woven.

It had been one of those nights — the kind of night where thoughts cycled fast and the clock ticked slow, where Johnny would find himself circling above the bright lights of the city in a desperate attempt to burn off that anxious energy that tailed him whenever he couldn't sleep. He had managed to doze off for a moment, but dreams of worms and dismemberment were — to no one's surprise — not exactly conducive to a good night's rest.

So instead, he wandered through the Baxter Building, seeking distraction of any kind. The kitchen. Opened the refrigerator, closed it again. The living room. Flicked throught the channels aimlessly. Back to the refrigerator. Still nothing of interest. Then, to Reed's lab. Because nine times out of ten Johnny was absolutely right in assuming that Reed was awake — did the guy ever sleep?

Johnny opened the lab door, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. His gaze fell to Reed, who was deeply engrossed in something that he would have no hope of understanding. Waiting a moment before making his presence known, the blond perched himself up on one of the countertops and kicked his legs idly as he spoke.

for  all  that  reed  is  one  of  the  foremost  authorities  on  relativistic  mechanics,  time  often  remains  disturbingly  elusive  to  him.  here  under  the  clinical  blue-white  glare  of  the  lab’s  lights,  seconds,  minutes,  hours,  slide  by,  inconsequential  and  shifting,  heedless  of  the  outside  world.  5  more  minutes,  he’d  told  himself,  just  5  more  minutes,  at  least  16  times  since  dinner,  which  was    .  .  .    9  hours  ago.  ah.  that  would  explain  the  increasingly  obvious  tremor  in  his  left  hand  and  the  excessive  blinking  against  dry  eyes.  and  the  stone  cold,  bitter  coffee  that  spreads  distastefully  over  his  tongue  as  he  sits  back  and  sips  at  it  thoughtfully.  bleugh. 

a  glance  at  his  watch  tells  him  that  it’s  currently  3:47:14am.  the  sort  of  time  people  are  usually  asleep  at.  the  sort  of  time  sue  is  asleep  at,  likely  curled  up  in  their  bed  right  now,  her  blonde  hair  fanned  over  pillow  and  the  stresses  of  the  day  soothed  away  from  her  features.  he  should  go  to  her,  slide  beneath  the  covers  with  a  kiss  and  a  whispered  apology  and  at  least  pretend  to  sleep  for  her  sake.  but  the  thought  of  lying  there  with  equations  spinning  behind  his  eyelids  and  his  mind  racing  seems  wholly  unappealing,  and  so,  with  a  sigh,  he  resigns  himself  back  to  the  desk,  coffee  mug  discarded,  and  two  fingers  pressed  firmly  between  his  brows  until  his  vision  stops  swimming  blurrily  and  focuses  again. 

at  least  he  can  apologise  with  breakfast  in  bed  when  she  wakes  up.  again. 

the  pen  in  his  hand  flies  over  the  page,  a  constant  stream  of  rapid  squiggles  and  frantic  self-correction,  lines  crossed  out  with  vicious  depreciation.  he  knows  it’s  possible,  knows  it  with  a  certainty  that  only  comes  from  too  many  years  of  being  told  what  simply  cannot  be  done,  but  his  mind  always  flickers  back  to  viktor        ;        the  flashing  heat,  and  that  wretched  scream,  watching  him  be  carried  out  of  the  dorm  clutching  his  face  in  bloodied  hands.  the  math  must  be  perfect,  no  point  in  beginning  to  build  before  he’s  sure,  before  it’s  safe.  he’s  so  engrossed  he  doesn’t  hear  the  faint  whoosh  of  the  lab  doors  sliding  open,  the  footsteps  crossing  the  room,  the  creak  of  his  lab  bench  as  it  becomes  an  impromptu  seat.  johnny’s  voice  startles  him,  eyes  comically  wide  and  pen  clutched  on  to  for  dear  life  as  his  head  whips  around.  and  then  the  embarrassment  floods  through  him,  shoulders  hunched  and  face  ducked  away  in  shame  at  being  caught  in  the  act,  still  the  same  schoolboy  his  mother  used  to  have  to  herd  out  of  the  garage  at  ungodly  hours  after  he’d  snuck  downstairs  to  work  on  his  latest  inventions. 

(    i  can’t  sleep,  he  used  to  say  to  her.  my  brain  is  too  loud,  mom,  it  won’t  stop.  and  she’d  look  at  him  sadly  and  help  tuck  him  back  into  bed  with  a  kiss  to  his  forehead.  his  father  had  never  noticed  when  reed  would  emerge  from  the  wrong  door  in  the  morning.    ) 

TUMBLR DASHBOARD FIX : if you have the ugly twitter inspired update, install the stylus browser extension ( links: firefox & chrome ) then go to this link and click install.