#thecaptainstable

@canspotatimeagent

title from here.

Riley does her laundry at one in the morning on Saturdays. She lives in the freshman-only dorm, and everyone is either out partying on Greek Row or studying or asleep in their rooms. There’s no risk of anyone grabbing her dry clothes and leaving them strewn around the laundry room because they couldn’t be bothered to use one of the empty ones.

She was better about it at home, but she doesn’t like people touching her stuff. Or her food. Or her.

(She’s working on it.)

One in the morning is quiet, and she likes the ritual of reading for class while she waits for her clothes to finish in the machines. She likes the process of separating her clothes into different piles to fold them, handling the fabric as it’s still soft and warm, making neat creases in her t-shirts and legging, making order out of chaos.

She’s never been disturbed before, but on one Saturday that’s no different from any other, the laundry room door opens behind her, and she startles hard. She twists around, heart slamming against her ribs and a yelp jumping through her teeth, and she finds Athelstan hesitating at the threshold with a laundry bag in his hands, eyes wary but gentle, and it flays her open. Other than her family, no one has looked at her and seen her like he sees her right now.

“Hey,” she says, and she surprises herself by laughing. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Athelstan chuckles, and maybe it’s not intentional, but she notices that he crosses the threshold only after the startle starts to fade from her gut. “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone else would be down here.”

She also notices he goes to the washing machine furthest from the door of the one right next to her that would put him between her and the door.

“It’s usually just me,” she says as she turns back to her folding. “The one time I did my laundry at a regular time, more than one person helped themselves to my detergent without asking, and I decided I was over it.”

He laughs, and her cheeks turn pink as butterflies surge in her stomach.

“Yeah, last time I did laundry, I lost a full box of dryer sheets, so I’m experimenting with a new routine.”

She hesitates. Then she clears her throat and looks over to him. “I usually do mine around this time most weeks. I’d be okay if you did, too. I promise not to steal your dryer sheets.”

Riley’s knees wobble when he smiles at her this time. It’s a revelation – he’s a revelation.

“I’d like that,” he says.

It becomes a routine.

But slowly, gently, the routine changes. They change. Her pink cheeks, the product of soft fluttering feelings, turn into a full-body flush, and she aches.

The ache, the restless heat under her skin, the excitement that hums through her brain when she sees him in the soft hours of the morning – at some point, it becomes unbearable.

One morning, in the throes of midterms, she is about to leave to grab something she had forgotten in her room when he comes in, and for whatever reason, neither of them say hi. There’s something about the way he looks at her. He steps back to let her pass, but she crosses into his space to move around him, their chests almost brushing.

When she comes back, he looks up, and he’s looking at her again, and words fail to form in her head, but suddenly, she’s completely certain about what she wants. She approaches him, and she almost loses her courage in the last few strides, and she hovers uncertainly when he’s just out of reach.

She doesn’t know what changes, but something in his posture shifts, and she’s as certain of her welcome as she is of what she wants.

She closes the distance between them, and she touches the back of his neck as she leans in to kiss him softly. He sighs, and her heart swells with the intensity of what she feels, and somehow, he ends up with his back against the wall, but his hands are so certain on her waist. It’s just a long kiss under stark fluorescent lights, but she aches when they finally part for breath. The pause doesn’t last for long because he aches for her, too, and he kisses her again just as desperately as she kisses him back.

(alternate title: i’ve been longing for daisies to push through the floor)

It is 18--, and Riley is the daughter of a farmer and his wife. Many of her days are filled with chores around her home. There are always animals that need tending to, food to be cooked or preserved, clothes and tools to be mended or laundered. But after the harvest, Riley is able to escape to London because apples need to be sold and people are much more likely to buy from a pretty face, and her face is pretty enough. It is a rare treat, and she treasures the freedom.

And she savors the presence of one gentleman. It is indecent, but he comes to her stall frequently and he is so very handsome. If her knees get a little weak and her tongue stumbles over her words, well, he has no way to know that this is uncharacteristic for her.

She looks up from arranging the fruit in one of the crates and sees him walking over. Her body flushes at just the sight of him. But she tries to put on a teasing smile.

Riley’s not late to her very first college class -- Introduction to African Literature, one of her required humanities credits -- in one of those very large and intimidating lecture halls, but she’s not early enough to have free pick of where to sit. She stands at the back of the room, awkwardly trying to decide if she wants to squeeze past six frat guys to sit in the very middle of the row or sit in the first row right next to the lectern. 

But as she’s looking around, and as her anxiety starts to crawl up her throat, she notices an aisle seat in the very back row. She walks over and tries not to loom over the guy in the next seat in. Awkward as she feels, she tries to smile and look friendly and not completely out of place.

Send a character to my ask box and my Muse will talk about their relationship with them.

“Alright look: I might have agreed to play nice and keep the peace, but it doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to call Peter my brother. First of all: he’s a prick. He talks too much and doesn’t understand how things work around here. 

“Secondly how does he know he’s a Lehnsherr? I mean--fine we’ve got the same face shape but that doesn’t mean shite. I say he hands over some real proof or I may not accept him. Not just anyone gets to be a part of this family. 

Vivian huffed and crossed her arms. 

“When I was a girl I remember wanting a brother or sister to play with. No idea what I was thinking, they’re a pain in the arse.”

More importantly, why did this stranger get an open invitation into her father’s life? He hadn’t spent his childhood wondering when dad would have time for her. He hadn’t spent her teen years trying to grapple with the awful truth of her parents’ vision. He hadn’t cried and raged and nearly killed himself trying to make the hurt go away. And he sure as hell hadn’t risked everything learning to trust his father--her father--again.

“Now whose looking to start a fight between sisters. Am I more powerful than Vivian? I mean, I can’t say for certain because we rarely use our powers when together.” Wanda sighed, Why did people want to start fights between the Magneto brood. “I am an Omega level, but so could she. I think my powers have more applications than her...but I can’t say I am more powerful...for sure.”

“Yes.”

The word is less than a breath under the moonlight glowing through the window in Athelstan’s office, where they meet when they can risk the privacy. He looks at her, silvered light and shadow, and she is transfixed.