It occurs to me I should have one of these, probably
General engagement policies:
minors DNI (also PUT YOUR AGE IN YOUR BLOG)
VAGUELY TAKING REQUESTS in a "I haven't done this before" kind of way (actually I have but that was eons ago when I was on ff.net)
LOVE COMMENTS they make me happy and I like talking to people about shared hyper fixations :)
General writing policies:
if a character has "coming soon" under their name it means I have something planned
if a character doesn't have "coming soon" under their name but they're listed, it means I'm willing to write for them, I just don't have anything in mind atm
Reader is gender neutral unless explicitly stated otherwise
Genre key (I'm trying my elder Gen Z best, don't have the app, and don't have emojis): (a) = angst; (h/c) = hurt/comfort; (f) = fluff
warnings: established friendship ; mutual pining ; slow burn ; quiet romance ; emotional intimacy ; soft and protective Driver ; fluff ; no use of Y/N
Driver [Drive] x Reader
“I give you five minutes when we get there. Anything happens in that five minutes and I'm yours. No matter what. Anything a minute on either side of that and you're on your own. I don't sit in while you're running it down.”
It was a rule. A simple one and professional. Driver had lived by it for years and had never regretted it. Five minutes. Not four and not six. Always five. People came and went, jobs ended, money changed hands, and he never asked questions. He didn't get attached, and he never stayed longer than necessary, that only led to trouble. Until you.
The first time he broke the rule, it happened by accident. He drove you to the library so you could return a book. "I'll only be five minutes," you said before the door closed behind you. But ten minutes passed, and you still hadn't come back. Driver, however, was still there. When you finally walked outside, you were certain the familiar car would be gone. It wasn't.
"I'm sorry," you said sheepishly as you slid back into the passenger seat. "The librarian started telling me about her grandchildren... I didn't have the heart to interrupt her." "It's okay," he replied, starting the engine. "You waited here the whole time?" "Yeah." And that was it.
Then it happened again and again. The pharmacy. Your workplace. The grocery store. Every time, you expected Driver to leave eventually. Every time, he waited patiently. He never complained, never sighed, never checked the time. The moment you buckled your seatbelt, he started the engine and pulled away as if waiting had never cost him anything at all.
"You know he's been sitting out there for almost an hour?" your coworker said, glancing through the window. You followed her gaze. The familiar car was parked outside your workplace. "Either that's a stalker, or..." "He's a friend," you answered quickly, though a smile tugged at your lips. Driver had been reading the same newspaper for the last thirty minutes. He'd arrived half an hour before your shift ended and simply...waited. As if he wanted to make sure you wouldn't have to walk home alone.
When you slipped into the passenger seat, you caught the flicker of relief in his eyes. "You know," you said, "you didn't have to wait for me. I could've gotten home on my own." "I don't mind." He started the engine. "You don't like waiting." "I don't." "Then why do you wait for me?" He didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened, you noticed, but his eyes never left the road. Finally, realizing he wasn't getting out of the question, he said quietly, "It doesn't count." "Oh? Why not?" "You ask a lot of questions, you know that?" You chuckled.
Now it was your turn to wait patiently, just like he always did. When the car finally stopped in front of your apartment building, you got your answer. "I made that rule so I wouldn't have to stay. So I wouldn't get involved any more than necessary." His hands slipped from the steering wheel. "But..." He turned to look at you. For a brief moment, his expression was almost unguarded. "You were never a job. You're someone worth waiting for." A smile spread across your face. "You know," you murmured, "that's probably the closest you've ever come to saying, 'I like you.'" The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Probably."
You leaned against the headrest, tilting your head as you looked at him. Somehow differently, warmer, softer. "So..." you began. Driver looked at you expectantly. "How long are you going to wait?" This time, the answer came without hesitation. "As long as it takes." And somehow you knew he wasn't lying.
(TUMBLR THIS IS FOR SCIENCE PLEASE DON'T FLAG THIS)
There are the obvious reasons to talk about this specific gif of Jacob in Crazy, Stupid, Love (2011), but seriously there's a thing I've been thinking about
Many moons ago, I saw something that pointed out how men and women take their shirts off differently (this is a very overgeneralizing statement, I am aware)
Men tend to take their shirts off with an pulling forward/over the head kind of motion (Tumblr is NOT having me searching "men shirt off" or any variation lol):
And I, a bi woman (also autistic, so gender = ???), went "HOLY SHIT THAT WAS AN OPTION??" because 1) if a woman did that in front of me I would pass away, and 2) I will have fitted shirts get caught on my chest, so this was actually mind-blowing and has helped me out in some dire situations
Whereas women tend to do the peeling out/up kind of motion, which is what I was taught (I searched for SO LONG this was the best I could do):
But in THIS gif
Jacob does it in this gif like women tend to be taught to! It's more of a show, and I think he knows that. It also gets stuck a little bit when he gets to his shoulders, which makes me think he doesn't do this motion when he's alone.
It's performative. It's for the female gaze. It's Jacob Palmer.
Holland March x Reader Drabble (Part 5 of ?): The Hospital
(I was looking for the gif of him freaking out in the ambulance but this one works tbh)
Premise: Holland finds himself in the hospital once again, and while it's routine for him, you're less well-versed in the cartoon antics his body goes through
Vague timeline in which reader and Holland have something undefined
Word count: 1,237
Reader is gender neutral
You’ve been thumbing through one of the waiting room magazines long enough that you’re coming up on the last few pages when you hear a a familiar voice, now disgruntled, echo down the hall. “I didn’t want to see you this soon either, Marjorie, but here we are.” You bite back a smile as you watch Holland be wheeled into the waiting room by a nun who looks resigned to her fate as a doctor shakes her head. The private investigator smiles when he sees you, the stitches stamped across his eyebrow pulling, which causes him to wince with a muttered “Fuck!”
The doctor sighs through her nose. “Language, Mr. March, and please, try not to rip your stitches—“
“I got it doc, thank you,” he waves her off. The doctor rolls her eyes and turns on her heel as she walks away.
You come to stand in front of him. The anxiety that’s been sitting in your chest has unraveled a bit, leaving you with only a bit of a shake in your voice when you say, “I was gonna ask if you come here often, but I think I know the answer.”
He looks up at you, his blue eyes twinkling despite the skin bruising around the left. “I happen to have a membership. Free coffee the next time I end up here. It’s probably shit, no one goes to a hospital for the food. Free, though.”
Carefully, you go about undoing the brakes on the wheelchair before taking the helm (grabbing the handles and slowly pushing to get used to the feeling). “Can’t beat that.”
You’ve been nursing your worry ever since the hospital called the office. You’re no stranger to Holland or Healy getting roughed up, and Holland is pratfall-level clumsy, but hearing the voice of the bored front desk worker inform you that Mr. March had again been admitted to St. Mary’s had sent your stomach dropping to the floor. Healy took the phone from you at the stricken look on your face. He talked on the phone a few minutes with much more calm than you would have been able to muster before finally hanging up.
“He’s gonna be fine,” Healy said to you, his voice soft. You nodded, feeling wooden. The man’s eyes took you in for a moment before he continued, “Would you get him from the hospital? I got some leads to check in on, and then I can swing by the school to get Holly. Just don’t know how long March’ll take. Sometimes it’s a while.” You nodded again, and he gave you a gentle shoulder squeeze before the two of you left, with you turning the sign on the door to “CLOSED.”
Now, it helps that Holland is a solid weight in front of you rather than an abstract concept. He rants about the hospitality of the hospital, how one of the nurses “has it fuckin’ out for me, saying I have dinky veins, what the fuck does that mean?” You hum when appropriate, even if it is on a slight delay, as you focus on wheeling him to the curb.
You put the breaks on the wheelchair and come back around to face him. “I’ll go get the car.”
He blinks. “I’m not an invalid.” He starts to get up, and you quickly bring your hands to his shoulders.
“Just—“ you sigh, looking away, trying to calm your anxiety again as it threatens to well to the surface. “Please?” Blue eyes wide, he sits back down. Your hands stay on his shoulders. “Thank you. Give me a minute, I’ll be right back, please don’t go anywhere.” You turn away to speedwell through the parking lot.
The car ride is quiet for the first ten minutes. The click of his lighter is the only noise in that period as he lights up a cigarette. It’s almost a miracle, honestly. You’re not sure Healy would believe you if you told him.
Finally, you break the silence. “I can’t believe you fell into an open manhole.” Truly, now that he’s out of the hospital, it hits you that he was pretty lucky to come out of all of this with just a busted eyebrow and a good bit of bruising.
Holland comes to life. Defensive and dramatic in equal measure, he exclaims, “They should have had a sign!” He waves his cigarette around for emphasis.
“It was a construction site! That you broke into!”
“The gate was unlocked! That’s like asking for people to walk around, they could at least have cleaned up a bit!”
At a red light, you sigh, curling toward the steering wheel. “Holland. I need you to not die, alright?”
He scoffs. The sound brings your gaze up to the mirror, where you see him smirking, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t think I can, honestly, you know I keep running into shit. And falling into shit now, I guess, I’ll add it to the list.”
“Holland. I’m serious. It… it scared the shit out of me when the hospital called.” He deflates at that. You seize the rare opportunity to be the one who rambles. “Look, I get that your job is dangerous. I just…” You shiver as the sentiment clouds your thoughts.
The light turns green. Reluctantly, you inch your car forward to avoid the wrath of other drivers. The tightness in your chest is back. You bring a hand to your chest, over your heart, and rub at the skin, trying to soothe the racing pulse underneath.
Holland’s hand finds yours. Deliberately, he threads his fingers between yours, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. He rests your intertwined hands on his thigh.
When you turn to look at him, you almost laugh at how, in his concern, his eyebrows are trying to scrunch together, fighting against his stitches. He gives you a small, imploring smile when your eyes meet his.
You take a steadying breath and try again. “Please try not to die?”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll do my best.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.
Heaving a sigh, you grant, “I guess that’s the most I can ask for, really.”
“… It might help if you kiss it better.” He points at his wound with his other hand, his mouth set in a faux-frown. “Speed up the healing process.” This breaks through the rest of the tension, and the car ride reverts to normal, with Holland commandeering the radio and yelling at other drivers. He continues holding your hand in his.
When you pull up the driveway of his rental, you see the way he slumps with relief. Now that the excitement of being at the hospital is over, he probably is longing for another cigarette, a nap, and a drink, and likely not in that order.
He’s looking out the passenger window, so it gives you the perfect opportunity. Carefully, you lean over, across the center console, and press your lips, featherlight, to the raised ridges of his stitches. He stiffens, turning nearly as maroon as the suit he was wearing when you two met. Your heart is beating fast again.
For a moment, the two of you simply stare at each other, not ready to put words to the gesture.
Then, with his hand not holding yours, he points at his lips, pouting just slightly. “My mouth also—“
It occurs to me I should have one of these, probably
General engagement policies:
minors DNI (also PUT YOUR AGE IN YOUR BLOG)
VAGUELY TAKING REQUESTS in a "I haven't done this before" kind of way (actually I have but that was eons ago when I was on ff.net)
LOVE COMMENTS they make me happy and I like talking to people about shared hyper fixations :)
General writing policies:
if a character has "coming soon" under their name it means I have something planned
if a character doesn't have "coming soon" under their name but they're listed, it means I'm willing to write for them, I just don't have anything in mind atm
Reader is gender neutral unless explicitly stated otherwise
Genre key (I'm trying my elder Gen Z best, don't have the app, and don't have emojis): (a) = angst; (h/c) = hurt/comfort; (f) = fluff
RGos Characters
Driver (Drive)
coming soon
Holland March (The Nice Guys)
(f) Drabble: Carrying a lighter for Holland March
(f) (a) (h/c) Drabble series: Hidden in Plain Sight (Pt 1 of ?), Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4
Jacob Palmer x Reader Drabble: Wingman (part 8 of ?)
Premise: You hadn't meant to get drunk and derail the evening, but Jacob doesn't seem to mind too much
Word count: 1,606
Reader is gender neutral
The good news: the new bartender—a young thing, a little clumsy with the bottles but smiles when you tell him your drink came out great—is good at making cocktails taste like they don’t have a single drop of alcohol in them.
The bad news: you had thought he was just conservative with how much liquor to pour, and now you feel like you’re going to tilt off your barstool.
“Do you want another?” He’s smiling at you, unaware that you have accidentally gotten plastered.
You shake your head on a delay. “I’m good. I think… I think I’m too good.” He stares at you, a bit confused, but you give him a smile that’s lopsided and full to the brim. “Thanks though. You’re… you got a bright future here.”
“… Thank you?”
With as much care as you can muster in your sloshy state, you carefully descend the barstool, taking about three times as long as you normally would. When you manage to stick the landing (aka not fall flat on your face) an incredible sense of accomplishment surges through you.
Your eyes, albeit slowly, make their way over to Jacob. He’s been chatting up a woman you can only describe as “leggy” for the past hour, and from the looks of it, it’s going well—her hand is on his knee, they’re sitting that close in their rounded booth. She’ll go home with him, that seems to be the inevitable conclusion. Knowing this to be the likely fate of their encounter, you begin “packing it up,” grabbing your jacket and making sure your wallet is still there.
Suddenly, you feel like someone is watching you. You turn around and meet Jacob’s gaze. He’s looking at you, his brows furrowed, even though his intended lay is talking to him, her mouth only inches from his ear.
Right! You need to tell him you’re leaving. But he’s in the middle of his mission.
You decide to give him a two-finger salute as your way of saying you’re heading out, before turning on your heel with only a moderate wobble and heading out the door. One foot in front of the other, that’s the mantra your mind takes to as you careen down the sidewalk.
A pair of large hands settle on your shoulders. “Easy, tiger.”
You turn, smiling wide when you see who it is, although you must have already known, the way you didn’t tense. “Hi Jacob!”
He smirks at your enthusiasm. “Where do you think you’re going like this?”
You point ahead, only a little off with your aim. “My place. I live close.”
“I know that.” He sighs through his nose, though he’s still smirking. That Jacob, always smirking, the smirk-to-smile ratio is tragic. “You’re drunk.”
“I am! I didn’t mean to, though.” You get closer to him, not wanting to offend the new bartender who definitely cannot hear you, considering how he’s still inside the bar. “The new bartender, I think his name is… oh, it’s Andre, it was on his name tag, he makes the drinks really strong, but I couldn’t tell, so he’s a good bartender, I think.” You squint, wondering aloud, “What are you doing out here? This is outside.”
He chuckles. “Making sure you get home and don’t end up in a ditch.”
You frown. “I can get home. It’s right over there!” You gesture broadly, a bit too broadly honestly.
He is apparently not persuaded. “I’m gonna walk you home now.” His arm snakes through yours. You hang onto him, your other hand bracing against his bicep for what you think is extra security.
“You’re very defined,” you tell him as the two of you amble down the sidewalk at a glacier’s pace.
“Thank you. I try.”
“You succeed!” The two of you are halfway across the street when you gasp, turning to him, though your arm is still hooked in his. You ignore his jolt of surprise and ask, “What about your friend?” At his arched eyebrow, you expand, “The one with the… the legs!”
He shrugs, pulling you the rest of the way to the sidewalk. “She’ll live.”
“But she was hot!”
“She was hot,” he agrees, wistful.
Once the two of you get through your apartment door—one of you stumbling more than the other—he steers you away from your couch. “Nope, absolutely not.”
“But it’s right there! And it’s not the Bad Couch anymore!”
He ignores your protests and corrals you toward your bedroom. You whine, and he wraps his arm around you, your hand coming to rest on your waist, to better direct you. The sight of your bed sends a wave of knee-buckling relief through you. He catches you before you go completely boneless. “Come on, work with me here…”
With a significant lack of grace, you flop onto the bed, rolling over and staring up at Jacob. His eyes meet yours. You expect a witty comment, but instead, he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Suddenly, as if waking up, he takes a deep breath and looks around. “Huh. A bedroom I haven’t been in.” There it is.
“Take a picture, it’ll… stay on your phone, unless you delete it, then it won’t be on your phone… anymore…” You roll onto your side, still staring at him.
He grabs a blanket and throws it over your body. When you don’t move the fabric off your face, he scoffs, adjusting it so that your head peeks out. “Jesus, you really are shit-faced.”
“I didn’t know…”
His hand smoothes your staticky hair. “Yeah, Andre, I’ll tell him to be worse at his job.”
He disappears briefly. In the time he does, your eyes close. It takes herculean effort to open them again when Jacob returns. He sets something down and claps. “Hey. Clear eyes, c’mon.” You double your efforts to not fall asleep. He points at your side table, where a glass of water and two ibuprofen sit. “That’s for tomorrow. You should drink something with electrolytes later.” He points at the floor. “Bucket on standby. Need anything else?”
You blink up at him. “You’re being really nice to me.”
“Don’t tell anyone.” He holds a finger to his lips, looking stern, a smile threatening to break through. You laugh until you get tired, and then you sunset into a drunken slumber.
The next day, everything hurts. Your mouth somehow tastes like a sock. At the sight of the meds and water on your nightstand, you remember, with startling clarity, looking up at Jacob as the world spun around you.
You throw the meds back and try not to grimace, not only at the wave of pain that shoots through your head, but at the inevitability that Jacob is absolutely going to make fun of you the next time you see him.
Which is, to your horror, as soon as you stumble into your living room, only lit by the glow of sunlight streaming through the windows. Jacob stands at your stove, scrambling eggs and wearing an apron you forgot you had. "Christ!" Jacob snickers, not even trying to hide it. You moan as pain shoots through your temples, the ibuprofen not having kicked in, and warily ask, "You didn't leave?"
He rolls his eyes. "Your door would have been unlocked. I'm not having you getting murdered on my conscience."
You moan again and sit down at the small kitchen table, burying your dizzy head in your arms. The sound of Jacob cooking, combined with the strong smell of food, makes your stomach roll with nausea. Briefly, you think about going to your room to retrieve the bucket (really a bowl, wait is that your mixing bowl?) just in case, but the thought of standing makes your legs shake.
Finally, the stove is turned off, and Jacob sits down in the seat across from you. A plate is thunked down in front of you, and blearily, you lift your head. His smirk breaks into a pitying grin. You're not sure if that's better or worse. "You gotta eat, sunshine. Come on."
"What if you just killed me instead? Please?"
He shakes his head. "Can't tell you about last night if you're dead."
"Ugh. Unfortunately, I remember." You drop your gaze to the plate. It's a simple breakfast of eggs, buttered toast, and a glass of orange juice. You reach for the toast, going for the lightest option, your hand trembling all the while.
Jacob's smile drops. "You're in rough shape."
"I'm hungover, it comes with the territory." Chewing your bite of toast takes twice as long as it normally would. "Sorry for cockblocking you, by the way. Wasn't trying to."
"... It's fine." He still seems taken aback at how shitty you probably look.
The two of you lapse into silence as you both eat. Admittedly, it does help settle your stomach, and you're sure that the meds you took will probably be nicer to your stomach now that it's lined.
You give him a small smile. "Thank you. I feel more normal now." He grins, taking your plates and placing them gingerly in the sink.
"What's your usual hangover morning look like?" he asks when he returns to the table.
You give an embarrassed shrug. "TV, probably fall asleep at one point, regret my life decisions. You know."
"Want company?"
You blink, surprised by the offer. "I probably won't be very fun."
He smirks. "I'll be fun for the both of us."
It turns out that by this, he means he gets to be in charge of the remote. You don't mind, though; you fall asleep against his shoulder about halfway into Sleepless in Seattle.
When Grace got launched into space, he was never truly gone from Earth. A piece of him still remains in the hearts of his students, the scientists he worked with....
And his appendix that Stratt keeps in a jar in her office instead of a family photo.
has anyone drawn the red string of fate/Petrova line as a noose? I know people are drawing it cutting through Grace's neck or looped around it, and everyone's art is fantastic!
The image that popped in my head was of an old-school execution, like Grace on the gallows with the red line a rope around his neck, with Stratt in the background about to pull the lever (like the Trolley Problem)
this is just a thought (if anyone wants to draw it they are more than welcome!)
Jacob Palmer x Reader Drabble: Wingman (part 7 of ?)
Premise: You call in reinforcements (the couch saga continues)
Word count: 973
Reader is gender neutral
Jacob is an abysmal texter. Just absolutely awful. He texts in a deadpan tone, lacks punctuation, and is a sporadic responder at best. You know this, having been friends long enough to come to the conclusion that it’s faster to call him, and so on this morning, you do.
He picks up on the third ring. Before he can say anything, you get to the point. “I found a couch. I want to see if you like it or not. Are you busy?” You look at the time. It’s early, but you figure once this is done, it’ll leave him plenty of time to do whatever he needs to do today, so hopefully this is a reasonable request.
“Give me a sec.” The pause he takes to presumably check his schedule lasts a few seconds. You hear murmuring in the background before he returns to the phone. “I can meet you there. Was it the one at Ashley with the armrests?”
This is the part you’re probably gonna need to sell him on. “Actually, it’s a different store. I saw it when I was driving and just wanted to poke my head in, and I found a couch I think would work.” His silence feels judgmental. You hold back a sigh and tack on, “This is why I called to ask you to look at it and see what you think. I’m including you on this, even though, again, it’s going to be my couch.”
“Semantics. Send me the address.” You do so. “Jesus, what were you doing over there?”
“How about I tell you when you get here?” This is the perfect opportunity to get comfortable. The salesman had actually encouraged you do so to make sure you like it (which is why you’re biased towards this furniture store).
“Fine. Don’t go anywhere.” He hangs up before you can give the affirmative. Just before he hangs up, you pick up on some murmuring again. It makes you curious enough to make a note to yourself to ask him about it when he gets here, but for now, you sit back.
It takes him about thirty five minutes to climb up the creaky stairs. When he does, you smile. “I’ve been waiting, Mr. Bond,” is how you greet him.
Jacob levels you with a smirk. “You’re lacking a cat. Also any semblance of a good British accent.” He sighs, moving so he’s standing in front of you, his hands on his hips. “Alright. Sell me on this.”
You gesture with showmanship. “So, this couch here, it would fit in my living room—I checked the measurements—and also is long enough that you can sleep on it if you need to crash for the night, even though I do offer you the bed every time.” You pat the cushion next to you. “Come on, test it out.”
“Christ.” He sits next to you. Bounces a bit to test the springs. “Not bad.” He leans against the back of the couch, considering.
“And with the money I save, I can afford food! Which is exciting for me, personally.” Jacob smirks, shaking his head, looking at you over his sunglasses. You turn on your side to face his profile. With the two of you sitting as close as you are, you have to keep your legs scrunched so you don’t accidentally kick him. He rolls his eyes and tugs on your calves until your legs are laying across his lap. You feel your face heat at the contact and you swear his smirk grows in response.
After a beat, Jacob reluctantly shares, “This one’s fine, just don’t get it in too dark a color, it’ll look like a black hole in your living room.” He smiles a bit at your beaming grin. The two of you stay on the couch for a while, debating which color to go with (he is, you are not surprised, invested in the aesthetic). Your legs stay atop his.
On your way out of the store, after paying and arranging for the delivery, you remember what you wanted to ask Jacob. “What were you doing when I called, by the way?”
His expression doesn’t change as you two walk along the sidewalk. “Wrapping up.”
Your brain buffers for a moment before you blurt out, “Holy shit, you were… I called you during “the morning after,” and you answered?!”
“Of course I answered!” he snaps. He takes a breath and continues, less defensive, “We were already awake and having coffee. It wasn’t going to be much longer.”
“… I kind of expected you to have a bed that turns into a catapult to speed up the process.” He bumps his shoulder against yours. You stumble a bit and he grabs you by the elbow. Once you’ve righted yourself, you continue, “What did you tell them? There was an emergency or something? You had to see a man about a horse?”
He hasn’t let go of you. “Freedom of speech includes the ability to stop talking, in case you didn’t know.”
“Fine, fine.” You aren’t quite ready to part ways yet, so you throw out, “There’s a bakery down the street. It’s really good.”
Jacob hums. “I’ll be the judge of that.” You know he is a man with discerning taste. He is also a man who, despite the firmness of his muscles and his regimented personality, loves himself a carb.
At the bakery, as you watch Jacob looking over the display case with intrigue, your mind goes back to wondering how he explained to whoever he had slept with that he had somewhere to be. What did he call you, when you weren’t around? A friend? Something else?
What did you want him to call you?
You’re glad Jacob asks you about splitting a pastry before you can come up with the answer.
Holland March x Reader Drabble (Part 4 of ?): The Interview
General premise: The gravity of the Nice Guys Agency pulls you back to the office
This is more of a bridge chapter to establishing how Reader becomes a fixture in the Nice Guys world. Chapters going forward are likely going to be more one-shot oriented rather than linear.
Word count: 1,048
Reader is gender neutral
The interview that takes place two days later is hardly that. Mr. Healy makes an effort to actually ask you questions about your background, which you answer, while Holland, lurking in the periphery, alternates between smiling at you and repeating some of your answers with weight and a raised eyebrow to his partner. You can tell Mr. Healy is annoyed but he does his best not to direct it at you, which gives you the impression that these two men work well together.
When you finally work up the nerve to ask why they’re doing this, Mr. Healy is the one that answers. “We actually were looking for someone to cover the phones while Holly is in school.” You find yourself believing him more than you suspect you would Holland. This isn’t to say that you think Holland is malicious, but he seems like he’d clear everything off the desk, including the typewriter, if you said you wanted to sit there, without thinking about the consequences, such as cleanup.
Suddenly, the door to the office opens. You startle before wondering who it could be. A potential client? Or maybe they’re interviewing other people (which makes you a bit disappointed, even though you know that’s ridiculous). Before you can even turn around, your intrigue is heightened by the way Holland’s face has suddenly gone slack.
When you do turn to gaze over your shoulder, you see a blonde child (teenager, realistically) standing in the doorway. She eyes you with curiosity. You have a pretty good idea of who she is in this context.
Holland is the first to speak. He chuckles nervously, a pasted smile on his face, before asking, “What are you doing here, sweetheart?”
Holly glares at him. Yeah, she’s definitely his daughter. “I wanted to ask the applicant some questions.” Her father and her seem to be in a glare-off with each other. Mr. Healy seems used to this, a small smile of amusement on his face. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen him smile, and it helps to make him a little less intimidating.
To break the tension, you stand offer Holly your hand. “Nice to officially meet you, Holly.” She blinks, surprised, before smiling and giving your hand a solid shake. She goes and stands behind the desk, next to where Mr. Healy is sitting. Holland, on Mr. Healy’s other side, looks nervous. The three of them across from you become a very strange Cerberus.
Holly looks over Mr. Healy’s notes (Holland wasn’t writing anything down), nods to herself, then sets her sights on you. “Why are you looking for a new job now?”
It’s a valid question, especially because you only came to know these people this past week.
You have, however, prepared for this. “My job’s been threatening to make me part-time for a while.” You glance between Mr. Healy and Holland with a wry smile. “I don’t know if you two noticed, but it’s pretty dead most days. So I’ve been looking out for other part-time work for a bit, just as a contingency.”
She considers this. “So, you’re okay with part-time?” Trying not to let your amusement show on your face, you nod. This clearly pleases Holly, and you figure she’s more open to the idea of your employment now that she knows it won’t kick her out of her role completely.
Holland speaks up. “Well, that settles it. You’re hired.”
“We’re going to need to discuss our decision,” Mr. Healy corrects. He glares at Holland, who glares back. “But thank you for coming in.” You nod, giving the three of them a small smile, before standing up and heading toward the door.
Holland suddenly appears by your side. “I’ll walk you to your car.” When you turn to him, he stares at you a moment before clearing his throat. You give a nod, at which he beams, before he holds the door for the two of you as you head out.
You’re learning quickly that Holland March likes to talk. “You’re gonna get the job, Healy’s just bullshitting. You’re way too qualified, actually, please don’t apply anywhere else.”
This spiel surprises a chuckle out of you. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you tell him truthfully. He smiles. It catches you off-guard, not because he hadn’t been smiling during your interview, but because now it’s just the two of you. You’re unmoored in this moment as you realize that not only do you like the feeling of him looking at you and smiling, but you want it to happen again.
At your car, he fidgets, his hand gravitating toward the lighter in his pocket, before he blurts out, “I’ll call you—I mean, we’ll call you. Probably tonight, if that… works?”
Your mind conjures up the image of the origami heart in your glove box as you look at the man who made each fold and crease, as he uses those hands to light a cigarette.
A thought occurs. “If I get hired, do you still want me to call you Holland? Because I understand if you don’t.”
He swallows, coughing a bit before nodding vigorously. “No, I—Holland is good. Great. Healy calls me “March” enough, it helps me remember my actual name to hear it from time to time.”
You chuckle. “Good to know.” You hope the heat you feel in your face isn’t showing as you bid your goodbye. “I’ll… wait for your call then, Holland.”
He almost drops his cigarette. You both pretend that it didn’t happen.
Only once you’ve rounded the corner do you let out the breath you’d been holding.
Your mind gets away from you as you drive to work. Could you work for the two men you spent the past hour with? Would that be something sustainable? Would you fit into their dynamic? It’s one thing to work alone, in the basement among all the records, it’s another to constantly be around people. Even if the two men are gone most of the times, it’s still their office that you would be taking residence in. Would you ever be able to feel like you weren’t imposing? And what about Holly? How would she incorporate you, if she did?
Alone, you allow your concerns to cloud your mind, swirling like cigarette smoke.
