bakerstreet | did you check the fridge

did you check the fridge

NOTES ON THE FRIDGE

You're sharing a space: a home, an office, a Batcave, whatever. But you're busy and your schedules don't quite match up -- but you have plenty of note paper! Time to leave a note (or two)!

instructions:

- comment with your character name & canon in the subject line + if you just want one-on-one interactions (1:1) or you're open to anything (ota)

- in your top level leave a starter note - a shopping list, a reminder, just a comment, whatever you'd like

- others reply to this note!

- you can "edit" notes by copy/pasting them and striking out words, adding doodles, writing over/under, or just add another note!

- if the commenter is ota, jump in on other people's threads! maybe you're all sharing the space as a group or team! please don't jump into threads if they're marked 1:1!

- do you sign the note or leave it anonymous? do you recognize the handwriting?

- have fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Her gaze drops down to the touch, or the place where the touch just was, before she draws back her hand.

(She misses touching him. She misses touching anyone, really, even herself. The camera in the bedroom hasn't deterred her from changing her clothes, since Hap's seen it all before, but it has kept her from doing anything more than that. The idea of masturbation has crossed her mind, sure -- out of sheer boredom as much as anything, sometimes. But she can't find the drive for it. It would feel tawdry, when Hap has been so determinedly chaste towards her since they got here.) ]

Okay, "other sides." Fair enough. Non-judgmental and non-denominational.

[ She picks up her own tea, cradling it to her chest with both hands. ]

Do you know what yours is like?

[ Hap's gaze drops to his tea and he shakes his head with a touch of regret. ]

I don't. [ He doesn't have what they have. Natural insight. (Divine power.) He likes to think there is something special about him for having heard that unearthly sound in the first place. His gift is to be the instrument that taps the subjects' source. His burden is to do what has to be done.

With a chagrined smile, he looks at her again. ] And I can't.

[ They need him. She needs him. ]

Why not? You said you have a process for it. Couldn't you -- find a colleague to run you through it?

[ She smiles ruefully at her own stutter, clarifying, ] I guess it's hard to experience death temporarily without someone to get you back.

[ He takes his teabag by the string and swirls it, studying her face. Does she think anyone interested in this avenue of research is any more merciful, more pliable than him? She can't possibly. He's her best bet. Someone else is an unknown variable.

Someone else would be Leon and his efficiency can border on ruthless. Hap can't leave her in his hands. ]

It's too risky. Remember? [ He told her the failure rate is much higher for someone who hasn't experienced it before. It was a stressful evening, though, as frictionless as she made it seem. He's trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. ]

I remember you saying you can't make me a subject, I think.

[ Her earlier unease has mostly settled, and more than anything now, she seems genuinely curious. She has other motivations, yes: rebuilding rapport and trust, understanding Hap's motivations. But the whole discussion is, on its own merits and in spite of its darker aspects, interesting. ]

What are the risks? Besides the obvious that you might not come back.

Is that not enough? [ Hap asks on a disbelieving laugh. There is also the possibility of coming back damaged, which would be a kind of death for him as well. It would impact the work. He needs to get as much done as he can before age really starts to exact a toll on him and, by extension, it. ]

[ Bella snorts, nodding in acknowledgement.]

Well, when you put it like that.

Have you read Plath?

[ An intrigued grin. ]

A long, long time ago.

It just made me think of "Lady Lazarus." I'm trying to remember it. [ She cocks her head, glancing off into the middle distance, and recites, ] "Like the cat, I have nine times to die." And then somewhere in there it's ... "Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels real. I do it so it feels like hell."

[ She's got some of the lines mixed up, not that she knows it. When she finishes, she ducks her head with a sheepish grin and sips her tea. ]

"Out of the ashes I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air."

[ She remembers it better than he does. Hap mostly remembers the emotion it struck him with. (It was a girlfriend who coaxed him into reading more of Plath after undergrad. She had dark hair and fair skin too.) Vigor, to discover his fixation reflected in someone else's words; and lust, to translate his own intense curiosity into such a keen understanding. His smile softens and darkens.

He clears his throat. ]

I forgot how evocative she is.

[ Hap glances away, ostensibly to check how much time is left to steep, and sanitizes his expression. ]

Maybe I'll order a book or two.

[ She glances up when he clears his throat, catching the tail end of his smile, and immediately looks away. The awkwardness of reciting a poem -- not very well, to her mind, since she can't remember most of it -- collides with hot, surprising victory at what she thinks she sees in his expression.

Get him back on your side.

If this is what does it, good. ]

Mmm. I think every girl I knew in undergrad had the exact same existential crisis when we read The Bell Jar. Watching our figs wither.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

	
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did you check the fridge

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