Hi Cait!!! For the ask, 6, 9, 13, 16, 17? Hope you're having a great day!
Hi there, Tara! Thanks for asking! I hope you’re having a great day, too!
6: Favorite band?
He’s just a solo artist (so not technically a “band”) but my favorite singer of all time is Ron Pope 😊
9: Tattoos I want?
I’m a little too scared of needles and commitment to actually get any tattoos, but if I weren’t, there are so many cool designs that I like! A really artsy line drawing of a bird; a couple different dates that are important to me; and a bunch of different quotes, to name a few.
13: Life goal(s)?
Find a job I’m really passionate about; travel around with friends; run a marathon at least once; see the Northern Lights.
16: Favorite movie?
Answered here 😊
17: A fact about my life?
I’m in college, and I’m currently trying to get hired into one of my prof’s research groups. He does research on the first 10^-37 seconds of the universe’s existence (which seems like a really random number if you ask me, but I went to talk to him about his research last week and regardless of possibly-arbitrary time limits, it sounds super cool!).
Hi Cait! Nymph, fog, siren, and storm for the ocean ask?
Hi there, Tara! Thanks for asking!
Nymph: Old-fashioned or modern decor?
Old-fashioned! I love overstuffed, tufted couches.
Fog: Describe where you think you’ll be in five years.
I’m a first-year in college, so in five years I’ll (hopefully) be a year out of school. I want to go to medical school, but I probably won’t do so right out of undergrad, so in five years (if all goes well) I’d predict I’ll be in the middle of a gap year between college and med school 😊
Siren: In a fantasy setting, would you be a warrior, rogue, or mage?
(Honestly I had to look up what a “rogue” and “mage” were, but) I guess a rogue?
Storm: Do you like piercings or tattoos?
I do! I have my ears pierced, and I’d like to get my nose as well. And I’ve seen some really gorgeous tattoos before; I’m a bit too scared of commitment & needles to get one myself, but I love seeing other people’s.
Hi, I just recently followed you, because I saw you enjoyed my two favourite things, Scorpion and RENT. So this is just a general hello ^_^ and maybe a slight request, I saw you do prompts for scorpion, and I was wondering if you would take a request, it doesn't have to be anything long or fancy. I have this idea where Happy finds out she's pregnant, maybe early on and she tells Toby, but she miscarries and Toby just holds her? I know it's a bit unusual, but would be amazing Angst.
Hi, I’m always here to talk! About the prompt, me and my amazing friend @lattelibrapunk have something in store that will more than satisfy than angsty hankering. So look out for that!
That said, I’m not going to fill your prompt now, to save it all for what we’re writing. But I’ll gladly take literally any other angst prompt you want. (Trust me, they’re my fave!)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Nobody is surprised when Toby ends up on Happy's doorstep the night Amy gives back the engagement ring.
This fic is for Tara, because if it wasn't for her, this whole fic would never have been imagined.
~
Toby finds himself outside of an all too familiar door, drunk and stumbling, as he holds in his hand a ring that shouldn’t belong to him.
He blinks through the haze, finding the door and knocking gently enough that, if she’s asleep, he won’t wake her up.
The door swings open on the third knock.
“What do you – Toby?”
She’s in a dark blue tank top and pair of pajama pants with Spongebob and Patrick riding a cat as a print, and if he weren’t ready to die he’d tease her about it.
“What’s wrong? You look like somebody died.” Her eyes widen. “Holy shit, Walter’s not in the rabbit hole again, is he?”
Toby shakes his head, and can’t speak. Instead, he holds out his hand to show her the ring Amy had all but thrown at him.
Happy’s expression falls in an instant.
“I’ve got vodka in the cabinet,” she says, “come in.”
“You don’t even drink vodka,” Toby argues, hanging his coat and hat on Happy’s coat rack, because, he may be stumbling into her apartment at one in the morning drunk as fuck, but, god fucking damn it, he’s a gentleman.
Happy stands on her tiptoes, unable to grab the bottle. “No, but you do, and I figured I’d keep it on hand.”
Toby’s oddly touched. “Let me get that.”
“No,” Happy argues, jumping a little bit. “I’ve got it.”
“You really don’t,” Toby says, and he feels smug until he almost drops the bottle and Happy has to help him steady it.
“For somebody who brags about being a 170 IQ, you’re pretty stupid,” Happy quips.
“178!” Toby argues. “According to my psychiatrist. The evaluation from my elementary school said 170.”
Happy rolls her eyes. “That,” she says, “is why I hate IQ tests.”
“What are you?” Toby asks, trying to hop up on her kitchen table, missing, and landing half against the dishwasher. He tries to give off the vibe that he did it on purpose. “Did you ever get tested?”
Happy nods and grabs him a glass, sliding over the whole bottle of vodka alongside it. “They were worried I had a language impairment in first grade because I didn’t talk,” Happy replies. “Turns out I just didn’t want to talk to any of them. I got a 180 on the IQ test and scored in the 99th percentile for all the academic shit,” she grins at him, looking smug as she pops open a bottle of beer. “Beat that.”
“I’m just impressed you opened that bottle with a knife,” Toby says. “Hey, you got any ice?”
“No,” Happy deadpans, “this is an ice-free apartment.”
Toby stalks over to the freezer and pulls out the ice tray. “There’s nothing in here.”
“You thought I was kidding,” Happy says, shoving the freezer door closed. “I just never make ice.”
“Whatever,” Toby says, picking up the bottle. “Bottoms up.” He points to his butt. "But not this one."
“You’re so fucking weird,” Happy replies, but she finishes her bottle before Toby can even blink.
“How’d you do that?” Toby asks. “You’re tiny.”
“I could easily out drink you,” Happy replies. “Hell, I already have. Remember that time at the karaoke bar?”
Toby chokes on his swig of vodka. “Don’t remind me.”
“You and I went shot for shot with sake bombs and you were the one who ended up drunkenly singing Hot Blooded to a tiny Frenchwoman there with her husband.” Happy laughs as she opens another beer. “You’re a fucking train wreck, dude.”
Toby sighs, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders. “I really am.”
“Whoa, no sad drunk,” Happy says. “Get happy. What the hell is this?”
“She left because I’m a train wreck,” Toby says, knocking back the vodka as he tries to think of some other reason she decided he wasn’t good enough. “I didn’t deserve her.”
Happy stares at him for a minute.
“I’ll drink vodka if you stop being a downer,” she says, and it’s like she’s making a deal with herself rather than with him.
“Seriously?” Toby asks. “You’ll drink vodka.”
“If it’ll cheer you up, yeah,” she holds out a hand. “Hit me.” He settles the bottle in her hands, and Toby watches as she chugs straight from the bottle, not even wincing, and he wonders why he thinks it’s hot when he does the exact same thing way more often than he’d like to admit.
Happy wipes her mouth. “Still disgusting,” she says.
“Is not,” Toby argues, pouring it into a glass because the bottle is getting heavy and he’s getting drunker. “It’s the ambrosia of alcohol.”
Happy scoffs and walks over to her couch. “No,” she says, “that’s absinthe.”
“Is that even legal in the states?” Toby asks, trying desperately not to slosh any of the vodka over the lip of the glass.
Happy shrugs. “I’ve got no clue. All I know is that I was convinced Freddie Mercury was god and that the whole world was made of those little candy hearts you get near Valentine’s Day. It was fucking phenomenal.” She’s stretched out on the couch, leaving no room for him.
“Move,” he whines. “I want to sit.”
Happy groans. “Ugh, fine.” She sits up, her hair going everywhere, and Toby sits down in the corner of the couch Happy gave him. She leans back against him. “If you’re here, I’m treating you like furniture.”
“Deal,” Toby replies, because she’s warm and solid against him, and she makes him feel like maybe he’s somewhat grounded right now.
Happy turns on Food Network, and they invent a drinking game where, whenever a contestant swears, Happy drinks, and whenever a contestant is condescending, Toby drinks.
Toby’s not sure about Happy, but he’s pretty certain he’s bombed off his ass by the end of the first episode.
“You know what we should do?” Toby says. “Water shots. We should do shots of water. We’ll beat the vodka if we just drink some water.”
“I think you’ve already taken a good beating from the vodka,” Happy replies, and sometime in the past hour she’s thrown an arm around his shoulders. He hadn’t even known she was tall enough to do that.
“Well, I do like a good beating,” Toby replies.
Happy turns to him, moving her arm. “The fuck?”
“Are we not sticking with the vodka metaphor?” he asks. Then he thinks back on what he said. “Oh. That sounded sexual.”
“Yeah,” Happy says. “I’m going to drink more so I can forget you said that.”
They both do, and within either an hour or a minute, Toby’s head is in Happy’s lap and she’s playing with his hair as he talks aimlessly about Amy. All he can think of, really, is how nice it is to feel her hands in her hair. Amy never did this. This is nice.
“And she wasn’t perfect, either,” Toby says. “She always sided with her mom. And, like, I get it, healthy relationship with your parents isn’t something I’ll ever understand, but she’s the one who ruined Thanksgiving by puking in Amy’s aloe plant, not me.”
“Ew,” Happy says. “That’s gross.”
“I know!” Toby replies. “Somehow it was my fault because I didn’t hide the liquor or something. Like I knew her mother was an alcoholic.”
“This got real o’clock real fast,” Happy says. “We should talk about something else. Like how Walter dumped that girl over the phone last week but forgot his wallet at her place and had to go back and get it.”
Toby laughs so hard he snorts. “God, that was great. Cracked egg on his head was a good look for him.”
He looks up at her while she laughs, and suddenly realizes that she’s been playing with his hair for ages now, and he hasn’t done anything to make her feel as nice as he feels.
Toby reaches up to play with her hair, but Happy smacks his hand away.
“What the hell are you doing?” Happy asks, her voice almost as slurred as Toby knows his is.
“You’re petting my hair,” Toby replies, nudging her hand with his head because she stopped and that’s not okay, “and it feels so nice. And then I realized – not fair! I’m not playing with your hair. So,” he reaches up, aiming for the top of her head but ending up flattening his palm somewhere near her ear, “I’m petting your hair.
“Oh,” Happy laughs, “I thought you were going to try to kiss me.”
“No,” Toby says, laughing even though he’s not sure what’s funny, “no, no way. That would be stupid.” He considers it. “It would be stupid right?”
“Definitely,” Happy replies, and, god, it feels so good when she plays with his hair. But there’s something in her voice that confuses Toby, so he sits up.
“Definitely stupid,” he says.
“You said that already.” Her eyes flicker to his lips. There’s no way he invented that.
“Would it be stupid?” Toby asks, because he’s thought about it before, pushed it to the back of his mind because he was marrying Amy. But Happy’s here and she’s beautiful and she keeps vodka in her apartment because she knows he likes it, and he doesn’t think anyone’s thought of him like that before.
And, god, he’d kill to have someone to hold right now.
“Probably stupid,” Happy replies.
“Should we test our theory?” Toby asks. “We are scientists. Hypothesis-sis.” He frowns. “Hypothothize. Hypo – fuck.”
Happy considers it for so long that Toby begins to wonder if this is actually happening or if he’s at home dreaming up a scenario better than drowning in his own drunken misery.
“Nah,” Happy decides, “I feel like setting something on fire.”
“You feel like what?”
She stands up, looking unreasonably steady as she pulls on those boots of hers. How has he never noticed how cool her boots are?
“Your boots are cool,” he says, standing up and failing to emulate the balance Happy showed. “Just thought you should know.”
“Yeah, that’s why I bought them,” Happy says. She pulls out a pocket knife, a couple of receipts, and, surprisingly, a thing of lip stick before pulling out her lighter. “So, what are we burning?”
“Pyro,” Toby says. And then it hits him. “Oh, man.”
“What?” Happy asks. “Why do you look all pukey?” She steps away from him. “Not on my living room floor. This is new carpet.”
“I have the wedding invitations in my car,” he says, and he starts feeling horrible again.
Happy stares at him. “Why the hell –”
“We were on the way to send them,” Toby says, unable to stop the rush of words. “In my car, and I realized I forgot to buy the stamps, and she asked if I even had the money to buy the stamps and I…” He trails off and falls back onto the couch, feeling like he might as well just melt into the floor. “I didn’t have the money to buy stamps.”
“Oh, get up,” Happy snaps.
Toby looks up. “What?”
“Instead of whining and sitting around, we’ll set that shit on fire,” Happy says. She grabs his arm and hauls him to standing, and he’s so off balance that he nearly flattens her against the wall.
“You,” Happy says, pushing him off and patting him on the cheek, “are never drinking again.”
“I’m always drinking again,” Toby replies.
Happy shoves him out the door and Toby tumbles down the three steps that lead up to her apartment.
“Ow, what the fuck?” Toby groans. “Who put stairs there?”
“The architect,” Happy replies. “Come on, get up. Why can't you walk like a normal person? Normal people aren't this ridiculous drunk."
"I'm always ridiculous," Toby replies, but he manages to get to the car, and Happy’s grinning way too widely when she gets a look at the box of invitations.
“You’re way too happy about this,” Toby mutters.
Without a word, Happy picks up the invitations and drops them on the ground. She pulls out the lighter. “Want to do the honors, Doc?”
He barely manages to catch it when she throws the lighter at him. “I’m not sure,” Toby admits.
“She left,” Happy says, so firmly that Toby’s not sure who she’s saying it to. “She ditched you, which is fucking stupid because you’re the best thing that’s ever walked into her dumb life, gambling and condescending attitude and everything.” She stalks toward him and takes the lighter out of her hand. “If you don’t do it, I will. Burn it all down. Start over.”
“Why are you so invested in this?” Toby can’t help but ask.
Happy’s expression is set when she replies, “Because you’re my best friend, and it took me long enough to find somebody I like enough to call my best friend, and I’m drunk and I like fire, okay?”
Toby holds his hand out, and Happy drops the lighter directly in his palm. Before he can think about it, he pulls out the invitation on the top of the box. Of course, it’s the one they would have sent to Amy’s parents. It feels right that it’s the first to feel the lick of the flame.
He drops it into the box of invitations and he watches the whole thing burn orange and white.
“She’s going to kick my ass for this,” Toby mumbles. “These weren’t cheap.”
“What were you going to do, return them?” Happy asks. When Toby turns to look at her, she’s got her eyes on the fire, her whole body lit up orange. It’s probably the vodka talking, but he thinks he’s starting to see her a little differently than he ever has before.
They watch it burn to ash, and Happy smothers the last of the coals with the heel of her boot.
“Let’s get inside,” she says, her voice losing some of its edge. “Before we pass out in the parking lot. My super doesn’t like it when I do that.”
“You’ve done what now?” Toby asks.
The grin Happy throws him over her shoulder makes him wonder just how much she hasn’t told him yet. “Oh, the stories I could tell,” she replies.
“You’ll tell them, right?” Toby asks. “Like now?”
“Maybe after a few more drinks,” Happy replies.
But the minute they get into her apartment, Toby’s yawning so widely that he’ll be surprised if he makes it to the couch.
“Can I pass out here?” he asks, his head spinning. “I don’t think I could –” He collapses onto the floor. “Oh.”
Happy throws a pillow and a blanket to him, and he just lets them hit him and fall on top of his back.
“Leave me here to die,” Toby says. “I’m never moving again.”
“Come on, you big lug,” Happy grumbles. With surprising strength, she half picks him up and tosses him on the couch.
He’s out within the next five minutes, managing to say, “You’re the best, Hap,” before he falls asleep.
He wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and every memory of the night before prominent in his mind. The smell of smoke is still on his clothes from their impromptu funeral pyre of his engagement.
And, somehow, Toby doesn’t feel all that bad.
He sits up, head spinning, to see Happy asleep in her easy chair, snoring quietly.
He chugs about six glasses of water in five minutes, then immediately has to run to the bathroom to empty out the six thousand glasses of vodka he’d consumed the night before.
“Hey, dope,” Happy says, leaning against the bathroom door frame looking way too good for their night of drinking. “You really can’t hold your liquor.”
“Why are you so perky,” Toby groans. “You drank more than I did.”
Happy grins. “Because I can hold my liquor,” she replies. “We’re going to the diner for breakfast. Come on.”
“I won’t be alive for another three hours,” Toby grumbles. “Talk to me at eleven.”
Happy scoffs. “Get up, Toby,” she offers him a hand.
He takes it and lets her pull him up to standing, and Toby finds himself almost unwilling to let go of her hand.
“Thanks for taking care of me last night,” Toby says quietly.
Happy shrugs. “As stupid as it is,” she begins, “you’re my best friend. And it was fun.”
Toby breaks into a grin. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess it was.”
[Thanks for the request. It was a good choice. Also, it’s been a while, so please be kind.]
Happy was never one to keep anyphotos. Her bout in the foster system showed her time and time again thatsentimentality would come to be a foreign concept.
That’s not to say that shedidn’t take any photos or was never in any. She had plenty of them from bouncingfrom one foster home to the next, but her once optimistic façade faded over timeas she remained the only constant.
Eventually she stopped retainingthe memories of what could have been; each one a fresh reminder of the bitter resentmentshe felt for a family that threw her out like yesterday’s paper.
The odd one that somehow madeits way into her belongings was either shred to pieces, burned or crumbled anddiscarded in a nearby garbage bin.
It was only once she found hernew family that she let herself get comfortable with the idea of holding ontomoments, of allowing herself to believe that she would no longer be the only onethat remained the same as the album progressed.
So she started taking the oddpicture every now and then of her weird, crazy little family.
The ones that she was most proud ofwere a profile shot of Paige that she’d taken on the flight back from Bosnia, aclose-up of Sly’s hand on Megan’s, a front-on snap of Cabe’s very menacingdeath stare, and a somewhat blurry pic of Walter, who had darted as soon as hesaw her raise her phone.
But her favourite was areminder of a promise; a promise that she would be looked after and cared forby someone who loved her.
The picture itself was verydark; almost indiscernible to the naked eye, but she knew who its subject was and the moment that she had captured.
Despite the warmth of his bodyagainst hers and the two sleeping bags around them, a slight chill in the airwas enough to rouse her from her sleep.
After ten minutes of tossingand turning she was ready to give up and go inside, but her plans wereinterrupted by a stream of moonlight that seeped through the tent’s fabric.
It was a sight that she assumedfew had been privy to witness, but it was one that she wanted to keep.
She freed herself from his firmgrip, reaching for her phone in the process. She opened the camera, turned off the flash and tapped the round button.
With its brightness turned downshe could hardly make out anything, but she knew what she had just captured –the peaceful nature of an otherwise animated and outgoing man.
A man she was falling for.
[send me a ship & a word and i’ll write you a fic]
I agree- Happy hardly owes Toby anything. She doesn’t owe him a date or a relationship or a night in bed. But she does owe him an explanation of what’s going on. (Starting with opening up about being scared in 2x01, and then ‘sidelining’ him with no given reason or explanation in 2x02, this turns into, whether Chet is romantic or platonic or not, rubbing him in Toby’s face in 2x03 and a bit of 2x04, but follows with trusting Toby to save her and Walter in 2x04, as well accepting Toby’s dollhouse invitation in 2x04.) Her emotional and verbal signals to Toby have been far from consistent and he deserves and explanation. And if the roles were reversed, Happy would deserve that explanation as well. This is not at all related to their sex, and @lattelibrapunk and I aren’t being sexist. It’s a characteristic of human decency. We feel for Toby in this situation and there is nothing wrong or bad with that.
Considering everything Happy as done has lead Toby deciding to give her up (Not being friends but not trying for a relationship at all), one could say that he has now left and therefore doesn’t need to get an explanation. If Happy would have explained earlier, the situation would’ve gone down differently depending on why she actually did sideline him and why Chet is there and why everything followed as it did. Toby giving up is only a direct result of all of Happy’s insensitive actions. Toby, his personality as it is, will probably give her a chance to explain when she decides she should. Though Happy now has a lot more to explain than just the black and white due to her mixed signals.
Third, disagree with us as much as anyone wants. I believe in expression of opinion and freedom of speech. But there’s other ways to disagree with someone other than using profanity and calling names. I appreciate a debate on the show and what it’s doing to the characters (and their character at that) but I do not take well to having my thoughts being called gross and can assure you, nothing is wrong with me.
