things have gotten closer to the sun [closed]

[lottawork]

He has it.

It had come together unprompted, without the click and slide of a solution slotting easily into place. There is never a click, a common misconception even in the highest echelons of academia - there is never a well-timed stroke of brilliance turned over by some new fragment of insight, simply the give of a problem folding beneath the fierce, continuous, brute force pressure of the uncontained mind. For weeks he has considered it, has become an expert in fields utterly beyond the scope of his specialties or his prolonged interest, and even with the minor distraction of Jackson's spontaneous return to the flesh, he has done little else but attack the set of circumstances without compromise.

The dog is asleep when he exits the building, and he locks his door upon departure, his movements streamlined by the fervent intent of intellectual energy, the strap of his bag taut over his chest as he commits himself to the grueling inadequacies of public transportation.

He knocks immediately upon building entry. He expects Asadi will be waiting for him.

Comments

[lottawork]

Rush says nothing but simply arches a brow, his features composed and disdainful.

Poison would be an uncomfortably apt description, he notes scornfully, surveying the selection of alcohol with frosty indifference. A brisk scan of the rows of dark- and clear-colored glass uncovers nothing so palatable as Scotch, and he scowls. He seizes some typical, revolting, American whiskey by the neck of its bottle and rejoins Asadi at the front.

"And what the fuck," says Rush, dubiously eyeing the plastic, colorful rectangle laid atop the counter between bottle and olives, "is that. Exactly."

[etherthief]

Iman hands the stoic cashier money, takes the bottle and waggles it at her companion. "You haven't even had any of this yet. It's almost 3 in the morning, your peak hour of awareness. You can't be having such intense short-term memory problems."

She accepts her change and bag of goodies with a polite thank you and turns to lead Rush back out into the night. "It's called a movie, Rush. You know, that thing I just suggested. We're going to watch a movie. It's going to be fun. I've seen you fun. I know it exists. And I," she turns back, showing him, showing him gleefully the result of his work as she holds both bag and bottle in two different hands, "have earned a glimpse."

More to the point, he's earned it himself. But she knows that won't get much traction with him.

[lottawork]

He looks at her with an expression he hopes communicates nothing but utter disdain, feeling that at this point any eye-rolling would simply prove superfluous.

"Remind me never to comply with any scheme of yours ever again," says Rush, "as your idea of fun appears to significantly deviate from my own."

He is fully capable of departing from her gratingly cheerful company and returning to his own apartment, blissfully devoid of movies or social obligations of any kind save for the indifferent dog, and his strand of reasoning dissolves into weary acquiescence for no reason he can immediately enumerate to himself.

[etherthief]

"Oh my god, what is your idea of fun?" she says, forcing herself to slow a bit so she can walk in step with him. "Seriously, please enlighten me. Is it working? Working doesn't count. Work is... fulfilling. Sometimes fun, the adjective. But it's not fun the noun."

She feels very strongly about this, apparently.

[lottawork]

"Obviously we've a difference of opinion," he says dryly. "Your understanding of the concept does not remotely align with mine."

Approaching the familiar looming silhouette of her building cultivates a mounting feeling of trepidation, which he dismisses on principle. Whatever Asadi's notions of sufficient pastimes may include, at least he may anticipate the presence of ethanol to counter it.

[etherthief]

"Obviously," she says. Well, fair enough. She supposes he's entitled to his weird Scottish opinions.

She quiets for the rest of the way home and leads him back upstairs; once there she sets things out and slides the movie disc into her computer.

"I've never seen this," she says. "Doesn't exist in my universe. But I figure anything called Die Hard has to be worthwhile, right?" She smiles at him and grabs the jar of olives. "Hey, look what I can do."

She opens the jar. The arm is still a little stiff and awkward but it's running about as smoothly as can be expected, and really, working with what they had, it's more than she could have hoped. She smiles, digs out an olive and pops it in her mouth.

"I'll make you a deal," she says after a moment. "Tonight you subscribe to my idea of fun. After that, I'll subscribe to your idea of work. And we'll... we'll figure out the secondary objective."

She glances up at him, meets his eyes. "Okay?"

[lottawork]

He is certain that any film boasting that sort of title is overwhelmingly likely to not be suited to his time or to his tastes, selective and profound as those may be, and he eyes the case skeptically.

He heaves a weary, possibly exaggerated sigh and retrieves the bottle of likely revolting whiskey. Considering the length of time he has been awake, it is not unreasonable to presume he would lack the requisite finger strength to open said bottle. The corner of his mouth twitches. Alleged failure of an objective is remarkably simple to manufacture.

"I suppose," he says crisply, extending the bottle to her. "Do me the honor?"

[etherthief]

Iman raises an eyebrow at him, smirking as she takes the bottle and opens it easily.

"For such a sneaky shit that was pretty fuckin' obvious," she says, grabbing them a couple glasses and pouring a little in each. She hands his off to him. "But I'll let it slide. You know I love opening things. Bottles. Locked doors. Cans of worms."

She slides onto her couch and gives the space beside her a little pat. "Come on, let's see what 'Die Hard' has to offer us."

[lottawork]

"Improbably-shot, commercially masculine conflict, no doubt." He studies his glass and its amber-colored contents with disdain before draining the thing in a brusque swallow.

He complies with a resigned sigh, dropping onto Asadi's couch, glass still in hand, worrying the rim with a persistent thumbnail as he watches Americans talk about planes and post-flight relaxation procedures.

The headache that has taken residence behind his eyes exponentiates by insufferable increments. He shuts his eyes against the screen's vibrant, pixelated glare, which succeeds in taking the edge from the bright supraorbital pressure.

Uninterested in contemplating the merits of Die Hard or its, apparently, law-upholding protagonist, he considers the secondary objective. That will certainly require more time, significantly more knowledge on the sort of implements Asadi stored within her arm, the specific properties of each ability she has since demonstrated, and he must debate the benefits of replicating the interior or creating his own system autoschediastically, a possibility with which he doubts she will be highly enthused for a number of reasons, all of which break apart upon contact with his mind as it progresses toward the thing it is progressing toward, his head sunk to one shoulder, his breath quiet and even, his musculature slack and still.

[etherthief]

The movie starts unpromisingly but Iman doesn't care; she's set to enjoy it. It doesn't take long, however, to note Rush's state, and for a moment her attention is drawn fully away from the screen and onto the sleeping cryptographer. Her eyes get very wide indeed, feeling herself light up as though she's being presented with a puppy. This is a sight she never expected to see.

For a moment she's not sure what to do, if she should rouse him or just let him be - pause the movie or let it carry on - go to bed or stay here. She decides to go with option B in all three cases, though she does turn the movie down a bit, after after a moment she tugs loose the same blanket she and Greta had sat wrapped up in not too long ago to drape it gently over him.

She settles back and watches the movie, which improves exponentially as it gets more and more into its comfort zone of action and suspense. It's enjoyable, but she's only half-concentrating on it, her attention mostly on the small miracle of her mood, finally coming down from almost manic elation to settle into simple contentment. It's not just that her arm partially works again, it's that Rush is here. He'd probably rather be at home trying to be productive, falling asleep on his floor, but he stayed here, and he allowed himself to drift off in her company.

She pulls her legs up and wraps both arms around them, smiling as she rests her chin on her knees.

It doesn't take long for her to drift off as well, the movie continuing unobserved.

[lottawork]

Static presses dimly behind the ache in his eyes, mantling his mind in the warped, digitized fuzz of numerical error. There is a tone humming persistently in his general vicinity, its temerity marginally shy of unbearable.

His hands fist into the fabric covering him as he attempts to realign his mental pathways, resolute despite the sensation of being irreversibly mired in choppy, viscous postsleep neural sludge.

His eyes snap open in parallel to the pressing of hands against the first lateral surface, which is the seat of a couch and he does not own a couch nor does he sleep on couches as he has long since made this a necessary criterion for his state of being.

He twists himself upright, apparently overestimates his body's sense of balance and weight in relation to gravity, and ends up on the floor.

He employs the couch as leverage to drag himself back into what can be possibly construed as a sitting position and tries not to feel asthenic.

The tone of the screen and its insistent murmur of static has grown intolerable and so he lurches fully to his feet and begins cutting an unerring line for the door as he requires coffee absolutely fucking requires it and he will require it immediately and then he will need to get the fuck away from this couch he does not own a couch.

[etherthief]

Iman stirs amidst all the flapping around, blinking sleepily around her living room, for a moment too disoriented to remember how she wound up here. Rush hauling himself up from the floor and staggering off somewhere like a man possessed brings it all back, and she grins sleepily, stretching out her recovered arm. Stiffer than it was last night - it'll require a lot of maintenance before it's up to snuff, but it works, and it feels so good.

"Hey," she chides gently. "Where do you think you're goin, without so much as a g'morning?" She rolls off the couch and pads over to the kitchenette. "Settle down, I'll make you coffee for the road."

[lottawork]

"I do not sleep," growls Rush, "on couches."

He makes it to the door and leans against it with a press of forehead to wood as he attempts to condense his perception and his irritation and his fatigue into something marginally workable. There are a number of things he can ascertain. One - recently, to his superb exasperation and despite his endurance and continued resistance to any such outcome, he fell asleep. Two - he fell asleep on a couch. Three - Asadi is present. Four -

He savagely aborts any further enumeration when his mind brings all the relevant pieces together under a single permutation: he is not in his apartment. He is in Asadi's apartment, and it is, clearly, early enough in the morning for him to be sufficiently disoriented.

Rush sighs and opens his eyes. The vertical streaks of wood grain inches from his nose are incapable of holding his interest, and he turns away.

[etherthief]

"Oh, sure," she says, setting up the coffeemaker. "Well, I won't tell." She turns to look at him, watching the very visible struggle as he recovers himself piece by piece. "Bathroom's through there," she says with a nod toward the appropriate door. "Coffee'll just be a minute. I'm going with you. I want to show Greta what you did."

She turns away, lets him fend for himself, getting a thermos out of the cabinet for Rush's journey home. It's so easy, just falling back into step, using both hands again - but it feels new, too. She smiles to herself, flexing her fingers slowly. She can't open them up, can't activate the little internal mechanisms, but they're all in place, fitted delicately back in, dormant for now. They'll figure it out. As they promised each other.

[lottawork]

He flaps a hand dismissively in her direction but concedes, reluctantly, that there may be some merits in heeding the tacit suggestion. The bathroom's white tile is unbearably bright against his retinas. He flips on the water with a sharp twist of the faucet handle, letting the water run cool and laminar over his hands before cupping splashes of it over his face. It tastes bright, clean.

Rush sighs with both hands braced against either side of the sink, and breathes.

He dashes the back of a wrist over his face, swiping away the sleep sticking to his eyelids, and exits.

"Of course," he says dryly. "I should have assumed. Planning on telling her anytime soon?" He delivers the question smoothly, seamlessly injecting it into the conversation with a vagueness he's certain she'll find less than amusing.

[etherthief]

"It'll be better as a surprise," Iman answers just as seamlessly, for a moment oblivious. "It's not like I don't have a habit of dropping in unan-"

Oh wait. She lifts her head, rolling her shoulders back slightly as his intended meaning reaches her.

"...Right," she says. "I don't see why it matters so much to you."

She pours the coffee into the thermos and shuts it tightly.

[lottawork]

"It doesn't." He accepts the thermos and sips at its contents immediately, the heat and substance immediately shaving more of the bladed edge from his headache. "But it matters to you, obviously."

He retrieves his bag with the fluid catch and pull of a hand, its load considerably lighter than it was the night prior.

"My advice?" Rush looks at her coolly. "Don't prolong it. That benefits none of the parties involved."

apparently it was time for heavy introspection, do u regret asking yet rush

[etherthief]

[[also cw for some hints of racism at the end yay]]


"Thank you," she says, managing to sound only a little droll. "I'm sure it will be handled when the time is right."

She picks up her wallet, keys, and phone, adjusts her hijab a bit, and heads out with him.

On their way to the subway station she eventually resumes the conversation, speaking slow and thoughtfully: "No one is strictly benefiting from this, no. But you have to consider what this would mean to Greta. She wants to go home, and we've promised to find a way. She has a husband there, a son. She doesn't expect them to wait for her long - life expectancy in that world isn't what it is to us. I don't want to make myself an obstacle. I don't want to confuse her. If she became involved with anyone here, it would be - a distraction. Temporary at best. An unwanted intrusion at worst."

She sighs heavily. It's hard to think along these lines, but it's important, too, to say it out loud. Reinforce it for herself. As close as she's come recently to spilling this truth, it merits revisiting.

"That's not even getting into the other thing," she says. She waits to continue until they've navigated the morning commuters, have slid through the turnstiles, and are waiting on the platform. "She didn't know people like us existed until she got here. Sexual and gender fluidity, that's - there's so much that's all foreign to her. She's adapting, of course, but it's one thing to know it exists and another to confront it in yourself, after a lifetime of knowing and living a solitary option." She shakes her head, pulling her arms around herself - enjoying the fact that she can. "There's no way I can think for me to tell her how I feel without it being a predominantly selfish act."

The train arrives, loud and grating, and she steps on. A woman moves conspicuously to avoid standing near her; a man gives her a lingering dirty look. She ignores them. This is easy. They do not matter.

[lottawork]

"I assure you," says Rush. "If she is a fraction as perceptive as she was in the TARDIS, it's overwhelmingly likely that she is already aware."

The subject is not one he is eager to debate at any length - he simply finds it incredibly fucking grating that both women seem, apparently, reluctant to define their relationship. Seeming lack of social understanding demonstrates an absence of interest, not necessarily the absence of any particular skill. He -

He does not want to think of her, and even less does he want to think of Mandy.

He torques his mind from the subject mercilessly.

"Talk to her about it," he says, managing to sound exasperated rather than anyone intent on distributing romantic advice in good faith. "Regardless of outcome, the both of you can only benefit from that option."

The train hisses to a stop with the straining screech of steel on steel and he boards, studiously avoiding eye contact with the faceless, nameless, innocuous flood of pedestrians as they pass from arrival to destination in a featureless, streamlined spill.

The heavy mechanical sound of the train pulling out heralds the powerful jolt that nearly upsets his center of gravity. He scowls.

public harassment and racism, bc apparently this thread was too delightful

[etherthief]

She sighs and narrowly avoids reaching out to steady him. "I will when I will," she says. "It's a process that will happen at its own pace."

Maybe he'll accept that.

She keeps silent for the ride, steadfastly staring ahead to avoid the glances of strangers who have, apparently, never seen a hijabi before.

There is one man, however, who becomes increasingly difficult to ignore, his stare is so brazenly unbroken. After several stops and no departure on his part, she sighs and looks back at him, meeting his eyes calmly.

"Have you been helped, sweetie?" she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

Her open condescension does the trick. The man straightens up in unconcerned offense, his stare now less accusing and more disgusted.

He answers her in a low grunt, only partially audible under the metallic shriek of the train; she rolls her eyes before he's even done, it's just the usual shit, terrorists and murderers, yes, yes. Oh, nice, a slur, how original. She laughs derisively and shakes her head. Joke's on you, buddy, no one's killing her good mood. Not today.

Her lack of reaction, as it often does, only garners more scorn; the man snaps, "Take that thing off in here. This is America."

She looks, this time, at Rush, who she'd previosuly been avoiding; the only thing worse than being spoken to like this is having it done in front of friends. But that opening was too good.

"Oh my god," she says, giving him a theatrically accusing stare. "We're in AMERICA? How drunk did we GET last night?"

[lottawork]

Oh, how excellent. Public derision, the origins of which he can only fucking guess.

Rush arches a brow with an atypical theatrical flare, unimpressed.

He looks at the man in question with as much scathing self-possession as he can bring to bear, the full, intolerable force of his unmitigated scorn from which the offender cannot help but look away.

"Unfortunately, I don't believe a response monosyllabic enough exists in his case." He smiles, icy and flinted. "He needn't have acquainted himself with an entire new vocabulary on our account."

[etherthief]

The man seems altogether thrown off by Rush's interjection into the proceedings - whether it's his hard, merciless stare, his thick accent, or his esoteric wit, Iman can't say, but whatever it is - or whatever combination - it's enough that the asshole leaves her be. She ducks her head down to incompletely hide a smile.

They exit the train finally, allowing her to breathe a little easier, easier still as they return above ground and approach Rush and Greta's building.

"You wanna drop in and say hi?" she asks nonchalantly as he opens the front door.

[lottawork]

He does not favor the transgressor with an additional look as they cross the threshold from train to surface, then city to building with the click and catch of a door being unlocked and opened.

The implication that he would in any capacity prefer the option of being able to 'say hi' is absurd, and Rush snorts. "And do what, exactly."

[etherthief]

"See Greta's reaction to your handy-work?" She waggles her recovered fingers for emphasis, then proceeds smoothly to the elevator. "It's sure to be adorable. I mean, suit yourself. I'm sure you have a lot of important wall-writing to get to." She slips into the elevator, selects Greta's floor, and holds the door for him. She's not exactly desperate to drag Rush along into this interaction, but Greta will be happy to see her arm like this, and she'll probably want to express her gratitude and enthusiasm to him directly. And then she'll get to see her favorite Rush of all, which is the Rush who pretends he doesn't give a shit about anyone else. Bonus.

[lottawork]

He regards her with a sharp, withering look and follows her into the elevator and leans back, head pressed against the dull, vaguely reflective material that is simultaneously too similar and not similar enough to that which composed the elevators in the disused, derelict ROMAC building.

That isn't an immediately useful thought. He dismisses it.

He looks at the ceiling in quiet vexation and says nothing, even as the doors slide noiselessly open and they enter the hall.