#timelincs

[ symbol headcanon questions. ]

🧠 : what do they assume people think about them?

He assumes the worst. And in 99% of cases, he’s probably right. Harold does very little to make himself likable. It’s a mutual revulsion in most cases.

The idea of making a genuine attempt at being understood or vulnerable or human and then being rejected and thought of as some maladjusted paranoid freak is a literal nightmare to him. If he just immediately lets you know don’t ever fucking talk to me because im a maladjusted paranoid freak, at least it was his choice to be perceived that way, and he is in control because he wanted you to hate him and he hates you back. Youre the dirt beneath his shoes.

There’s even a weird point of pride to him in knowing how much his coworkers hate him or are scared of him but also how much they can’t refute the sheer amount of contributions he’s made to his field of study.

🧩 : what part of themselves do they not understand yet?

I had this question previously and I kind of did a cop out answer of “everything” even though it was trueeee. I guess at another angle – he doesn’t really understand what he wants from what he studies. He’s so insanely defensive about this overlooked and misunderstood field and he’s tunnel visioned his whole life into it, but his application range is huge and weird. I imagine tons of his research is very sort of – esoteric? He hates the idea of “applied” research because he does not GAF, he isn’t really interested in parasites in terms of human disease or the flip side of how controlled infections could be used in medicine. I imagine a lot of what he does lacks any real “purpose” other than a general pursuit of knowledge or possibility and he learns a lot of new things just from obsessive observation and patience.

munday questions!

hiii jo 🩵 i answered this here;

i'll do both! for moral orel, i'd probably write stephanie. for smiling friends, maybe mr. boss or alan. love them both.

where?: the grocery store in which honey works.

post-show meetings : a regular custom for VIP, the high rollers, the ones who tip the girls in wads of cash. it’s always better than throwing it away at the tables    —    but vegas only exists to siphon the money and souls out of these suits. as trixie peeks behind a curtain, she lets a short sneer pull at her mouth    —    dark red lips pulled back at her cigarette, a millisecond of obvious disdain. the girls are already on the floor, sliding into champagne booths for private dances. but trixie has her eyes set on one guest    —    

“table 12.”    ace is over her shoulder, nodding. no one expects trouble, this is a pretty easy job. and, frankly, one of the cleanest jobs she’s had in a while. no blood on velvet, nothing to dispose of, they just need to talk for a while. trixie can talk.   “i’ll be at the entrance just in case.”  that voice, gruff, sharp, straight to the point. neither of them need confirmation. both know. he steps in first, parting the curtain for the woman of the hour    —     she’s emerging in a tailor suit, her hair in hollywood waves, with that signature don’t fuck with me look on her face. 

it’s all about control    —    the sway of the hips, how taut her shoulders pull back, even how she waves. the room cheers, raises glasses, she’s putting her hands on shoulders and thanking guests, she’s chatting with the bartender, she’s shmoozing. until she’s sliding into the chair across for alice. she’s got a bottle of champagne in her hands    —    “on the house, sugar.”   trixie pops the bottle, pours a glass and slides it across.     “so,”     she’s leaning back in her own seat, pouring a glass herself. one leg is crosses over the other, kicking gently, casually.    “i heard you got upgraded. lucky you. how are you enjoying it up here, so far?”

         in a crowd of dancing people, allie thinks that's when she feels the warmest, even while the sun is slowly setting behind their backs. it casts the world, and allie, in a perfect, golden glow. and for a moment all of them are precious, gleaming treasure, before the sun turns to rest for the night. and, oh, allie loves the day, but the night has its own kind of beauty. only, it gets ... quiet, and allie finds that she notices more. she's not so sure that it's always a good thing, but-

         this time, allie notices someone all alone, at the edge of the dancing crowd. it's some kind of festival or parade or lovely thing that's broken out of joy and the wonderful tendency of people to dance on a spinning earth, and to the sound of music. but not her, and allie can't help but think maybe she's lonely, over there, all by herself. that, and the fairy girl has a hard time looking away from her once she finds her. her curiosity gets like that, sometimes, blooming in doe eyes before allie even realizes, and moving her feet for her. allie's in front of her, then, holding her hand out in an invitation, with a bright smile, and her eyes twinkling starlight. " dance with me? " she chirps, wiggling her fingers.

things  said  or  done  with  a  cigarette...

He notices in the smallest way at first, the shift of the heat at the tip and the faint crackle as the paper takes to the flame. Arthur doesn't move away, doesn't even look at Vincent. He just goes still, like something pulled his body taut. The cigarette rests between his fingers, unearned fire licking at it. 

There is a pause. A long one. Then his eyes cut sideways. 

Not sharp, not startled. Measured. Slow. He's trying to decide if this was a kindness or a trespass. His tongue drags breifly over one canine, a tell he doesn't bother to hide. "...Didn't ask you to do that."

It isn't loud. Hell, it isn't even particularly angry. There's weight to it, something old and territorial. Something that doesn't like having hands where they weren't invited. He lifts the cigarette finally watching the ember more than Vincent. Testing it, considering it even. Like he might just let it burn out on principle alone, but he doesn't. 

He takes a drag, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving Vincent's face. The smoke spills from his mouth in a thin, controlled stream. A quiet exhale. "...Next time," he mutters, his voice gravely, "you ask."

He doesn't hand the cigarette back. Doesn't thank Vincent either.

         " ey, heard god is testing us at the same time. " césar slides into the bar stool next to him. he's bored, better poking at bears out of strangers than looking inward to what this hunger really craves. he waves over the bartender. " wanna' hang out? "