ARE WE THERE YET?

keller swipes his tongue between his lips, the corners of his mouth turning, twisting, upright. ❝  why don't you take a seat, caffrey? huh? play a game like we used to ... ❞ but he already knows the answer. neal's flustered, frustrated – looking for something and he's hot on its trail. he doesn't have time for this, doesn't have the time for him.

his eyes find the pictures, how he didn't land on them at first neal isn't sure, but every inch of the mantel top and free space on the shelves is taken up by the same brown haired growing boy. he's every bit both his parents, with a half grin in almost every frame, and it's hard not to stare.

he opens his mouth, but can't actually ask the question. "of course you are, you're not much older than one." calling him immature: safe territory.

𝐡𝐞’𝐬  𝐡𝐚𝐝  𝐡𝐢𝐬  𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫  𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞  𝐨𝐟  being  punched  by  intergalactic  marauders,  hammered  by  Klingons  &  tackled  by  rampaging  Kree…  but  this  might  have  stung  worse.  truth  be  told,  there’s  no  bitterness  in  the  captain’s  expression,  but  surprise  that  gradually  becomes  a  sharpened  dagger  making  a  subtle  turn  to  face  HIM.

he’s  GRATEFUL  for  her  calling  him  out.

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬,  disasters  disguise  themselves  as  bright  ideas  because  there  are  too  many  variables  at  play.  &  he  cannot  have  Spock  with  him  all  the  time.  when  he  agreed  to  weave  between  S.W.O.R.D.  &  the  rest  of  the  galaxy,  the  list  only  included  him.

it’s  better  some  days,  &  not  so  much  others.

❝  FINE,  but  how  am  i  supposed  to  go  into  Kree  territory  without  it  being  considered  ILLEGAL  INFILTRATION  ?  Hala  is  not  exactly  a  dream  vacation  spot.  i  don’t  want  to  keep  using  my  ‘Captain  Marvel’  card,  okay  ?  ❞

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑷𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑬  ★  |  accepting mutuals only  !

𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭  𝐨𝐟  𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬  &  𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐞  𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐦  the  air  while  curling  like  lazy  smoke.  Jim  leans  against  the  kitchen  counter,  watching  Jen  deftly  peel  an  orange  like  this  is  somehow  what  she  was  waiting  to  do  all  day.  the  thin  rind  unfurls  in  one  long,  unbroken  spiral.  the  zest  mists  the  kitchen  with  a  burst  of  brightness  that  cuts  through  the  already  richer  aromas  of  the  simmering  dish.

across  the  stove,  a  sauce  thickens  in  a  cast-iron  pan,  its  surface  glossy  with  honeyed  reduction  &  infused  with  just  the  right  amount  of  ginger,  star  anise  &  a  whisper  of  cayenne  for  warmth.

𝐡𝐞  𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬  𝐢𝐭  𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭  𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞  𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞  𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞.  that  someone  as  MESSY  as  him  finds  solace  in  following  instructions,  the  rules  if  you  will,  to  be  a  pretty  damn  decent  cook.  it’s  therapeutic,  somehow.  as  he  reaches  over  the  bowl  of  succulent,  seared  duck  meat,  his  gaze  half  expectantly  finds  Jennifer’s.      ❝  how’s  life  been  for  She-Hulk  anyway  ?  i  haven’t  heard  anything  about  her  in  a  second.  ❞

random prompts for Jim  ★ | accepting mutuals only !

Bradley,

I guess this makes us pen pals. To be honest, I can't remember the last time I actually wrote a letter. Not since grade school, at least. And while I recognize this is an email, the purpose is all the same, right? Besides, all the emails I do write are brief. No one wants to read three paragraphs when a sentence or two will do. Such is the world of academia and research.

I imagine your Navy is the same way. I am happy to be corrected, though.

Are you adjusting to life back at sea? Javi was army and the few things he shared tend to only be research related. I know I haven't gotten the full story, but it doesn't feel right to push.

I'm realizing now I have no idea how to end this. I ought to ask my mom. Letter writing just for the heck of it feels like something she might've done. I guess I'll just leave it with: write back soon and don't worry about the time. I've got a lot of grant proposals due soon, so I'm usually up.

Nat's gaze flicks between the scenery blurring by them and Bob's mounted phone, the estimated time of their arrival still over an hour away according to the gps. Bored, she eyes the gear packed neatly on the backseats through the rearview mirror. Then she sighs, a better sound than whatever staticky music would come of the speakers.

"Tell me again why we're doing this," Nat demands, lacking her usual barking tone when in the cockpit. Bob had already explained his reasoning for their camping trip when he had pitched it. Without much else to do, though, she might as well hear it again.

Their friendship is an odd one, but by no means the strangest. Natasha hardly rates, in fact. The transient nature of Tyler's work means he's met a variety of personalities. It also means most of his connections are like this - brief encounters and little communication. Natasha stands out simply for the fact that Tyler can send both memes and technical articles without too much explanation.

(There might be a shared connection of loneliness, if Tyler were the sort to dwell on things like that.)

"Well, ain't this something," he greets her, sliding into the booth across from her. Tyler says this like it's a surprise, as if it's pure chance that brought them to the same bar in the same out of the way city. The circumstances are a coincidence, Tyler speaking at a work event and Natasha here on work-related business, but getting lunch together had been arranged.

₀₁. ㅤFARRAH, ㅤ𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗬 𝗪𝗔𝗥. ㅤ𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶.

“It  is  …   nice  to  know  that  my  face  is  familiar.”  There  is  a  hesitance  that  prefaces  the  word  nice ...   it  dances  across  his  tongue  with  a  strange  unfamiliarity,  but  the  core  of  his  sentiment  remains  the  same.  𝚃𝚑𝚎  𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗  𝚒𝚗  𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜  𝚠𝚊𝚜  𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛,  𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑  𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍  𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎  𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚛  𝚏𝚘𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑  𝚘𝚏  𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.  Spock  had  been  preoccupied  with  his  lab  work  for  several  days  now,  hidden  away  in  the  confines  of  deck  nine  at  every  feasible  moment  he  could  manage  to  steal.  Engrossed  was  the  word  he  might  use;  isolated  was  another  he’d  heard  whispered  by  his  fellow  crew  members,  accusing  him  of  escaping  to  a  laboratory  to  be  alone.  It  was  a  ridiculous  assertion,  but  a  hefty  rumor  that  floated  throughout  the  corridors  of  the  starship  nonetheless.  He  had  nothing  to  escape  from;  nothing  he  was  trying  to  hide,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  he  were  trying  to  do  just  that,  he  wouldn’t  flee  to  the  first  place  anyone  using  any  semblance  of  logic  would  think  to  look  for  him.  It  was  merely  easier  to  focus  on  his  work  between  shift  duties  and  paperwork  when  meditation  yielded  little  benefit.    

Tyler washes up in the sink, humming softly to himself, some tune of a song Boone likes to repeat until he's sick of it.

He grabs the cloth off the stove handle, and doesn't flinch when he catches Cathy staring. Instead, he smiles, eyes crinkling.

Nat swallows her sigh, the resulting sound still abrasive and a poor attempt at hiding her frustration. She sets down the knife, then presses her hands onto the cool counter top.

She'd gotten used to things. Used to the quirks of his older kitchen, used to moving around the space how she best saw fit.

Nat mutters, "I was being nice." The words don't sound nice; she doesn't feel it, either. Reality is catching up with her; Bradley is no longer so dependent. There's her apartment in Lemoore, a whole life she can no longer keep paused.