at his temple. “A dog might be too much too soon. We could start with a goldfish.”
"I guess. I’d start feeling weird about eating sushi, though. Or Long John Silver’s."
"I’m not seeing a down side."
"Hey." Stiles’s fingers skim over the inside of Derek’s wrist. “You okay?"
"Fine," Derek says tersely. “Just … loud."
"Yeah, you’re right. Why don’t we … here." He drags Derek back to the door they’ve just passed and into a much quieter hallway. “Oh man, that’s so much better, and I don’t even have super-hearing. So what do you think?" He peers at the other doors with their neatly printed labels. “Reptiles? Small animal room? That’s like … bunnies and stuff, right? How do you feel about bunnies?"
"Looking, right, I know. C’mon."
He picks the closest door and they end up in a small room lined with cages, each one filled with at least two cats.
"Scott says it’s the time of year for strays," Stiles says, peering into one of the cages where a fat grey tabby is licking itself. “Spay and neuter, people, didn’t Bob Barker teach you anything? I dunno." The next cage has a trio of black and white spotted cats curled up in a quietly snoozing heap, and something in his chest feels like it just flips over. “I think I’d be cool with a cat. They’re way less work than dogs, right? Pretty low-maintenance. And before you say anything, I know, we’re just—”
He looks over his shoulder, then turns, transfixed. Derek is standing in front of one of the smaller cages, the tension in his face bled away to leave a soft, enchanted smile. He has a hand resting against the bars while a tiny ginger kitten chews intently at his finger, and it’s like Stiles’s heart is being squeezed into a pulpy mess.
"—looking." He sighs, mouth curving in a smile of his own. “Sure."
GOD YES EVERY TIME YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES YES YES
but also: 100% accurate about how one ends up with alllll the pets