Not just the complete lack of anyone else in the photos, save for people in the background of a few of the more candid ones. It was strange, considering he got the feeling he was previously always surrounded by people, but not the biggest glaring issue."
Or; Ryland Grace had always been something of a favored lab rat, hadn't he? Too bad Eva had to go and push him too far. All animals bite when cornered, after all.
Adam Frankenstein and Jekyll/Hyde’s laboratories would be such a different sensory experience.
Set in a quiet study, Jekyll/Hyde’s would sound almost pleasant, crackling fire, bubbling liquids and soft brewing sounds. It would also be surprisingly well organized, even as Hyde he doesn’t like a messy, ineffectual lab and while he might smash things or throw things he makes sure it’s cleaned up before he works again. His books and journals are the only things that are left loose.
Adam is the opposite, A repurposed carriage house with high ceilings on the grounds of Talbot manor. It would sound harsh, the buzz of electricity, grinding, clanking machinery and rattling pipes. The whole area is gruesome barely controlled chaos, with items picked up and carelessly dropped wherever they were last used and discarded bones and scraps stuffed into sundry vats and jars for preservation. A drain on the floor is essential as Adam’s work tends to be...messy.
I have a newfound understanding for gansey and adams relationship.
It's similar, but completely different to me and my mother. I am Adam, quick to anger, assume the worst. She is Gansey, fearful of any wrong move, trying.
I love her, she's great, but we have an inherent miscommunication that seems cavernous. Though this, I'm sure, will get better with age as it did worsen.
I keep thinking about my grandfather telling me about how he first got my grandmother's attention. He complimented her handbag, and she was flattered that he would notice the quality of it when few did and thought him a man of discerning tastes. "I've got a good eye", he said to me proudly.
It's an innocuous thing, but I can't help finding it repulsive now as much as I admire his cleverness, or perhaps his instinctive animalian grasp of my grandmother's person. She would never respond to compliments on her looks: a devout Protestant girl would turn clipped and chilly at any mention of her form, face or figure.
To the Protestant mind the body is a wicked thing, fashioned by God as a trial to the soul and mind. It's processes and effluvium sinful, best banished from thought, relegated to the privy or one's private room, exiled from everyday conversation. To dwell on it is indulgent, to adorn it is pride and an enticement to sin for all who looked on it. The physical body is a trial to be borne only by washing it often and clothing it carefully, a fallible vessel to staunchly contend with until God sees fit to provide a better one in glory.
If my grandmother had a fatal sin —she had many— it might be her fine tastes. She was never extravagant or gaudy (it would go against all her Protestant modesty) but she liked simple, quietly expensive well made things. Quality of material was extremely important to her. Hand made low heeled pump shoes of Italian leather, carefully cut dresses, elegant jewelry and of course, handbags suited for a well brought up young woman, of the best quality and material. She took a certain quiet pride in her restrained sensibilities and in dressing herself in new finery on Sunday mornings. Pride-of-virtue is a particular Protestant failing.
By complimenting my grandmother's handbag rather than her eyes or hair or elegant neck my grandfather raised himself above the base multitude of men whose minds, my grandmother was sure, are set only on carnality. She felt he understood an essential part of her, that he saw and valued her love for the delicate, the refined and the discreet, more importantly that he grasped the spiritual component of her carefully considered aestheticism. Here, she thought, was a man who understood her who thought taste was more important than the body. All of that, I think, simply because he was cunning enough to know what he had to say to this particular girl.
It's both tragic and comic that such a shrewd woman failed to see what was readily apparent to all; she had taken up with the town's earthiest, most gluttonous sensualist.
——
I'm sixteen or fifteen and sitting with my grandfather in the showroom of a car dealership. Maybe it's a Japanese brand, or a German one. I don't remember. We drove three hours from Santa Maria to Bacolod that morning. I'm there because mother says grandfather enjoys my company. We're there with my mother, aunt Ciela, uncle Tony and Ricky to buy my grandmother a van. Her body has grown soft and brittle with age, but she remains devoted to the task of accompanying my grandfather on the many long drives up and down the island on business. She remains devoted.
A van's roomier interior would be ideal for her; she liked to regally occupy the entire row of seats in the back of a car, in the center, away from the damaging light of the sun, cushioned by a pillow and shielded from the chilly air conditioning by a cashmere blanket. My aunts worried for her ease and her arthritis, talked it over for weeks until it was agreed that it made sense to acquire a larger car for her comfort. Grandfather was just excited by the prospect of buying a new automobile; few things enthused him more.
I understood grandfather didn't have to personally make an appearance at the showroom to purchase a car, he could have sent off for one, or asked any number of employees to conduct the transaction on his behalf. He always liked to do things personally. I admired his self reliance. I was proud of him.
My mother and her siblings were off to one side inspecting the van, interrogating the salesmen, looking at the seats and the wheels and arguing about the tint. Grandfather and I sat at a round glass table with the associate who had sold him the car. He talked to her about things that had little to do with the car; he asked if she knew who he was and named a few successful doctors and landowners in Bacolod, asked if she knew them. No, she said. They're great friends of mine, we've known each other for years. So and so became established here because I helped him. He began to talk about the cars he'd purchased over the years, the man who'd enthusiastically recommended her to him, the prawn farm and cattle ranch that lay neglected in Zamboanga Del Sur.
I began to grow uncomfortable. The associate was younger than I am now. Her suit and skirt were poorly tailored, too tight or loose in places, a shiny synthetic material. She had that particular sensual Malay charm to her; smooth, brown skin, a figure that was lush but not plump. Her arm, I remember, had a firm fullness to it, too delicate to be robust, the sort of fullness I envied a little sometimes. Her hands, where they lay on the folders and brochures on the table were tipped by a chipping French manicure. Her lips were very red, and when my grandfather accepted her offer of coffee I watched her dark, straightened hair swing against her back as she went to get it.
I tried to pick a fight with my grandfather when she disappeared, I don't remember what about. I wanted to complain to my mother and so I stood to go to her, but I didn't know what I wanted to complain for. She told me not to argue with him or make him angry when I went over to her, and yet she seemed upset herself. She muttered something I didn't catch but turned away from me and began to address her siblings loudly and imperiously. She always took refuge in haughty dignity when she felt threatened by a situation. Uncle Tony was more glib and cheerful than usual. Aunt Ciela had put on her reasonable voice and was talking in that slow, maddening, cajoling tone to another associate, perhaps about the airbag system. She and uncle Ricky seemed, as always, locked away in their own pleasant little worlds. He apparently wanted one of the sedans and was talking to mother, telling her it was a good idea, who was in turn telling him not to be a fool. He was amazingly careless with his things.
I returned to my seat. Grandfather seemed a little surprised by my stridence, but was very reasonable, calm and measured when he changed the subject. I drank my sweetly sour instant coffee, embarrassed though I didn't know why, listening in silence as my grandfather spun incredible exaggerations of his accomplishments and belongings for the benefit of the girl.
Eventually grandfather signed the papers, the dealership promised to have the car delivered to San Diego as soon as the legalities cleared, and we began the drive back to Santa Maria.
Uncle Ricky drove and grandfather sat in the front passenger's seat as he always did. Uncle Ricky set the radio to one of those tabloid stations mother hated, and for once she didn't demand he change it or turn it off. They were talking loudly, over and at each other, at the same time, laughing, talking about the new van and cars they'd owned, reminiscing piling into the old white Volkswagen beatle, the only foreign car one could purchase in the Marcos years. They were calling grandfather 'dang' and 'dad', rough endearments from childhood and he was indulgent and amused when he replied to them, letting them do most of the talking. They made demands of him, told him what he should and shouldn't buy the next time he purchased a car and he accepted some of their suggestions and good naturedly labeled some of them as no good.
I sat by the window, my throat tight, trying to make myself small against the corner, the side of my head bumping against the glass, hating their loud, loud happy voices. I felt that someone had to say something, that it was incredible no one was saying anything, but what I didn't know.
But nothing had happened, so there was nothing to say, and I eventually forgot about the sensation of sitting there, listening to my grandfather and drinking cheap instant coffee. I've always been too sensitive.
Hello! It’s me!
This is different from my usual style since I normally don’t write many character studies, but this song gives me so many feelings about this particular ship/person i just couldn’t resist tbh. (Depending ona bunch of things, I may write a follow-up ficlet (; ).
A songifc to this, left to consideration.
All mistakes are my own, for I do not have a beta reader. Please enoy!
AO3
A moment you’ll never remember, and a night you’ll never forget.
In a flurry of steadfast heartbeats and ragged breaths they stumble- into a bed, onto overturned tables and couches, futons, lab desks; it’s not the first time they do this (far from it, really), but Len whispers apologies and farewells into Barry’s skin- it’s not the first, time, either. This is wrong, they both know, but it doesn’t cease their meetings and wandering digits.
Len knows this will end in fire and ashes and tears. He can’t think of Barry as something other than someone to call for a good fuck (though he knows he’s just kidding himself). He knows can’t afford to think otherwise, not with the guilt eating away at his insides as a constant reminder of exactly how much of an ass he actually is, how much he doesn’t even deserve this. He’s a criminal, and no amount of games with the Flash, no amount of encouragements and sweet nothings from Barry Allen are going to change that. It’s all etched into him, right in the bases of his genetic code, and it’s foolish to think that something (someone) as good and pure and plain wonderful as Barry would ever be happy in his company, who he is. Guys like him don’t have friends, they don’t have families, they don’t ever get the guy; hell, they don’t even get the girl, And he has to live with the consequences of whatever may come out of the mess he’s been too stupidly (but willingly) blind to see coming since day one. He just hopes that Barry isn’t hurt too bad when all of this comes bite him in the ass and he fucks up- kills someone, maybe. Maybe Barry will just end up giving up on him after a few months.
At least with Hunter’s offer he can try and escape the inevitable. And it’s weird, because Len’s never really cared much for time- his precise second-counting is more of a coping mechanism and vital to a heist than something he enjoys doing, rather something he’s gotten used to; and now he’s being recruited to save the future. How ironic is that? The man, a villain, who really couldn’t give less of a shit about anything but himself and the little gallery of people he cares about, asked to save people whose parents haven’t even been born yet. Barry would laugh if Len were willing to talk about it.
And he’s come to realise, too, that it really has no meaning when it comes to things like this- everything is endless and good when Barry’s with him, in his arms, kissing him heatedly and with all the weight of their rivalry. It’s almost like nothing can get to them, like if the truth wasn’t imposing, scalding, and oh so painful- like there’s actually a chance for this to end well. Their fling, or whatever this is, has absolutely no meaning in the real world, can never be considered more than a series of mistakes. A booty call, maybe, someone who can be there in mere seconds to let off some steam through shared stimulation and multiple orgasms.
Len knows that he can never be good. Acclamations by Barry are only that, acclamations, and as much as Len may want to play hero he just… can’t. he doesn’t know how not to be selfish, he can’t find nearly as much pleasure in helping people as he does in hurting them, and he tells Mick so, when they finally decide to take Hunter up on his offer- he’s doing this not to prove Barry right or escape his feelings, but for the eventual reward. He doesn’t feel nearly as good about the events as he wishes he did.
But he’s not telling Barry about that.
He’ll pretend- painstakingly, sure, and he’ll lie through his teeth to himself and the only person he’s ever loved aside from his sister and sometimes Mick. He’ll lie because he’s a masochist, maybe even because he wants Barry to believe in him with the fervour he has over the past months when nobody (not even himself) does. Fuck, maybe even because the sex is good, even if it’s only sex (and the added, queer domesticity that comes when you sleep with the enemy and have breakfast together the morning after).
He doesn’t say goodbye. In fact, after he leaves Barry’s apartment, his stomach is heavy and his eyes sting, because he doesn’t know if he will ever be able to live up to what- who- Barry wants him, believes him, to be. It’s a fact that Len is just breaking his and the brat’s heart more and more with every other step, every other lie, every other morning he leaves without staying for breakfast.
But he won’t stay. He won’t tell, he won’t speak, and even if he can hear the guilt and feel red string tying him back to the bed and the arms of the speedster, he won’t feel. (He won’t allow himself to, at least, he’ll pretend he doesn’t care in the sake of their hearts).
