Certified ghoul-fucker | Mrs.Mantzoukas | Rex Splode's dead heart
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For your Moss x fem!reader requests: in "Jen the Fredo" it's offhandedly mentioned that Moss met a girl on holiday...what do you think is the story behind that? I desperately want to know what you imagine Moss' holiday trips would be like
FOOLS IN BUSHES | Maurice Moss x Reader
Moss meets you in a bush during his holiday at Beige Sands Holiday Park.
THAT WAS THE SUMMER of 2010; when everybody called me Moss and it didn't occur to me to mind. Now I think about it, it's probably because my name is Moss, so referring to me as such wouldn't be so out of the ordinary.
Moss’ mum is passed out in the front as his dad steers the family car down the long, rain-coated A-road, listening to the horse racing on the radio. Moss is sat in the back alone, hugging his pillow (he doesn’t trust any pillow that’s not his own—who knows how often they’re cleaned?) to his chest as he watches the rain race down the window.
“And they’re off,” he begins in his best monotonous voice; and then in one, long breath: “Good even dispatch to the bottom of the window; in the early stages is Raindrop One, showing plenty of dash if I do say so myself, and just behind him—Raindrop Two! on the near side; Raindrop Five began well and leading them up the centre from Raindrop Eight and further back then gone Raindrop Six, who’s not that far away, then Raindrop Nine right over on the far rail…”
It was safe to say I didn't have many friends.
“—Oh! And who’s this?!” he shakes his head, baffled; “Raindrop Eighty-Seven, you cheek! You aren’t supposed to be in this race at all! Oh well, I suppose you can join in.”
He goes back into commentator mode: “OH! He’s absolutely cruising at the moment as they come up past half-way—! Raindrop Eighty-Seven in the centre strikes the lead now from Raindrop One—!”
“Moss,” his dad speaks up from the front, “Would you keep it down? I’m trying to listen to the radio.”
“But why?” he whines. “Raindrop racing is far better than horse racing,” he grimaces at the phrase.
“Maybe for a thirty-two year old child, okay? But I’m an adult.” To emphasize his point, he turns the volume on the radio up: loud to the point that Moss’ mum wakes.
“What’s happening?” she snaps drowsily. “Moss, what have you done now?”
“Nothing, Mum!” Moss exclaims. “You always assume I’ve done something! And it’s not fair!”
“That’s because you always do something.” She argues. She takes a stick of red lipstick out her handbag, pulls down the sun visor and starts applying it in the mirror. “Always misbehaving at work, with your friends that misbehave, and your boss that just lets you misbehave, like you’re a bunch of misbehaving animals—and I don’t want you misbehaving when we get there, either;” she adds, “We don’t need you to go making us look bad in front of the other parents—or your aunt.”
Moss scrunches his face at the mere mention of her. “But Mum—”
“—And that means I want you back by eight, every evening—no exceptions.”
“Remeber what happened last time, Moss?” his dad adds.
Moss buries his face in his pillow—he does remember: last year, he decided to stay out till eight-thirty got stuck in a bush the whole night: he’d been hiding from the twelve-year-old thugs that tend to roam around the caravan park during the later hours. His parents had warned him of the consequences of staying out past eight, and he hadn’t listened.
“I remember.”
"After that, everyone thought we were junkies." his dad continues, "because you were found lying in a bush in a dress, with a plastic bag on your head."
“That was so I wouldn’t get cold!” Moss argues. “And the bag was so they wouldn’t think to bully me!” He squeezes the pillow tighter, “They’re scary, Dad!”
"They thought you were dead, Moss." One of the kids did find him that night, and mistook Moss’ sleeping, plastic-bag-donning form for a murder victim. The police were called, and the whole park had to be cleared out.
“Yes,” Moss says, “and so they didn’t bully me—nobody bullies a dead person! That’d be sick!”
“Enough, Moss.” His mum snaps. “Be back by eight. That’s final.”
Moss sinks in his seat, “Okay.”
"And sit up, for God's sake."
He grumbles something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!”
A whole weekend I was going to be stuck at Beige Sands Holiday Park, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing.
2 hours later...
Despite it being a Friday, the caravan park’s oddly empty—normally there’d be loads of people unloading their stuff into their respective caravans, but it seems only Moss’ parents are doing so today: "Help us take everything out of the car, Moss; you can play your Game Boy later."
“Just a second!” he replies from the car, biting his tongue in focus as he goes up against level two-hundred and twenty-five in Tetris, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, even though this has been the coldest, most dreadful summer’s day of the month. He’s completely invested in the game.
And soon enough, his parents have taken their lot into the caravan: “Moss, we’re going in now,” his mum calls. “Don’t forget to bring your stuff in.” Moss doesn’t reply—but it doesn’t matter, because she’s already gone back inside.
45 minutes later...
After a trial of blood, sweat and tears, Moss finally beats the level.
“YES!” he shouts, scrambling out the car and prancing around like he’s just won the Guinness World Records’ Biggest Tetris Geek award. “I did it! I beat level two-hundred and twenty-five! Take that, Tetris!” He looks back down at his Game Boy, but the number displayed at the top isn’t what he thought it would be:
He’s back at level zero.
He stops jumping and just stares at the pathetic little scream.
“What?!” he raises his voice in a fit of rage, “Back to level zero?! You’ve got to be kidding me!” He throws the device to the ground, and starts stomping on it, “Stupid, stupid game! Who the frick made this game?! A stupid, stupid person, that’s who! What a stupid, mother flipping game!”
When he’s decided he’s shown enough anger, he stops and picks the Game Boy back up, dusting it off. It is, somehow, still in (considerably) good condition.
A smile works its way onto his lips, “I just can’t stay mad at you, can I?”
He grabs his pillow from his seat and makes his way to the back of the car, opening the boot and taking out his duffle bag. But just as he turns to start making his way to the caravan, a gang of kids mounted on bikes reveal themselves at the end of the road. They start at an even dispatch, pedalling straight for Moss and yelling his name at the top of their lungs.
“Oh teabags!” Moss curses, “not again!” He slings the bag’s strap over his shoulder and speeds off as fast as he can. Behind him: Biker Four on the near side; Biker Five began well and leading them up the centre from Biker Eight and further back then gone Biker Six, who's not that far away, then Biker Nine right over on the far rail as they start gaining on Moss.
"Come back, Mossy-Moss!" Biker Three yells from behind, voice only just about heard over Moss' heavy panting—working in IT doesn’t usually require this much running.
"Yeah, come back, you wanker!" Biker Five adds.
“I’m not a wanker!" Moss cries out.
"You are!” they yell, “Wanker, wanker, wanker!"
They continue to make their way through the rows upon rows of caravans. Moss’ bag billows on his back, he clutches at his Game Boy, grips at his pillow. No matter how hard he tries, how many sudden turns he takes, he just can’t throw these boys off his path.
Their voices grow nearer and nearer—Biker Eight coming up behind him… Getting closer and closer…
As Moss turns a corner, just before the rest of the boys, he yells "Quick thinking!" and jumps straight into a bush.
He curls up on the floor, clutching the duffel bag and pillow as the boys pass. They continue to call his name:
“Where's he gone?" one asks.
"Wanker probably ran home to his mummy." Another teases. Moss bites back the urge to scream "I'M NOT A FLIPPING WANKER!" but, by some miracle, he doesn't make a sound. Soon after, the kids get bored and move on to their next victim, leaving Moss in the bush, alone.
For a summer’s day, today is unusually cold—luckily the rain has stopped, but the residue left on the bush’s leaves keep dripping down Moss’ back, making him shiver.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing the duffel bag and zipping it open. “I prepared for this!”
He’d packed himself a hot water bottle—stolen it from Jen when Aunt Irma was visiting. Of course, when Jen found out, she wasn’t happy in the slightest, and Moss went to Hell and back for it—but any time he even considered the idea of giving it back, he imagined himself in a bush just like this one, surrounded by everything wet and cold, but feeling nice and toasty with the aid of Jen’s hot water bottle.
The image is crystal clear in his mind as he practically tears the bag open, but instead of containing Jen’s bottle, it’s filled to the brim with his Mum’s evening dresses. “Darn it! Wrong bag!” He slams the bag back down on the ground, hugging himself in the small bush-space. He hesitates, eyes on the bag, considering it for a moment. Eventually he groans and rips out a random dress, holding it out in front of him—it’s still pretty hard to see properly, because there isn’t much space in the bush.
“Green is a good colour to wear in a bush.” he reasons. “Provides warmth and serves as good camouflage.” And so, he struggles it on, but when it’s on properly, he hears another bike whiz past. “No!” he hisses, clawing at the dress in a feeble attempt to get it off— “This was a stupid idea! Getting caught in a bush in a dress is social suicide!"
He pauses, "Wait—" He grabs his pillow and strips it of its case, placing it on his head. He brings out his phone and dials Roy’s number. After a few rings, he picks up:
“What is it?”
“Roy!” Moss says, voice muffled from under the sheet. “I’m in a pickle, Roy!”
“What is it this time? They didn’t throw you in a bush again, did they?”
Moss gasps, “How did you know that?!”
“It happens every year, Moss.” Roy says. “You’ve got to start standing up for yourself.”
Moss makes a pfft noise, “Have you looked at these kids, Roy? They’d destroy me.”
“Why are you calling, Moss?”
“Because I don’t know what I’m doing!” Moss yells. “All these boys are scoring girls left, right and centre—snogging and having sex and all that, and I’m stuck in a dress in this bloody bush—”
“Wait,” Roy interrupts, beyond exasperated, “you’re wearing a dress again?”
“—You know what?” Moss continues, “If a woman so much as looks at me, I’m going to snog her.”
“Moss, I don’t think that’s a very good idea—”
“Thanks for checking in, Roy!” he exclaims. “See you Monday!”
“Moss—” Moss hangs up.
...
Moss wakes up to the sound of screaming. "What the hell?!"
His eyes slam open, blinded by the hallucinating whiteness of the pillow as the sun glares down at him through the leaves. He keeps down, too scared to move, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mum—it was the boys, the ones on the bikes! I got scared—and they wouldn’t leave me alone—and the bush was right there—right there—!”
“Oh my God,” his mum says. He hears her shuffle her feet on the grass; probably moving closer to the bush. He squeezes his eyes shut, but then she yells:
“HELP! There's a dead body in the bush! Somebody call the police!”
Moss instinctively reaches out from the bush and drags you in, taking up the little space left it had. You scream harder: “HELP! ZOMBIE! ZOMBIE! HE’S TRYING TO EAT ME!”
Moss rips the bag off his head, revealing—not his mum sitting in front of him—but you; eyes wide and full of pure horror. “Shh!” he hisses, “The biker-boys will hear you!”
“Please don’t eat me,” you cry, “I’ll do anything!” You struggle to move away in a bush so small; the branches dig into your back, leaves tangle in your hair. You can't even sit up straight.
“I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “I’m not dead.”
“What?” you mutter, wiping your tears away with shaky hands. “You’re not dead? Why aren't you fucking dead? You had a bloody bag on your head.”
“It was a pillow,”
“Same difference!” you shout. “Why did you drag me in here?!” Your eyes trail down, “And why are you wearing a dress?!”
Moss covers your mouth with his hand, “Stop flipping shouting.”
You slap his hand away, “What’s going on? Why did you drag me in a bush?!”
A bike whizzes past from beyond the safe confines of the bush, “Because of that—” Moss points with the little space he has “—you keep ruddy shouting; you’ll lead them right to us!”
“Lead who right to us?”
“The biker-boys!” Moss replies as a few more bikes pass. “Just wait till they leave.”
You pull your legs to your chest and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin on your kneecaps. You sit in an awkward silence for a few long minutes—occasionally making eye contact as they boys ruthlessly slag Moss off.
“What’s your name?” you ask after they boys have cleared. “And why are you scared of ten-year-olds?”
“I am not scared of them,” he says and holds out his hand. “I’m Moss.”
“You are scared of them,” you reply and shake it. “I’m Y/n.”
He glares at you, “Okay, if you’re so brave, go outside yourself.”
“No,” you mutter.
“Why not?”
You shrug a shoulder coyly, “They’re scary.”
...
You’ve been sitting like soldiers in the trenches for quite a while now; Moss fiddles with the hem of his mum’s dress as you untangle your hair from the branches. Every now and then, someone passes from outside—but, more often than not, it’s just a normal park-visitor.
Moss remembers something: “Oh I am a pickle—” he says, “I was supposed to kiss you, wasn't I?”
Your eyebrows shoot up, “What?”
“I told my friend, Roy—” he chuckles, “Sorry—it’s a funny story, it really is—I told Roy if a woman so much as looked at me, I’d snog her.”
“Why?”
“Look at me, Y/n!” he gestures to his attire. “I haven’t kissed a woman in my life.”
You roll your eyes, “I can’t possibly imagine why.”
“I can’t either!” he says. “So, I thought: why not solve the problem by kissing a girl myself? They’re probably shy, bless them.”
You raise your eyebrows, “Probably, yeah,” you play along, “Poor girls.”
“So!” he grins. “Are you up for it?”
Your mind goes through a quick fight-or-flight response: you could a) agree and be Moss’ first kiss in a caravan park called ‘Beige Sands’, hiding from a bunch of 10-year-old bike-riding twats. Or, option b) you could ignore his question entirely; divert the focus onto another poor woman.
Selfishly, you choose the latter: “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Dunno,” he says. “Why?”
“Cancel all your plans.” You say. ‘God, what am I doing?’ you think, but it’s too late: “I’ll find you a girl to snog,”
His eyes light up, “Really?”
“Really.” You echo. “Meet me in the car park at eight tomorrow.”
He nods eagerly, “AM or PM?”
“AM, obviously.”
“Okay then! Ta!” he beams as you give him one last, tight smile and exit the bush.
When he’s alone, he takes out his phone and calls Roy again.
“What happened now?”
“Roy!” Moss exclaims, “I just met this girl and she totally has the hots for me!”
saturday morning...
Moss’ mum is making tea in the small kitchen when Moss passes, with his hands grasping his backpack straps like a school boy. "Moss, where are you going?"
He steps a foot out the door, turning to give her one last look, "I'm going out!" he calls, saying the word ‘out’ like it's a brag of the highest order: he doesn’t usually go out when it’s not with his mum or his dad or his bloody aunt. "I'll be back by eight!"
“But your aunt’s—”
“Bye!” Moss slams the door shut. “Those lot,” he mutters, practically skipping down the road, headed for the car park. “They don’t know a thing about the world—Y/n knows, though; she’s seen it all, done it all, and now she’s helplessly in love with me…” He sighs whimsically, stopping in his tracks to muse: “I know she really just wants to spend more time with me; that’s why she’s doing all this; it’s all just a big, fat excuse to spend more time with me…”
He smiles: everything’s starting to look up. Gone are the days of following his parent’s every word, of putting up with his aunt, of every woman laughing at his pathetic attempts at flirting. Now he doesn’t have to listen to anyone—
“Get on the bike, Moss.”
You stand in an empty parking space with two bikes; one for you, one for Moss. He timidly looks down at his shoes, fiddling with his fingers nervously. “Do I have to?”
“Oh, come on: it’s only a bloody bike.”
“”Just a bike”,” he mutters, looking back up, “Was it “just a bike” when a dozen of them chased me half-way across the park, leading me to jump into a bush and put on a dress?!”
“You need to start standing up to the bullies, Moss.” You say. “Think in Back to the Future: the girl only wanted the boy in the end because he had the guts to punch his bully in the face.” You push one of the bikes towards Moss, and he catches it by the handle. “No girls are gonna wanna snog you if you run away every time you spot a bike—they’re everywhere, for Christ’s sake. You can forget the honeymoon in Amsterdam.”
He shakes his head and slings a leg over the bike. As he stares down at the handle, the little bell on the right that reminds him of all the night the biker boys have spent outside his caravan, ringing their bells and chanting his name over and over and over.
He gets off the bike, letting it drop to the floor. “Nope. Not doing it. Never doing it. I have legs; legs are for walking, not pedaling.”
“But you’ve only sat on it two seconds!”
“I tried it,” he states. “Wasn’t for me.”
You stare at him for two disbelieving seconds, “Get over here, Moss.”
He’s taken a little aback by your order, but he then remembers how you’re truly, madly, and deeply in love with him.
‘It’s time,’ he thinks. ‘She’s finally going to confess her deeply-routed, undying love for me.’
He comes closer, straightening his tie, smiling cockily. “A bit fast, but I suppose I wouldn’t mind.”
You glare at him. “Get on the bike, Moss.” You gesture to the space behind you.
He clears his throat, “Oh, right.” He takes a quick glance back at the seat, “Will I fit on there?”
“With enough perseverance.” You say, and he awkwardly clambers on.
“What do I do now?” he asks.
You roll your eyes, “Wrap your arms around me.”
“What?”
“Haven’t you seen any romance movie, Moss? Wrap your bloody arms around me.”
He eventually, reluctantly, complies. “I don’t like this.”
“The bullies, Moss, remember the bullies.” You whisper, soft like you’re leading a zen class. “They’ll be the ones laughing when you’re speeding down the road with your little woven basket and a copy of The Hobbit.”
“Yes, they will be!” Moss shouts. “They’ll be laughing because I can’t even ride a bike without flipping the fudge out!” He buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms practically shaking now. “I’m mortified, Y/n.”
“Hold on tighter, then.” You reply. His warm breath puffs on your neck, which is pretty uncomfortable considering the fact the sun’s actually out today. “I still have some air left in me.” And, surely enough, he squeezes the last of it out of you. “There we go. I’m going to start pedaling, okay? Keep your feet off the floor—and, whatever you do, stay balanced.”
He hums, and you can feel the vibrations on your neck.
You start your journey through the car park, sticking to the road. It’s pretty sparse today, as most families have gone down to the beach—which happens to be a comfortable bike ride away. After Moss learns to ride a bike, you plan on going down there with him. Emphasis on the word plan, because with the way Moss is acting now, you don’t think he’ll ever have the guts to even ride a scooter.
“I don’t like it!” he yells, unknowingly supporting your claim. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
“Remember, Moss; the bullies!” you say, struggling to keep balance with his vice-like grip. “Think of the bullies!”
“Think of the bullies,” he echoes. “Think of the bullies.”
“There we go,” you say as his arms loosen a little around you. “Biking can be fun; it’s not so bad.”
“I suppose not.” He says. “Can I have a go?”
You raise your eyebrows, caught by surprise, “Really?”
"Yeah, why not?”
You stop the bike and get off, leaving Moss to finally sit with a comfortable amount of space. “Okay, remember: pedal, balance, look straight ahead, don’t panic. Got it?”
He nods nobly.
“And watch out for cars.”
“Please, do you see any cars?” he gestures around to the empty car park. “Pigs are more likely to fly than I am to get hit by one.”
You tug his ear (“Ow!” he squirms), “Pedal, balance, straight ahead, don’t panic, don’t get hit by a car.”
“Okay,” he grumbles, and starts pushing his feet along the concrete.
“Pedal, Moss, pedal.”
“But I can’t pedal!” he exclaims. “How am I supposed to pedal?!”
You huff, “Stop the bike.” You come up from behind, holding the bike by the seat. “I’m gonna push you. Put your feet on the pedals—” Moss complies, making the bike wobble, but you somehow manage to keep it up. “Okay, let’s go.”
You slowly make your way through the car park—you doing considerable more work than Moss. But soon enough he begins to pick up the confidence to go a little faster, “I’m doing it, I’m doing it!”
“That’s right, Moss.” You grin. “I’m going to let go, okay? Remember: don’t panic.”
“Okay!”
And he’s off: a good dispatch to the end of the road; in the early stages showing plenty of dash, a good, steady rhythm...
He looks back at you, beaming—
Oh! And what’s this?! Your face drops in horror as Car Forty-Five comes up through the entrance, headed straight for Moss. The driver, distracted, rams straight into the bike, sending Moss toppling to the floor, along with the bike.
“Shit!” You rush over, kneeling down beside him. He’s splayed out in his back, cheek pressed against the hard concrete and eyes closed. For the second time since you’ve met him, he looks like the victim of a murder.
“Moss, are you okay?” you ask, shaking his shoulder.
His eyes flutter open, “Oh, what time is it?” His eyes widen, and he checks his watch-less wrist for the time. “No! My aunt should be arriving any minute now!” he tries to sit up, “Gosh, I hate her!”
You ease him back down and glance up to meet the eyes of the driver. Your focus returns to Moss, “We’re going to get you to a nurse, okay?”
“Ah, was that your plan all along?” he asks. “Are you going to get me a date with a nurse?”
Your eyes widen, “No! Of course not!”
He smiles dopily, “It better be a ruddy attractive nurse…”
And, with that, he slips into unconsciousness.
...
When Moss’ eyes flitter back open, he’s laying in a hospital cot.
"He'll be okay," the nurse says to you. He smirks as his eyes trail down her form, ‘She’s not bad to look at at all,’ he thinks. ‘Not. At. All.’
“He has a mild concussion,” the nurse continues. “Just give him a wet paper towel and he’ll probably be alright.”
You smile, “Thank you.”
The nurse leaves, leaving just you and Moss in the small nurse’s room.
“What happened?” Moss asks. “I should be hospitalized more often.”
You sit in the chair beside his bed. “You crashed into a car; hit your head pretty bad.”
His eyes widen, “That’s bloody—” he sputters out and your face scrunches as you prepare yourself for a long-winded rant on how he didn’t want to get on a bike in the first place. But instead he says, “Wicked. That was bloody flipping wicked!”
You furrow your brows, “What?”
“A head injury?” he exclaims, “How attractive is that?”
You glance around confusedly, “Not very..?”
“That’s super attractive, Y/n!”
“Oh,” you mutter. “Right? Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I was planning on taking you down to the beach—there are lots of fit women there; I thought maybe one of them would want to snog you.”
“It’s okay,” he shrugs, “there’s still plenty of fish in the sea—or the caravan site.”
Your eyes lighten up, “Hey! I have an idea! Sure, we can’t go down to the beach anymore, but they’re hosting an eighties disco in the clubhouse from ten. It’s adults-only, too—so there’ll be plenty of women to snog!”
“The eighties?” he grimaces, “really?”
that evening...
You sit with Moss on the sofa, donning black leather jackets and sunglasses, cigarettes hanging from your mouths, releasing a never-ending puff of smoke that’s clouded the caravan to the point it looks like Winston Churchill’s paid you a visit. You watch Grease on VHS (even though it’s from the late 70s); the whole afternoon has been spent teaching Moss 80s slang, making him watch 80s movies, and you’ve even taught him how to ‘French inhale’.
As the end credits roll, Moss stares at the telly in awe. “I think l'm beginning to understand why everybody loves the eighties so much.” He says, smoke escaping from his mouth with every word. “Living in the past is brilliant!”
You grin in victory and put out your cigarette on the ashtray that you stole from outside. “I think it’s time you listen to some eighties music—it would be weird if you went to an eighties party and didn’t know who Madonna was.”
“Who’s Madonna?”
Your lips press into a thin line, “See my point?”
You continue talking as you get up and walk down the hallway to your room, where you stored your CD player, coughing at the absurd amount of smoke in the air. “If you’re able to sing along to the music, everybody will probably think you’re a normal, eighties-loving man.”
“Ah,” he mutters from the other room, and when you return with the player and about a dozen CDs he’s playing on his Game Boy. “The Game Boy was made in the eighties, you know.” He muses as you set the CD player on a side table and plug it into the wall. “When I first found out, I didn’t want to believe it—but now, now I’ve seen the eighties for what it truly is, and I wouldn’t wish for the Game Boy to come from any other decade.”
You smile: you’ve grown to enjoy his company, even after your first encounter with him in the bush. You enjoy his little comments and habits; his unique ways of saying things. You decide to forget the music for a second and sit next to him (a little closer than before), putting your full attention on him. “What’re you playing?”
“Tetris,” Moss says. “I'm trying to get past level two-hundred and twenty-five, but every time I get there, it keeps on sending me back to level zero.” He shakes his head, “I think the game’s broken.”
“Are you sure it's not just, like, the last level?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. “For showing such dedication I expect some form of gratitude—not just a bravo.” He shakes his head in disapproval.
You furrow your brows, “What? What's a 'bravo’?”
“It's part of the Tetris lingo,” he explains, “it’s basically when the whole playfield is clears without leaving any blocks behind.”
From his reply, you're left with more questions than you originally started with; “What's a playfield?”
“A playfield,” he says, “is the grid that the tetrominoes fall on.”
“What are tet—”
“We could be here all night, Y/n.”
You perch your arm on the backrest of the sofa, resting your cheek on your palm, “We have time.”
...
“A ‘Hard Drop' is where you instantly drop the piece to the bottom of the playfield, locking it into place.” Moss says robotically, showing you an example on the game as Whitney Houston sings quietly from the side table. “And a 'Soft Drop’ is where you press down on the keypad to move the piece down faster—which can be cancelled or rotated if needed, of course.”
“Wow,” you mutter in awe, staring at Moss like he's the hottest thing since Patrick Swayze. “You sure do know a lot about Tetris…” Suddenly, Moss has stopped being that nerdy-bush-man who doesn't understand why no women wants to snog him, and has become the nerdy-bush-man who doesn't understand why no women wants to snog him, and knows an awful lot about Tetris. Your thighs press against his, your cigarette-breath is practically fanning his cheek, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Please,” he chuckles, “I haven't even told you about entry delays or jiznickery—” You can't help it; you blame the nicotine as your eyes watch Moss’ mouth name every word in the Tetris dictionary.
There's just something so... fit about it.
So you pull him down by the leather jacket and kiss him.
He freezes, not sure what to do, how to respond; whether to touch your face, your shoulder, your arm, your hand…
It’s not anything dirty, nor is it suggestive. When you pull away, probably 3 or 4 seconds have passed in real time, but Moss looks absolutely mortified all the same.
His mind is whizzing at the speed of light, starting at an even dispatch and—
"Crap," you say.
“I’m sorry,” Moss says instinctively, even though you’re the one who kissed him. You don’t reply as you get up and take out the Whitney CD.
You pull out another one titled ‘The Joshua Tree’ from your collection. "We have under two hours and you don’t know a single U2 song."
...
Before tonight, Moss would’ve found Beige Sand’s 80s party as claustrophobic, meaningless, and utterly horrific. But after having watched Saturday Night Fever (once again: not from the 80s), he’s prepared for any song, any dance, and any flashing light the production crew can possibly throw at him.
You’re both wearing the same outfits as you were earlier—only now you’ve additionally done your hair and makeup, in classic 80s fashion. Moss comes back from the bar with a cocktail (yours) and a Slushie (his) and sets it down on your table—the one in the quietest corner of the function.
You groan, “A Slushie, Moss, seriously? Do you not want to be kissed?”
He looks at you, confused: “But we kissed.”
“Yes, but that was a one-time thing,” you take a long sip of your cocktail. “We’re not together—and, besides, this isn’t about me; it’s about you! It’s about you getting out there and sleeping with loads of women!”
“I suppose…” he mutters.
“Look!” you exclaim. “There’s some fit girls over there!” You start pushing Moss toward them. “I’m gonna go get another drink, Moss. Chat with them while I’m gone.”
“But you’ve only just started your first one—”
You down the rest of it in mere seconds, “See you in a minute, Moss!”
“Okay,” he mutters, begrudgingly making his way over to the table of women.
...
“You got with any girls yet?” you ask.
“Nope.” He slurps the remains of his melted Slushie. “Now that I think about it, it’s probably because I haven’t actually approached any of them.”
You roll your eyes, “Moss, we’ve already talked about this—”
“I know, I know,” he huffs. “They’re all intimidated by me… But I don’t know if I actually want to do this anymore.”
“What?”
“I mean,” he clears his throat, “I don’t know if I actually want to do this anymore.”
“I heard what you said,” you tut. “I’m just having trouble understanding what you said.”
“Oh,” Moss says, “What I meant to say was—”
“Okay, Moss, I get it.” You sigh, looking down at your drink. “Why the change of heart, then?”
“Adultery is a sin.”
You furrow your brows, “We’re not married.”
“What is this all about, then?” he asks. “Why are we doing this?”
“What do you mean “Why are we doing this”? I’m trying to set you up with loads of women because that’s what you wanted.”
He shakes his head, “I thought you fancied me—I said yes out of pity.”
“Pity?” you scoff. “I don’t fancy you.”
“Oh.” He says, “Well, we’re doing this for no reason, then.”
You massage your temples. “I’m gonna go on a walk,” you say as you walk away.
...
You step outside for a breath of fresh air. After your little row with Moss, the air has felt less 80s-reminiscent and more, just, stuffy. You debate going back to your caravan, but when you spot Moss smoking next to a fire exit your legs move before you can properly think about it.
“Hey, Moss.” You say. “How’s it going?”
“Terrible,” he replies, refusing to look at you. “I tried to do the Dirty Dancing lift with some girl, and I think I broke her back.”
“Ooh,” you cringe. “How’d you manage that? You’d have to drop her at quite the awkward angle.”
He glares at you, “I was the one getting lifted.”
You bite back a smile, “Oh. That makes more sense, then.”
“I don’t want to go back in,” he continues. “I want to go home.” He looks down at his cigarette, “And I don’t want to smoke: it tastes disgusting.”
“You smell good,” you say. “Like lung cancer.”
“What does lung cancer even smell like?” he asks. “I don’t want to smell like a type of cancer! That’s disgusting!”
Your smile finally surfaces, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” You take his cigarette and step on it: “Better?”
His shoulders ease like a pressure’s been lifted; he nods. “Much better. Thank you.”
You each look out to the rows of caravans lit up by the streetlamps, some lit in the windows, others completely dark. It occurs to you that this is your last night in Beige Sands, and you’ll never see Moss after this.
‘Why not?’ you think.
“I lied earlier,” you confess. “I…” you hesitate, “...do fancy you.”
“HA!” Moss points his finger at you, “I knew it!”
“Yeah, yeah,” you shove him away. “Shut up.”
“I knew you fancied me!” he continues.
“Moss, shut your mouth before I put you in another dress and shove you in a bush.”
He grins, “Now there’s an idea.” He—though it is a bit of a struggle with his weak IT arms—scoops you up bridal-style and takes you to the nearest groups of bushes, holding you over it.
“Put me down!” you squirm, laughing through your retaliation as you try and wriggle out of his grasp.
He doesn’t do anything; all he does is hold you close in his arms, as tight to his chest as he possibly can; all he does is smile down at you like you’ve hung all the stars in the night sky; all he does is kiss you proper, slowly, confidently, like he has all the time in the world.
sunday morning...
“Goodbye, Moss.” You say as his parents load the last of their stuff into the car. You’re sitting behind a wall of bushes, hiding from the prying eyes of his mum.
“Goodbye, my love.” He sweeps you into another kiss. “I’ll stay in touch.”
“You better,” you grin. “I want to hear all about what’s going on in IT. And,” you add, “maybe if my computer breaks down, I’ll give you a call.”
He blushes and grins bashfully, “I am pretty incredible when it comes to computers.”
“I bet you are.” You kiss him once more.
...
“You know, Moss, we haven’t seen you all weekend.” His mum lectures as they drive down the A-road.
“Sorry, Mum, I was busy.” He replies as he approaches level two-hundred and nineteen.
“Your aunt kept asking where you were,” she continues, “What on earth were you doing the whole time?”
“Nothing!” he shouts.
That’s what happened at Beige Sands; I met a girl, kissed her, and never saw her again. I knew Roy and Jen would never believe that I actually managed to get a woman to kiss me: that’s why I added her on—
“Oh no!” he yells. “I forgot to add her on Friendface!”
————————————
A/n: tysm for the request!! I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading it :))
I kinda wish I included a scene of Moss standing up to the bullies, but the fic was getting wayyyyyyyy too long for my liking and anyways I just know that the next time he goes to Beige Sands (I ripped the name off the Golden Sands Holiday Park btw) he’ll just go back to hiding in that bush again so…….
I’m beginning to realize that all my fics are taking the exact same structure (the whole build up till the end where they kiss and happily ever after and yada yada yada), and I hope it isn’t getting too tedious. To mix it up, my next Moss fic Y/n will already be in a relationship with him, so you can look forward for that!! But first I’m finally getting round to writing a Richmond fic mwahahahahaahahahahahha
If anyone needs me, I’ll be binge watching Friday Night Dinner, bye bye xxxxx
OFNEPWNWPWNWPSMWLWNENWOWNSB AKKKKKK SO CUTE 🥹🥹🥹🥹 again it's so fucking funny 😭 like i could genuinely see these bits in the show. Mwa you are so good!!!! I cannot wait for that Richmond fic
content : mark grayson x fem reader ,, instagram smau ,, texting smau ,, extreme fluff ,, bsfs to lovers ,, definitely not a slowburn ,, eve is readers bsf ,, THE POSTS ARE MADE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT DAYS ,, may be ooc .
ARLA YAP : had to switch back and forth to instagram then on here, this is kinda a special post for me having 100+ followers! i’m extremely grateful i didn’t think people would like my writing, i only started publishing my work on here as an escape from my life (sigh yes it’s true) but seeing that i actually make people abit happier with my work makes me extremely happy— cornfield get out arlaaa😒😒 but i hope you guys enjoy.
@/yourusername 2 days ago
❤️ 128 || 💭 10 || 🔁 2
liked by @/markgrayson and others
eve said she couldn’t hang out today so i had to hang out with mark instead..😒 @/markgrayson
@/evewilkens ﹕ obsessed with these pics tho!! ⸝⸝ ❤️ by author
@/yourusername ㆍ Author ﹕ thank you bby🥹🥹
@/evewilkins ﹕ i’m sorryyy sigh..
@/user9-5 ﹕ wait i ship
@/yourusername ㆍ Author ﹕ never comment again😂
@/markgrayson ﹕ you were laughing at literally ALL my jokes?? stop acting like you hated it 🤦🏻
@/yourusername ㆍ Author ﹕ stop lying Mark.
⤷ @/markgrayson ﹕ oh! ok mama😁 ⸝⸝ ❤️ by author
@/rexsloan ﹕ what the hell is this comment section.
@/user45 ﹕ he called her mama 👀
@/markgrayson 2 days ago
❤️ 186 || 💭 7 || 🔁 1
liked by @/yourusername and others
we also made cookies if anyone cares🙂↕️ (by we i mean my mum) @/yourusername
@/yourusername ﹕ when did you take the second photo ??
@/markgraysonㆍ Author ﹕ when you were trying to blind
yourself with the sun, you looked good.
⤷ @/yourusername ﹕ did Mark graySON just
compliment me???
@/evewilkens ﹕ see you didnt need me 🤞🏻 ⸝⸝ ❤️ by author
@/williamclockwell ﹕ i have many things to say about this.
@/ricksheridan ﹕ no one here seems to have mentioned the last picture so i’m assuming it’s normal..?
⤷ @/williamclockwell ﹕ i’ve told him to ask her out🙄
@/yourusername 1 day ago
❤️ 144 || 💭 15 || 🔁 0
FINALLY got her to come out with me PHEWWW, had such a great girls day!! @/evewilkens
liked by @/evewilkens and others
@/evewilkens ﹕ let’s crack bro😭😭😂 ⸝⸝ ❤️ by author
@/yourusername ㆍ Author ﹕ ur dad scares me let’s not.
summary: Mission prep goes entirely smooth. Too smooth.
rex splode x female reader
warnings and tags: MDNI, self-indulgent, canon divergence, kinda slow burn-ish in reverse?, love triangle, kinda in-between chapter, Cecil is not so bad but also kind of awful, Donald must be protected at all costs
word count: 4995
maddie's scribbles: i'm so sorry it took so long. i had an almost 9k words unfinished version of this chapter-track that would end up being like 12k when completed. which, for not a final chapter? is insane. even for me. but thanks to the wonderful help of @/queen-of-gotham and @/cheeyan i decided to split it into two. so next track is already almost fully written. also, happy (extremely) belated one year anniversary to the playlist fic!
Track 28
The playlist
"You're still here?"
Cecil states more than asks when you enter his office the next day, this time more cordially, knocking and waiting to be let in like the good agent that you are. The office hasn't changed much over the decade or so you've been with the GDA. It's neat and clean, but lacking warmth in the way the Director's icy blue eyes make everyone shiver. The space could belong to anyone, practically nothing revealing the true owner of the vast, ebony desk, if not for Donald's portrait photo set in the centrepiece of the floor to ceiling cabinet.
"About that—" you clear your throat, rubbing the back of your neck, "since I'm gonna have training onsite, I can't fly between Utah and D.C. every day."
The Director glances at you once from his tablet. It's a quick one, but you notice how his face muscles ease, thankful it's not one of your usual tantrums. "Done. Donald will give you the keys and the address."
His tone is final in the way that tells you it's time to leave, but you linger, still not done with your requests. Despite his offer, you start fidgeting with the skin around your nails before continuing, "I still need to get my stuff from the HQ."
Again, he takes one swift peek at you, then answers, sight glued to the tablet. "I can teleport you back and forth with a 30 minute window in between."
"That's not what I want," you take a step closer, trying to keep your tone measured and polite enough to not start another fight. Maybe it's your brand, what everyone expects of you, but you just don't have the energy for it anymore. And no, cuddling with Rex had absolutely nothing to do with that.
"I hate being teleported," you add a bit louder when the man doesn't reply. "Plus, it's more expensive than a jet ride."
Cecil sighs, but presses on his earpiece anyway, not gracing you with another glance and barks out orders to whoever is on the line. Possibly poor Donald. "In exactly 45 minutes you have to be on the roof."
"Thank you, Cecil." You give the Director a small smile, even though he's not even looking at you.
"Hey, kid?" His voice comes from behind your back when your hand is already on the cold, smooth door handle.
"Yeah?" You look at him over your shoulder. The tablet is now on the desk, his fingers intertwined below his chin resting on them, his icy blue eyes measured, scanning your face intently. It's usually followed by something you don't want to, but have to hear.
"This is your chance to prove yourself again."
There it is.
Your gaze drops to the carpet, then back up to Cecil, your eyes focused and steady.
"I know."
"Hey, Rex." The mattress dips under your weight, your hand finding his warm shoulder, shaking it gently, still feeling like he's a porcelain doll that will break if you even look at it wrong. "Wake up."
"Huh?" The redhead grumbles, soft hum of the heart monitor accompanying him, peering at you with a sleep heavy gaze. Red locks now reach his eyebrows when swept forward from tossing around the hospital bed. The speed with which it grows back doesn't cease to amaze you. Perks of being an artificially enhanced super human.
"I'm leaving soon—no, wait." Warmth of his soft lips and hot breath tickles your palm, as you raise your hand to cover his mouth, his brows already furrowed with worry and sadness that sits heavy between your ribs. "Let me finish. I'll be back in a few hours. D.C. is going to be my home for the next month or so, and then I'll be able to see you almost every day."
That seems to shake whatever sleepiness was still holding onto him. The bed sheets fall off his thighs when he abruptly sits up. His dark, green eyes glimmering with joy, grin so wide you forget for a few moments about everything that has weighed down on you for the last couple months. "For real?"
"Yeah," you smile, smoothing your hand down his arm. "I'm attending prep for my operation, along with my new partner."
From the hallway, quiet conversation of the nurses taking their break by the whirring coffee machine can be heard, filling the wordless space between you until he interrogates, "Partner?" Rex stiffens under your palm. "A man or a woman?"
Instead of answering openly, you tilt your head to the side, your gaze flickering over his face as you try to make out what's bubbling underneath. "What difference does it make?"
"So it's a guy," the redhead huffs, turning his head away from you. Doing your best to remain neutral, you bite down on your lips. It would be a lie to say you didn't miss that part of him.
"Rex, it's strictly professional," a chuckle almost gets out, but you manage to swallow it down. "Plus, I've only met him yesterday."
"Is he handsome?" Rex glances at you before fixing his gaze back on the wall.
"Angelic," you let out and exaggerated sigh, resting the back of your palm on your forehead.
"Oh, come on," he whines, dropping his arms, defeated, "he can't be hotter than me."
A wide, cocky grin stretches from cheek to cheek on your face when you tout, "Debatable."
Rex gasps, mock-offended, but doesn't say anything. Only looks at you, his emerald eyes holding answers to questions you're not ready to ask just yet. Nor are you certain you'll ever find the courage to ask them.
"Can you remind me when's the surgery?" After a few beats pass, you inquire, now in a softer, more genuine tone. Back and forth with him feels like a lungful of air, but even too much oxygen can be dangerous.
"In two days," he grumbles, visibly fighting a smile, crossing his arms over his chest theatrically. The corner of your lips lift up; he's so insanely adorable like that. Jealous, boyish, worried. You squeeze his toned, warm arm, reassuring smile growing on your face. "I'll be there then."
Rex puts his only palm on yours, the skin much softer than you remember, the callouses and roughness gone with the time he's spent in the hospital. The sudden affection makes a breath catch in your throat when he replies, for once with a sincere upturn of his lips, "You better."
The GDA apartments are always decorated the same way—minimalist, industrial, bare. Rex would hate it here, whining the place has no soul and character.
Which is exactly the way it was intended to be. You're not supposed to feel like at home here. It's not a place to settle down and start living a mundane, ordinary life. It's just a government granted hotel, a place to keep some form of separation between work and private life. Despite that, you can't even bring anyone here, not unless they are an agent themselves.
Music from your recent playlist fills the space as you unpack unhurriedly. You still have this day for yourself before you have to start the intense trainings. Even though you shouldn't, you imagine yourself living here full time. Everything is placed and displayed as if it was truly your place. Some sense of normalcy is needed in this crazy, superhero slash GDA agent life.
When you get out of the shower, you turn off the music and turn the TV on, curious to see what's the state of legacy media nowadays. As expected, it disappoints you—headlines trying to catch your attention and make you angry, grouping people into 'for' and 'against' with zero space for nuance. The TV screen shuts off with a quiet hum as it goes pitch black, and you're glad that you don't have television in the Guardian's HQ.
It's high time you throw on your comfiest pyjamas and settle in bed with a good book or a comfort movie. The last time you watched anything was Twilight with Rex. It's tempting, but seeing it again in such a short amount of time would ruin the charm. So you settle on the next best thing, and put on Mean Girls.
Halfway through the film, there's a knock on the apartment door. You pause it with a quiet curse under your nose, it's the best damn part and someone just ruined it. Besides, no one knows you're here, and you sure as hell didn't order anything.
As you pad toward the entrance, you hesitate, but in the end take out the Glock Donald provided you with, and check the clip. It's full.
It's been ages since you handled a gun, but you know you can't risk revealing your identity by using your powers. Being a public person now has its limitations, and you're not sure Cecil has actually thought it through planting you on the team. The footsteps you take towards the entrance are silent, thanks to the combination of your socks and soft carpet.
"Who's there?" You ask, voice firm and loud.
"It's Blackwood."
You pass a surprised exhale through your nose. It sure as hell does sound like him, that southern accent is unmistakable. Still, to be entirely sure, you glance through the visor. It really is him.
When you open the door, he takes half a step forward, but backs out when he sees you're already in your sleeping attire. He also looks much more casual now. Gone is the sharp, smart suit he was wearing yesterday. Today it's just loose fitting jeans and a shirt with rolled up sleeves thrown over a band tee, and a faint, lingering smell of his cologne. The scent is fresh and sharp, politely but firmly saying 'I know what I'm doing'.
"What are you doing here?" There's genuine surprise in your voice. He's absolutely the last person you were expecting to see tonight. He shifts his stance, realizing he didn't prep for this question. Rookie mistake. "Heard they moved you here."
"They did." The doorframe feels cool to the touch when you rest your shoulder against it, crossing your arms over your chest. "It doesn't answer my question though."
There's a heavy silence after that, if not for the rattle of the AC in your bedroom. Thomas is avoiding your line of sight as you stare right at him, simply standing there in front of you.
"I live in this building," Blackwood breaks the silence first, half-apologetic smile on his face.
"And so do many other agents," you notice, tone sharper than you intended.
His shoulder slump an inch as a faint blush creeps up his neck towards his ears. "Well, I just wanted to say hi."
The contrast between the dull, lifeless hallway of the GDA apartment building and his casual attire, along with the surprise show-up at your door forces you to reevaluate yours and his intentions. Maybe the walls you've been carrying around yourself have no purpose here.
"Hi," you smile and his cheeks turn an even darker shade of red. It's kinda adorable, and you feel satisfaction with the way he reacts towards you. Just like someone else you know.
"And I also thought—"
"There it is," you quietly cut in, mumbling the words under your nose, smirk sharpening.
"—it's a Friday night. Our prep tomorrow doesn't start until 10 AM. Which, for the GDA standards, is like late afternoon."
That earns him a chuckle, a genuine one, not the polite bullshit people do.
"But I guess you've already called it a night," he points with his chin at your attire.
You glance to the floor, wiggling your toes in your fuzzy, hot pink socks. "I'm watching Mean Girls in bed."
"Great film," Blackwood perks up, his posture loosening up, confidence laced in his voice. "Iconic, even."
Both of your brows raise up to your hairline, genuinely and positively surprised. At last, someone who knows the classics. "So you have good taste in cinema."
"Oh, I think I have great taste in a lot of things." The blond man smirks, leaning with his hand on the wall, his body moving closer to yours. Only when he finishes talking you realize you've caught the bait. Might as well go with it. A little friendly flirting has never hurt nobody.
"Oh yeah? Like what?" you lift a brow, your lip corners curling up.
"You can learn about it more if you let me take you out for drinks tonight."
"Listen, I—"
"Wait, before you say no." The man lifts his hands, open palms up. "I'm still new to the GDA and I haven't really met anyone. You're my first ops partner and… I just would like to get to know you. So we can work better together, as a team."
You would never expect such a charismatic, handsome man to drop down to pitiful begging. But it works. There's no way you can say no to that gorgeous face.
"Alright," you agree after only a few moments of pondering. "Give me twenty minutes."
"I'll wait down in the lobby."
The moment Blackwood sees you out the elevator, his brows shoot up, eyes dragging slowly from your toes to the tip of your head.
"Wow, you look… different."
"Did you think I'd go out in my pyjamas?" A laugh gets past you, stopping at a safe, wider distance from him. Instead of coming closer to you, he remains in his spot, only shifting his weight, keeping a respectful, safe space between you.
"It's just that so far I have only seen you in fluffy slippers and fuzzy socks."
"Ah, yeah." A breathy chuckle comes, as you tuck some of your hair behind your ear. "Well, Cecil dragged me to the Pentagon with only a fifteen minute heads up. And I didn't know I'd be meeting new agents. Otherwise—"
"You'd have worn something like this?" He cuts in, his gaze stopping for a second too long at your bare legs. The outfit is a little bit too revealing for government standards. But great for a casual night out. It's been ages since you've had an opportunity to dress up. The last time was… No, you don't want to think about that night right now.
"Rather a button-up and slacks."
"You must be pretty important to be able to casually walk around the GDA in a zip-up," he notes, holding the building door open for you.
"Let's just say…" you pause, breathy, looking at the man over your shoulder with an unnecessary weight, "I have a special working relationship with Cecil."
"I assume you can't talk about this?" Blackwood huffs, bumping you with his elbow.
Your eyes drop to where his arm just touched, unsure whether it was too much or not enough.
"I'm surprised you're even asking," you steal a glance at the man as he now leads the way. He takes a quick few steps and turns to face you, walking backwards, making you slow down or else you'd collide with him.
"Well, you don't know my clearance level." Thomas laughs, pointing a finger at you, his brow raised cheekily. "Maybe I know everything about you already?"
Your shoes scrape against the concrete as you stop, suddenly feeling caught, caged. What if he does? It's his first ops and he's already paired with you for such a high stakes mission. For all you know, he might be third in chain of command right after Cecil and Donald.
"Do you?" Scared, and maybe vulnerable, you cross your arms, eyelids creasing, narrowing, bordering the line of sultry and dangerous. Showing him how his words truly make you feel is not the best idea right now, but the longer you're in this business, the harder it is to navigate the lies, hide the truth, entangled in layers of secrets that become heavier with every day you get to walk this Earth.
Thankfully, he gets the hint.
"Nah, I'm kidding." The blond man laughs, the sound guilty as he raises his hands apologetically. "I was just wondering if you'd slip."
The scent of his cologne lingers in your nose when you walk past him, your shoulders brushing.
"In your dreams."
After two drinks, the conversation flows easily. He's very chatty, telling you ridiculous stories of his past postings, his background, his education—assuming it's all true, as it may well not be the case. Which is good, because you can't reveal much about yourself anyway. You're a double agent even among the GDA employees.
For a first partner since you've been with the Agency, he's a really great match. At least spending the next few weeks—or even months—by his side won't be boring or annoying.
When it's time to split, he lingers by your door, and even though you shouldn't, you let him. Blackwood is calmly standing in the hall, not daring to enter your space without your clear invitation, the overhead lighting illuminating his blond locks into a halo. Your shoes are already kicked to the side, the soft carpet flooring soothing your tired feet.
"This was fun," Thomas tilts his head, large hands buried deep in his pockets. You hum, too tired to talk. And maybe a little scared that if you open your mouth you'll invite him in.
"We can carpool together, if you want." He adds after a pregnant pause, one that's definitely too loaded for two people who just met. "Unless you have your own car."
"Maybe you're more important than me then." You speak up, resting your head on the doorframe with a tired smirk. "They never assigned me a car."
Thomas doesn't fire back instantly, doesn't quip back some corny line, like you were expecting. Then, a quiet thought in the back of your mind reminds you he's not a guy to crack a joke and wink. Though you'd love nothing more than that right now.
For a few, long seconds, he's studying your face with a small but heartfelt smile, sitting so perfectly on the sharp lines of his features. But you find yourself missing another cocky grin usually devoid of any sincerity.
"9:30 AM in the lobby?" Blackwood breaks the heavy silence, his voice light and sure.
Looking back into his bright blue eyes, you realize that if you only let go you could sink in them, but there's still something—someone—holding you afloat. "I'll be there."
"Goodnight," Blackwood bows his head, adding your name quietly.
The drive to the Pentagon is thankfully a quick one, and thanks to traffic rush being over, you arrive with 10 minutes to spare. Just enough time to chat with Donald. He gives you his usual tight but genuine smile when he feels your hand on his shoulder.
"Is there a chance Rex's surgery won't be a success?" You wrap your arms around yourself, your voice dropping to a lower register.
"Very small." The man turns to face you, holding his clipboard tight to his chest. "Almost unlikely, to be honest."
Other agents walk past you, entering the conference room, and you're giving them polite nods and quick smiles that don't reach your eyes. Only when the coast is clear, you continue. "Good. I'd hate for him to go through all this and not be able to return to the team."
"He's in very good… hands. There's no need to worry."
You press your lips into a thin line, silence stretching between you as you glimpse down, examining the ridges and creases in the floor. "It's not his physical health I'm worried about," you say carefully, even quieter than before.
"We do have mental health professionals too." Donald replies almost instantly with the slightest smirk. Surprisingly, sarcasm suits him pretty well. You mirror his expression, tilting your head, your tone far from apologetic. "You know it's hard to see a shrink with our schedule."
"I'm aware," he sighs, his shoulders dropping an inch, "regardless, would do you wonders."
A humorous chuckle gets stuck in your throat as you pat him on the shoulder, his head shifting to look at the point of contact. "Maybe when I'm retired."
His always cold hand covers your palm for a brief moment, quickly moving it away when you flinch at the temperature difference. "I hope you get there."
"Yeah," you sigh, tired and far from hopeful, "me too."
The mission prep starts the same as usual. Going over routes, locations and aliases in details. It doesn't take you long to get back into the groove. After a couple of hours of debating and planning every feasible variable, you're in dire need of a break, away from the heavy folders and leather office chairs that only look comfortable.
"Buy you lunch?" Blackwood offers when everyone leaves the room, leaving only you two inside.
"Thanks," you smile apologetically, putting your notes in order in your binder, "but I've already made plans."
His eyes follow you as you walk towards the door, laced with a kind of longing and understanding you don't want to examine right now. "Busy girl."
On the way to the hospital wing floor, your elevator dings, stopping midway. None other than Cecil Stedman gets inside. The silence feels a little bit awkward at first, until he breaks it.
"I see you're warming up to your new partner," Cecil states flatly, gaze stuck on the elevator door.
"Since when do you care about relations between agents?" There's a bite to your tone, one you can't seem to shake off when it comes to the Director. He doesn't take the bait, only looks back at you over his shoulder, face even with the slightest smirk loosely sitting on his face.
"I hand picked him just for you." The signature sound of his sarcasm shines through the seemingly sweet words.
"Why?"
"Because I want you to succeed." The statement is loaded, even if he didn't mean it to be, his icy blue eyes staring right into your soul.
Is he suggesting you've fallen off? Is he so disappointed, he thinks you need a caretaker? Or is it just the fact he sees you as one of greatest assets, one he simply can't afford to lose? Another, less believable option pops up in your anxious mind: he wants you to believe in the work you do once more. If not for yourself, then for the sake of the planet.
You don't reply.
When the elevator slows down at the R&D floor, he holds the door before leaving and turns to you with a softer look, one you haven't seen on him in a long while—if ever. "Keep your head in the game, kid. Rex will wait."
That kind of candidness from the Director catches you off guard. So much in fact, you cannot stop yourself when you reply, voice small and scared, "And if he doesn't?"
Cecil closes his eyes slowly, letting out a heavy exhale through his nose. Then, he looks at you like only a parent would, passing down uncomfortable but important truth, "Then you're better off."
The elevator door closes behind him with a quiet rustle.
When you get to the hospital wing floor, you don't immediately get out. The door closes gently, with you still inside the lift. Not thinking much more about this, you press the button to the sterile wing. Cecil's right—Rex can wait. It's high time you visited Rae, too.
You're not going to look for nurses to suit you up in a hazmat, you don't have that much time left. Plus, putting it over a pantsuit would be an absolute nightmare. So you settle on the thick glass window wall. You glance around, making sure no one's around to eavesdrop. But just in case, you flick your wrist around, blocking the sound waves from escaping far. Now no one will hear you.
"Hi Rae, I know it's been a while." Her face is visibly less swollen now, healthy brush of colour on her cheeks. A bittersweet reminder of the time that passed since you last came here. "Sorry about that. Life's been… hectic, to say the least."
"Where do I even start?" You grin weakly, a quiet chuckle vibrating against your lips. "Rex is getting a new hand. The GDA somehow whipped up a flesh-looking prosthetic that would be directly connected with his nervous system and all the surrounding tissue."
Your gaze goes lower to her arms, at last free from casts, yet still bruised and worryingly thin.
"I wonder what else they are hiding from us. Maybe they can even make us live forever?" The words ring against the thick glass, cold and quiet like the hospital's corridors. "Serving the people until the Earth is burnt by the Sun." The heart monitor hums in the background, steady beep of her heartbeat a soothing rhythm. "I hope they don't have that ability, though. One lifetime of hero work is more than enough."
A shiver runs down your whole body, from the top of your head down to your toes squeezed into heels.
"Anyway," you say, voice higher, lopsided smirk on your face. "Cecil's sending me on an undercover ops. Promise you won't tell anyone?"
Rae lies, immobile, if not for the steady rise and fall of her chest. Her lips are sealed.
"There's this crime group in the south that is experimenting on refugees. Luring them in with promises of a legal employment in the States, then changing them into super-abled villains. Which, to be fair, sounds like something straight from a superhero comic book."
"Now to think about it," you fake ponder, her hearty laugh echoing around her skull, "I wouldn't mind getting a win like you see in these. I really don't want to die under an alias with a guy I barely know."
The fact you pledged yourself a year ago to do just that when joining the Guardians conveniently flies over your head.
"Oh, right. I was assigned a partner for the first time. His name is Thomas Blackwood. He's new to the GDA. Which shows—he still has that glimmer of optimism and naivety in his eyes." His chiselled, pale face comes to your mind, framed by soft, blond curls. "Very pretty eyes, might I add."
You clear your throat, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck, "Cecil said he had chosen him specifically for me. And I don't know what the fuck that means. The guy's insanely handsome, and funny, and just a great catch overall. Which I feel awful to even admit those things, because…" You pause, setting your eyes down to your shoes. It still surprises you how unavoidable of a topic the redhead can be. "Because Rex is still in my life." The words come soft, barely above a whisper.
"I know we're nothing more than friends now, and that it wouldn't ever go anywhere serious. I'm afraid it's impossible to build something lasting with him. And it's best I forget all about it. But I can't."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, fighting away the tears. It's the first time you said something remotely real about him out loud. It takes you a few breaths to collect yourself again.
"Maybe I'm not so different than Blackwood then," you admit with a weak smile, "I also still have that hope, despite all of the signs telling me otherwise."
God, if Rae could actually hear you right now… No, she wouldn't ridicule you. Yeah, you snickered like siblings, but she's always been so kind.
"But we can talk about it sooner than later. They're going to be waking you up in a couple of weeks from now. I missed your killer advice, sunshine. I desperately need it."
You glance at your watch.
Shit. You're already late.
The classes with the accent coach turn out to be harder than you anticipated. They run late, because you're a stubborn student, and you want to get it right as soon as possible. It's your speciality, you can't be flunking on this matter. Even, if the coach has no idea you can literally manipulate sound.
It's only when Blackwood knocks on the door you begrudgingly agree to finish for the day. Your teacher glances at him with a silent thank you in her eyes. Before leaving, you set the schedule for the rest of the prep time with her and then you're out, walking arm in arm with the GDA's newest addition. As you pass the absurdly long corridors, paperwork dropping to desks in offices along the way, you feel the staff staring, their mouths moving as they whisper to each other like some high school students watching the hot it-couple gracing them with their presence.
Little do they know, you could easily make out every single word they say. But you're too tired for that, and frankly—who the fuck cares?
"You didn't have to wait," is the first thing you say to him when you enter the car, fastening your seatbelt, trying to seem too busy to really look at him.
Blackwood snorts, shaking his head in disbelief as he leaves the GDA underground parking. "And what, let you walk alone to the apartment building?"
You gasp, mock offended and the urge to see the spark in his eyes wins. You lean forward with the car starting from the green light, so you can catch his smirk. "I can take care of myself."
Thomas doesn't peel his eyes off the road for even a second. Which makes you feel grateful, and disappointed at the same time. "I don't doubt it."
"I'm kicking your ass tomorrow," you challenge him, finger pointing at his face, your eyes squinted in mischief.
At last, Thomas turns his head, setting on you those oceans of eyes with so much depth it still surprises you. When he looks away, his voice comes low and amused, "Can't wait."
Now you have two reasons to be restless for the whole night.
maddie's scribbles: and to the people that voted for less, but longer chapters—i'm sorry. i'll try my best with future updates. but this one broke my brain a bit. and i just needed the feeling of accomplishment.
because the longer i wait, the less likely it is i'm going to pick it up again. and i do not want to abandon the story. (yes i'm on my period and i was being very emotional about the fic over the last few days like i am every month at this point of my cycle)
Track 30
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On my hands and knees shaking quivering in tears gnawing and biting at the sleeves of my shirt practically growling life changing amazing beautiful fuck did I say life changing yet
But seriously such a good read im not even fucking kidding you right now you better read this 🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪
HELLO MOOTS sorry i have been gone I've been sick 🥺 (... of waiting for rex to come back, jk). Im in the hospital rn waiting for my checkup!! This is my live thread to yap into the abyss.
Ok update i girl bossed too hard and nothing happened at the appt. They couldn't figure out what was wrong with me because we couldn't run the tests. STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK's EPISODE WHEN I GO BACK.
I was peeing when i thought hmm maybe i should have been on health insurance prior to getting aid... but then i remembered thats stupid and big filipino pharma doesn't care abt women's health and womens rights 👎👎👎👎 BOO!
