Some like it fraught

Hmmmrmmm earlier I saw some debate flying around my dash w/r/t nicknames and terms of endearment. I have a few words about this! They follow thusly:

“Baby”? “Babe”? “Angelface”?

Nay, I say.

Nay.

For clearly — c l e a r l y — the most beautous yet underappreciated of them all is “darling”.

Por. Ejemplo…

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You guess it could be worse — Sam’s textual cornucopia of suspiciously expository gobbledygook tried and failed to assure you as much, so thank freakin’ God you guess that Sybil’s vanishingly small claim on her own sanity came to the rescue.

Sure, yeah, you’re not dissauded from thinking a server-client chain slapped together with the express purpose of downplaying the most egregious of apocalyptic scenarios doesn’t make a damn lick of sense in light of finding out this game AL-THEFUCK-READY makes the Apocalypse with a Capital A a veritable shoe-in; but hell, you’re a street tough maverick with a heart of golblisteringly tarnished silver (where the crap did that other thing come from?) and God help you if there’s a shit ton you’re willing to put up with if this arrangement means that a) your clonedaddy and his grafted-on one-man horrorterror posse has to serve as your client (oho, the plans you have… ), and b) one of your Only Favorite People ends up pleased as peaches with how Sam-as-client-player is slated to play out at the chain’s end.

Still; when it also means putting up with, uh, this:

… you have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.

“‘Frigglish hesitated, circling as he gave the small jut of stone the sort of circumspect consideration a man not bound to the tickticktick flagging his own (both by proxy and karmic necessity) fast-encroaching doom might; took a moment to scour one thumbnail down the length of its main crenelation like a zephyr slicing through a gorge for a quick visit that was no less fond in its caresses of matter on unlike matter; then, having failed to betray the stalling tactic to all but the most discerning eye (which amounted to zero, by the way; Frigglish was alone and only had his ego to appease on this count), he slowly raised his mallet and its jaggy-edged companion, a rod of magicked quartz which could be likened to a celery stick gnawed to its halfway point by a particularly ill-mannered kindergartner, held them at perpendicular, took aim at the tiny obelisk, and drew back his swinging arm to’ — um, okay” — John swiveled his computer lab seat to level Rose a direct look — “before I spiral endlessly into this semi-colon apeshit apocalypse that’s not normally your thing but it is here for some reason, I’ve gotta ask: just what are you hoping to accomplish with… this?”

“Nothing more than a case study of what happens when I combine one of the Strider-helmed dreamlogs I keep handy, experiential fallout from The Course Whose Name We Dare Not Speak, and” — Rose reached to cover John’s hand with hers — “your blessing as a master of both artifice and the perpetuation of quote unquote ‘bro shit,’ if you care to hazard further inquiry.”

He would need to, but enough of the plan had filtered through to provoke a laugh and, “This already sounds completely awful and amazing,” before John initiated a kiss whose sloppy implementation was only second to the couple’s very first (swivel chairs aren’t supposed to tilt that way, after all).

The thing about Harley is that there is no one thing; or two, or any satisfying quantifications that truss the whole of her while inviting room to tuck in the edges, neat and sequestered to within an inch of your appeasement. You don’t feel the sting of this for practical reasons anymore — you’ve entrusted her with your life enough times (albeit many, many “enoughs” before it stuck) to forgo peeling back the layers of sunshine and keen shrapnel for a motivation check — but when she’s rattling off mission details like a poor simile involving her prowess with a rifle or juggling so much apart from your share of the elbow grease and brainwork that you’re inclined to believe she could ply entire worlds to her whim given the chance… well, it’s hard not to bemoan the lack of imagination if the preceding is the best you can come up with.

Then again, when she can quell your misgivings about transparently-codenamed mendicants with a kiss to the soft spot behind your ear and a thumbs up as she dons the sort of headgear only an English could love and then Team Lalonde-Harley still manages to tease apart the Gordian Knot of espionage with panache and minimal collateral, it occurs that Jade may have more than enough imagination for the both of you (and that, given additional “enoughs”, you could learn to be okay with this too).

[Follow-up to this.]

A storm rolled in later that day, sudden, fierce, and still early enough for the Lalondes to be entertaining their guests at a reasonable hour. Late enough, too, for John’s father to be disinclined towards braving rain and bluster for the trek home. Ms. Lalonde bemoaned sleeping arrangements between allusions to things John only half grasped, every last protestation falling to implacable (if sympathetic) ears. “Some things simply can’t be helped,” was what his father boiled it down to.

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She drags you there one week shy of graduation with a pretty blue Halston and a few more benjamins on her person than you either care or know to question, and you proceed to be a Good Boy who doesn’t let on how much this bugs the shit out of him (never mind whether the truth bleeds through every etch and minutely tautened sweep of your body language) — because fuck this was supposed to be your scene, yet ahead she swept because she had the brains and gumpton to pull it off while a certain Sister Dearest and the flighty Boy Wonder doubled-teamed you on Operation: Keep Strider’s Head Down and in the Books until the Last Mortarboard Hits the Finely-Manicured Lawn.

So it goes you spend half the time chatting her up as though you can wrap your head around her owning and living and breathing this place, the rare slip earning you a chirping laugh or wrinkled-nosed admonishment or a whap on the arm or combination thereof; you are spending the other half tipping back drinks and in your daydreams you are behind the turntables, it is you, fingers poised and twitching light smudgey whorls into the countertop on the assumption no one is looking when she suddenly turns to you with a grin and says, “Ooh, any idea if Quaadludes can mix with that?”

You do know enough about the scene that it takes hosing the bartender with vermouth-and-something-fuck-who-cared-at-the-time and Jade administering a few healthy whacks on the back for the stuff that didn’t come up right — oh my god i was joking dave, and honestly stop acting like its your business to stop me from doing stupid stuff id never do anyway jeeeez!! — before you can start breathing like a normal human being again.

askgrimdorks:

 

ooooh i dont know......
maybe being snatched from a dead and crumbling universe by people who had no business saving you in the first place but did anyways???
now simmer the hell down, jeeeez

heheh uhhhh yeah, this might look a tad harsh.......
but you guys should have seen the last time this mister started getting a little snippy with us! <_<

and aside from previous timey whimey spacey wacey mindfuckery evident here that were never going to explain

haha nnnope! :)

the offers still good harley
one way trip late jurassic
playing home across your wall thingy i mean

... wall thingy

yeah
guy could join a compsognathus herd easy
he even came well equipped with or without the shanking come on its the most fucking humane thing we could do for him at this point

hmmmmmm........
well, ill give it serious consideration in the case of him trying to stab karkat or john again :p

works for me

oh!! speaking of!
this isnt really our show so lets proceed, shall we?
by which i mean an entirely other 'us' in the lets heehee ;D

ye

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