Mouse rarely checked his inbox. It was on the other side of campus for one thing, but primarily there wasn’t a reason to. Nobody needed to contact him, and those who did used email. The only reason he was today was because a back issue of Science & Vie was supposed to be arriving today.
Instead of a magazine, he was greeted with a manila envelope with his name and an official looking seal on it. Frowning, he opened the envelope, first skimming and then rereading with a profound confusion and upset. They couldn’t make him do it. It was requested, it said so at the top of the letter. He couldn’t physically be forced to do this.
…though the number of zeroes after the words Grant Total was tempting.
But no. Absolument non.
An hour later, after a long meeting with the president of the university, Mouse returned to his lab, shaking and almost in tears. It seemed they could make him. Not technically of course, but if he wanted to keep his job—and there were so few positions in phytochemistry—he had to.
He didn’t like having to do things.
He didn’t like being forced to work with others.
He didn’t like useless fields of science, though he begrudgingly admitted that if there was a point to astrophysics, this would probably be it.
He was going to have to work primarily out of his lab. Neutral space, they had called it. At least the university was recognizing that throwing the two least sociable researchers in a room together for an unknown length of time was a terrible idea. And Mouse supposed it was preferable than trusting an astrophysicist with his lab, but.
His lab was home.
Slowly, miserably, on the verge of a panic attack, Mouse began taking stock of what he’d need to bring with him.
If the new lab had fluorescent lighting, he was quitting.
James Moriarty was a curious man. Albeit he was willing to store knowledge of all kinds at the back of his head, it often failed to stay there should it prove to be unnecessary to his own field. There were fields he regarded unnecessary by default, such as phytochemistry. It was a mild surprise to him to receive an invitation to work with the professor of said field on a new theory of transporting life (in this case plants, he supposed) into space successfully. The amount of money he would be paid sufficed to launch at least two new projects regarding dark space and extragalactic research. He admitted, working together with another professor (especially one with the field phytochemistry) irked him to no end. Jim Moriarty was far from sociable to begin with and only ever got involved when his interest was piqued, therefore he decided to put little effort into cooperating – barely enough to keep the project moving fast.
Besides, the thought of working on neutral ground unsettled him. Jim has all his secret notes and little researches scattered throughout his office as a reminder of his purpose in this facility. He was here to research, to discover beauty outside this boring world.
Exactly one day later, Jim stood in the empty new lab in his usual attire. Only now, because it involved chemistry, Jim was forced to put on a lab coat – those uncomfortable pieces of clothing. Jim worked in a lab with fluorescent lighting, but this one used simple light bulbs with a tint of yellow. It was bearable, but he might not be able to see all the details on a map as clearly as he could.
Just as he began to set up his maps and other utensils, he heard the door open with a slight creak.
So today is the 5th of March and I haven’t actually come back to RPing yet. I did say I have a busy schedule. The thing is this:
I really want to cut my hair short but my parents are strictly against it. I have this trip to Ireland planned for the end of April and I thought I’d secretly cut it when I was there but now my mother proposed that if I get good grades on all my following exams (up to the Ireland trip there are 4) I am allowed to cut it at least above shoulder length (I’ll cut it a bit shorter than that during Ireland but yeah) and this means so. damn. much. to me!
Therefore I really do want to apologize for my continued absence, I will have free time on Sunday and then after the exam on Tuesday I’ll be free too. In the meanwhile I think I’ll write little notes about the re-vamped Jim and stuff for your enjoyment and my organisation.
Jim and I miss you all a lot. You can’t even imagine how much.
tl;dr: Busy for a bit longer than expected, but back soon.
So… tomorrow is my last day of writing this short story. (today I’ll be over 20 000 words but shh still a short story)
I AM BACK TO TUMBLR ONCE MARCH STARTS.
Jim had some alone time, and he wanted me to re-think a few things. So. There will be a small re-vamp and then I’m going to start rping again (as regularly as possible for someone with a busy schedule - please bear with me).
thank you for your attention. have a wonderful day. <3
When I realized I loved you
it was not romantic
Not flush with pink roses & wine
but rather normal
Rather standing in line at CVS
clutching a four pack of peanut butter cups
& cold medicine
It was a quiet realization
Like checking the weather I was currently standing in
"Huh. It’s a bit warmer
than I would have guessed.”
In between your apologies, I wish there were more beautiful words. See, I know about the bad nights and the nail-biting, heart-numbing sadness, but I also know about the kissing. I know about the caring. I know about the open hands and soft words, and I’m trying to turn this into something good.
I wish I had more to say, words that would suck the sadness from your bones on the nights when your silence is a brick cell that keeps you caged and screaming silently. I have kept my hands soft and my word softer, to talk you down from the kitchen knives and razor blades, but I cannot make you thirst for life. You are so beautiful, salmon tongue and ivory teeth, that I cannot understand the nights you stain your skin with stars to keep the scars from coming out with the full moon. You are, after all, the thing that makes me hungry for daylight, bones sewn together long enough to reach me before the collapse. You are, after all, a shelter from the splintered mess of hard world and angry hands. The nights turn bad when I know your depression is sharpening your edges and dimming the moon – the nights turn bad when the clocks stop and you begin your countdown.
I know I am not your cure. But I am here – I will kiss you until morning comes."
Burn all of your bridges
just so that you can build them again
with thicker ropes.
Hurt all the people you love
and then commit every felony to win them back.
Drown yourself in bleach until not even Heaven’s light
can compare to how bright you can burn.
Turn yourself inside out
and paint your organs the color of what you see
in your dreams.
This is the art of
living with a ticking heart — a grenade you
throw through windows to make a
point that language
has no room for.
This is how I destroyed you. And this, is how
I kept you alive.
Dig yourself a ditch, six
feet deep, and bury everything that you’ve ever
said, everything that you’ve never
meant, and everything that has
burned you and left you with nothing
you take up smoking because
you need something besides
to destroy yourself with, to
set alight and
he says, frowning, “you
should stop, it’ll kill you” and
you want to say,
“that’s the point.”
the splinters of every word
you’ve ever wanted to say
are hiding caught behind your teeth.
you want to say,
“you’ll kill me before the cigarettes do.”
you want to say,
“come take the smoke from my lungs.”
you want him to use his tongue to
kill your demons.
if he throws these away
like last time, you’re prepared with
an extra pack in your suitcase,
beneath the wrinkled shirts
and bad weather.
the lighter is always