Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“… Mr. Jacobi?”

Jacobi immediately snapped his attention away from his conversation with Maxwell, looking over to Kepler, “Yes, sir?”

Kepler stood next to the food table at the Goddard Futuristics company Thanksgiving potluck, dressed sensibly in a turkey-inspired sweater and a pair of black slacks, staring down into the dish Jacobi was forced to bring to the holiday party. The expression on his face was decidedly not festive whatsoever.

“Mr. Jacobi, come here this instant,” Kepler seethed.

Jacobi and Maxwell exchanged glances before Daniel shrugged, handing Maxwell his drink and walking over to Kepler.

“What. Is. This.” Kepler emphasized each word with an infuriated gesture at the tray.

Jacobi knit his eyebrows together, looking down at his dish, “Uh. Is this a trick question?”

Kepler lowered his voice, taking on a threatening tone, “I told you to bring a salad. A goddamn salad. What the fuck is this?” His pitch and eyebrows raised at the last sentence.

“It’s a…. salad?”

Kepler’s face went slack, dumbfounded, “This looks like a goddamn tray of Oreo ice cream.”

“That’s the point, sir. It’s cookie and cream fluff salad.”

“Cookies and cream…. fluff… salad?” Kepler paused to take a deep breath. “I don’t know what possessed you to think this is what I meant when I told you to bring a salad. A normal salad, Mr. Jacobi. With lettuce and croutons. Maybe cucumbers if you were feeling frisky. With a tasteful vinaigrette? Ring any bells? Saaalaaad.”

Jacobi rolled his eyes, scoffing, “Yeah, I know what salad is, thanks. I just assumed no one would want a normal salad at a party, so I made party salad. Who the fuck even eats salad?”

“I eat salad.” Kepler deadpanned.

“I- Well, you haven’t even tried my salad! Family recipe, straight from my mama’s notebooks,” Jacobi fixed Kepler a small plate and handed it to him with a plastic spoon. “Try,” Jacobi crossed his arms expectantly.

Kepler grimaced at the dish before taking a small spoonful and giving it a try. His face must have gone through a dozen micro-expressions in the time it took Kepler to swallow, and Jacobi couldn’t pinpoint what a single one meant until the man spoke.

“Jacobi… that’s disgusting. If your mom made you this slop, I suddenly understand why you are the way you are.”

Jacobi scoffed, “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean!”

Chapter Text

Sometimes, when he has no work to occupy his mind and an entire weekend to himself, Jacobi likes to get high. For days on end. Maybe too high, to the point where standing is overwhelming, and any physical or mental stimulation takes his mind out of this reality entirely. To the point where he feels like putty, like a chunk of plastic explosive molded into the form of Daniel Jacobi, rotting on his bed. C4 lying idle, waiting for a detonation. He could feel all that energy inside his body, held down weakly by his skin.

On days like these, it was better than getting drunk, way better than being sober. If he was drunk, he might make some regretful phone calls and choke to death on his own vomit. If he were sober, he’d make the same phone calls and, unfortunately, live to see the aftermath. Being high is better. He rots in the same bed, he thinks the same thoughts, but he forgets what he was gonna do before he even picks up the phone, then he laughs it off. 

When the overwhelming high wears off into a normal one, Jacobi listens to his music, and he dances. He calls Alana and plays pretend-sober. He walks to the grocery store and buys an unreasonable amount of pecorino. 

When the normal high wears off into nothing, he’s in bed again, but this time surrounded by pecorino. He realizes he doesn’t even like Italian cheese that much. He thinks about how much he misses Wisconsin cheese. He thinks about Milwaukee, then his father. He thinks about Colonel Kepler, about his furrowed brow and demanding tone. He thinks about Warren, about his soft touch and warm praise. He thinks about Freud. 

 He gets high again. 

Chapter Text

There was once a time when Jacobi would be buzzing with excitement when the mild spring weather turned into scorching heat. If it was any other year, he would lock himself in his apartment with the AC blasting, wasting his entire paycheck on powders and chemicals and metals in preparation for the one day of the year the entire country collectively agreed to shoot explosives into the sky. It was his bread and butter. It was his day to force his favorite people to eat shitty hot dogs and give them a firework show that never failed to amaze.

But those people aren’t here anymore. Now it’s someone else’s turn to drag Jacobi out on a sweaty summer night and force-feed him hot dogs against his will.

“I feel like this could be a setup for a joke. An alien, AI, amnesiac, former terrorist, and Polish woman walk into a… yard?” Eiffel tilts his head, trying to formulate a punchline.

“Well… I was American before the alien thing-” Lovelace is cut off as overlapping objections come in from the rest of the crew.

“Yeah, and I’m an American AI!”

“I wouldn’t really call myself a terrorist…”

“America is a country composed of immigrants so-”

“Yeah, yeah, but we’re not exactly the most patriotic bunch,” Eiffel laughs, watching as the kids across the street light morning glories and wave them around, tracing hearts and stars into the air, the patterns fading just as fast as they appear.

“We can pretend. Anyway, whoever lights the next firework gets the next hot dog,” Lovelace throws Jacobi a look from behind the grill.

Jacobi frowned from his lawn chair, ignoring her in favor of sipping the beer he’s had in a death grip for the last half hour. Lovelace appears behind him and shoves a plate into his hand. He rolls his eyes, trying to shove it back at her.

“You haven’t eaten,” Lovelace narrows her eyes.

Jacobi shrugs, “Had a big lunch.”

Lovelace sighs and pauses to glance over at the rest of the group, Jacobi following her gaze. Eiffel and Minkowski sat on a picnic blanket toward the front of the lawn, Eiffel bickering with the cheap karaoke machine they’ve connected Hera to while Minkowski hopelessly tries to keep up with their antics. Even Lovelace seemed like she was having fun flipping dogs and passing out sodas. Jacobi wanted to join them, but he just… couldn’t. His thoughts kept getting caught in webs of memories, tripping him up and sticking to his mind. Fragments of anniversaries and flashes of Maxwell’s smile.

Lovelace crouched down to Jacobi’s level and dropped the plate in his lap, “Listen, you’re gonna eat this hot dog, then you’re gonna light some fireworks, and, most importantly, you’re gonna have fun. Got that?”

“Yes, Captain,” Jacobi groaned.

“Good,” Lovelace stood, brushing the dirt off her knees, and smiled at him. “Oh, and I bought a couple of illegals. They’re behind the cooler, I thought you’d be into that.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder before returning to the grill.

Jacobi watched her go before he finally set his beer down, taking a bite of the food. He hadn’t eaten all day, so the hot dog almost tasted good. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was eating the homemade hot dogs Kepler always insisted on preparing. If he drank a little more, maybe he could pretend the sound of Eiffel and Hera’s bickering was him and Maxwell instead. But if he opened his eyes, all he would see is those shitty fountain fireworks the neighborhood kids ooh and aah over. Jacobi scoffs, he swears the legals get worse every year.

The food’s gone before he knows it and his stomach begs for more, but Jacobi heads toward the cooler, picking out a sky rocket from the small pile of fireworks hidden there. He sets it up in the street, running back to the lawn once the fuse lights. He pointedly ignores the smug look on Lovelace’s face before he sits back to watch the show.

He couldn’t help but smile as it shot into the air, and he could feel the explosion in his chest as it burst into color in the sky. The kids across the street started at the sky, fascination etched into their faces. Eiffel and Minkowski cheered, watching the color fade and some stray sparks falling back down to the Earth. An explosive is an explosive, but Jacobi knew he could make it bigger. Better. Maybe he’d try his hand at it again next year.