Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You are nineteen years old. You’ve learned not to trust the amorphous, omnipresent corporation called The Man. You create music people of the previous generation regard as grating noise. You have trouble making friends, prefer pursuing your own interests instead of going toward higher education, and you’ve always felt like an outsider looking in on the big ol’ nonsensical party that is basic socialization. You are, in many ways, a very average specimen of your age group.

You work at a multi-billion-dollar robotics and software development company, which, you admit, isn’t very average. You are two steps max from being CEO of said company, something downright unheard of for someone your age. Of your two direct superiors, you can only stand being around one for any period of time, and that is because you kind of have to. His name is Dave Strider, and he is your older brother.

“It’s just a basic psych evaluation, man,” your brother says, leaning back in his leather computer chair. You want to flip his desk over and watch his extremely expensive executive toys and trophies shatter.

Your shades look into his shades. “No.”

He looks down at you, even though he is sitting while you stand in front of the seat he offered you minutes ago. If you sat, you’d look even more uncomfortable. You would fidget, or, god forbid, jiggle a knee. “Yeah.”

“No.”

He doesn’t sigh, but he might as well. You can read him at a pretty advanced level. Constant strife between you has made you a fucking body language expert, but he’s a stoic sensei. He sits in his chair, perfectly still, looking up at you like you’re being unreasonable. You are not being unreasonable.

“Dirk,” he finally says, just laying your name down like a gauntlet made of electric fire, “if you don’t, I’ll have to fire you.”

This isn’t an empty threat. Neither of you make empty threats. The last empty threat you made was when you were six, and you told him you were running away.
“Go ahead,” he’d said, not even looking up from his computer. “I wanna know how far you can get.”

You had planned to go very far; you had memorized the bus schedules, scraped together nearly thirty dollars, and had downloaded Dave’s own GPS software into your phone. However, in that moment, the wind had ripped out of your lungs and you sat on the floor, pensive and angry and very young.

Your brother has a different computer, and you has a different phone, but everything else feels about the same. If you left, he’d watch over you like an apathetic guardian angel. You could get pretty far, on your savings and your passion and your brilliance.

But of course you couldn’t actually leave. Not with so many projects half-finished. Not with the only people who understood you still in pieces on your operating tables and in your hard drives. You have to stay here because it’s your home, and you don’t always like it, but you need it.

Dave, being Dave, knows you’ve made your choice before you say a word. Before you even think a word to say.

“His card’s on your desk,” he says, and shifts his focus to the monitor in front of him. “Appointment’s tomorrow. It shouldn’t take longer than a few hours.”

That last sentence gives you pause. It’s an apology, sort of. He must know that your tolerance for people prying is essentially zero, trained prying professional or not. You weigh his apology in your mind, and decide to just leave it there in the office for him to deal with.

When you turn to go, he’s already back to typing.

-

It’s a posh office building, you’ll give it that. Red brick with iron fixtures, little mini-balconies full of white flowers. It’s so New York that you hate it, a little. You miss Texas--irrationally, because you don’t spend much time outside no matter where you are.

The entrance is plush but drafty, high ceilings and wood-paneled walls, the thick carpet a blanket that doesn’t offer any warmth. You are the only one there, and when the door clicks softly shut behind you, there isn’t even the traffic outside to give you white noise. You look up at a few carefully benign paintings. This place is like a fucking hotel. It’s been two seconds and you’re already done.

You don’t sigh. Instead, you think about Sawtooth, and how you need to steer his joints away from being so biomimetic, and how you can only do that if you keep your current awesome job. You focus on the half-formed blueprints in your mind as you look for a sign or something, and finally find a series of plaques next to the two brass elevators.

You’re looking for the name Boxcars, which is so hilariously made-up sounding that you’re kind of looking forward to flipping the meddling game around on him. As you scan for the word psychiatrist, you find a more interesting word--sex.

Sex therapist, to be precise, and “Dr. Jacob English, PsyD - Sex Therapy and Psychology,” to be right the hell on. Your little card doesn’t mention anything about Boxcars being a sex therapist. Suddenly, that is unacceptably boring.

You hit the up arrow for the elevator, and figure you could make the case for this. You were seeing a licensed doctor, and you were gonna listen to him ask personal questions for a few hours. Nothing weird going on here. You were upholding the very letter of your older brother’s law. Who even gives a shit about the spirit? You’re a scientist, Jim, not a damn minister.

You reach the fourth floor and walk up to a woman with a cute bob and dimples. She looks up from her paperwork, sees your awesome shades, and blinks way more than necessary.

“I’m here for sex therapy,” you say, like you just stopped by to pick up your mail or something equally blah. She purses her lips, and you get the feeling that she’s disappointed in you somehow. She looks like your grandma. You have no idea what your grandma looks like, but she looks like everyone’s grandma, even though she’s probably about twenty-five.

“Well,” she manages, fountain pen stilling in her notes--wait, she’s using a fucking fountain pen? Did he hit the time travel button in the elevator by mistake? “Of course. Name?”

You shake your head. “I don’t have an appointment.”

Her face falls just a shade more into disappointment/irritation territory. “Then, I’m sorry--”

“Look,” you say. “This is an emergency. I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this shit can be--this is your job, not mine. I need to see this guy right now, and I will pay double,” because this visit was on Dave’s tab, “so please tell him I’m here and reading Highlights in the waiting room when he’s ready.”

She stares at you. Her cheeks puff out a little, emphasizing her prominent front teeth, and you’d feel ashamed of yourself if you had any shame to be ashed. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to--”

“Miss Crocker?” Says a voice from behind the office door. Following the voice is a man, tall and tan and bespectacled, leaning out from behind it. “What’s all this?”

The receptionist--Miss Crocker, you guess, and it kinda figures her name would be something wholesome like that--turns a different color entirely, and you get what’s going on, here. She’s not gonna tell him, because it’s embarrassing. She doesn’t wanna tell her ostensibly nice-looking boss about how a weirdo is pushing her around. You’ve already won.

After a long, awkward moment, she figures it out, too. “Oh--nothing, really, Doctor. Just, it looks like you have an afternoon appointment, today.”

He steps out of his office properly, and you notice that he’s taller than you thought--taller than you, by a few inches, and broad. He’s wearing what you assume to be the leftovers of a full suit: white shirt cuffs rolled up to the elbows, tie almost too loose to be considered tied, and hair mussed but with product in it, as if he’d forgotten not to touch it enough times to render it pointless. He smiles at Miss Crocker, and it’s like headlights on a road at nighttime, and Miss Crocker is the deer. You watch it happen. You understand what’s going on here, as well.

“No need to call me Doctor, you know,” he says, and you realize he has an accent you can’t place. If you had to call it something, you’d say “Hollywood,” because he sounds like an extra from Singin’ in the Rain.

His receptionist smiles a little, back to being comfortable again for just a second. “And I’ve told you to call me Jane.”

“Wow,” you say, loud and flat, like a fart during a love scene. Miss Crocker takes it as such, but the doctor just looks at you instead, still smiling.

“Aloha,” he says, all teeth and sincerity, and you want to capture that moment in amber like a retarded prehistoric bug because what the fuck, “you’re in to see me, I take it?”

You shrug. “If Miss Crocker’s busy,” you say, and you think she officially hates you, now. The doctor laughs, stepping back to hold his office door for you. You walk past him and into what feels like a tropical rainforest.

The walls of Doctor English’s office are deep green, Venetian blinds half-obscuring the skyscrapers just outside. You count seven potted plants before you even sit down, and when you do, you notice that most of the furniture is wicker or rough wood. Even the desk looks like a giant tried to whittle a doll’s toy and skimped on the details. No wonder the good doctor can’t be assed to wear a jacket. The man himself closes the door behind you and moves behind his desk, preparing to sit at his chair before looking to his left, then back at you. You follow his gaze and blink. This dude has a space heater cranked up to eleven. It’s New York in July.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. You’ve known him for less than a minute and you can read him like a children’s book. “I like things just a bit toastier than most folks. I can turn it off...?”

You shrug, sprawling in the stupid wicker chair like the pimpingest rapper at da club. “If I can’t take the heat, I’ll get out of your kitchen.”

He laughs, a little, and sits. “That’s bully, then.”

“Where’re you from?” Because, seriously, who the hell says bully?

This time, his smile is a little crooked, and you notice how his teeth are a little fucked up. Nothing orthodontia couldn’t fix, but noticeable. “Caught my accent, did you? And here I thought I was finally getting with the New York jive.”

What.

Your expression doesn’t change, but he laughs again anyway. “I’m from the Falkland Islands, actually. But that’s not what you were here to ask, was it?”

“No, it was,” you say. “Word got around that you sounded like a doofus and I was called upon to get to the bottom of it.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so, Mister...?”

“Strider,” you finally admit. “Dirk Strider. And yeah, that Dirk Strider from that Strider Industries.”

Doctor English’s second eyebrow shoots up to meet his first. “Golly,” he says. “Well, Mister Strider, I’m Jake English. Anything you say in this room will be completely confidential, excepting very specific cases that our literature goes into. But if you don’t wanna read all that malarkey,” he says, crossing his arms and planting them on his desk, leaning forward, “so long as you don’t threaten to kill yourself or someone else, I’m your trusted confidant in complete secrecy.”

You look down at him, tiny height difference be damned. “Jeepers,” you say, because it’s easy and you want to. “That sure sounds awful complicated.”

“And where are you from?”

It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow. You don’t want to be that guy, but you’re pretty sure anyone who has seen the news in the past decade knows the answer to that question. He looks serious, though--or, at least, as serious as he can look--so you answer, “Texas.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Houston,” and then, “I thought we were gonna talk about my dick.”

Jake English blinks, but he does not glance away from your eye contact. He doesn’t even seem to notice you’re staring him down, and it’s not the shades, because people can always tell when you’re glaring. Either he’s really that oblivious or he doesn’t care, and either answer’s pretty interesting.

“Do you want to talk about your dick, Mister Strider?” He asks, not stuttering or hesitating over the words even though you’d expect him to use the word member or manhood or something. You don’t think he’d use the word dick on Gilligan’s Island or wherever he said he was from. “Because we can certainly do that.”

You smirk. “Eager beaver, aren’t you?”

“You brought it up,” he says. It hangs there a moment before he scratches his nose, hand big and a little awkward. “No pun intended.”

“It so was.”

“I promise you that it was not!” And he’s so sincere that you kind of want to laugh in his face. You don’t, so he continues, “you startled me a bit, is all. I’m not one for puns, anyway, especially not about this.”

You tilt your head to one side, in a way you’ve perfected: you look either curious or tired, and the other person has to figure out which. “What are you about, then, English?”

“Adventure,” he says, and you can’t think of a snappy retort until the moment’s passed. You can’t think of one after that, either. So, instead, you just silently demand he explain, and he does so. “When I was just a lad, that meant things like plundering tombs and finding hidden wonders. Now...” He shrugs his broad shoulders, and you can just see him wearing khakis and hefting a blunderbuss. The image startles you with its rightness, even. As in, what the fuck is he doing in an office?

“Now,” he continues, “I’m more focused on helping others, which, really, is what adventuring and heroism should be about.”

You nod once, considering, but giving off the vibe that you didn’t believe him. “Why sex?” You ask.

His face lights up like you’ve just given him a Christmas present. He must get this question all the time, you realize, so that’s a beyond weird reaction. “Sex is an adventure! It’s scary, bits of it are only spoken of in darkest whispers, it’s surrounded by myth and legend, and it’s all about the journey. Not to mention how important it is to understanding other people--I need hardly mention that I didn’t meet too many people on my island, and even those few I didn’t understand. Studying sex and relationships, how to solve emotional puzzles instead of logical ones, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, and Jesus is it rewarding.” You’re in the middle of the oncoming headlights smile, now. “I’m a doctor, and I have medical residency experience and things like that, but my favorite thing is to talk to a fella, or a lady, or a couple, and see if I can help.”

You let a beat pass as you stare at his smile. “So,” you say, voice perfectly hesitant, “you help people...”

He nods, excited to have you involved.

“...Plunder the euphemistic tomb and discover the hidden clitoris?”

You watch his face fall like a house of cards, and weirdly, it sort of hurts to watch. In record time, though, the doctor’s face is flushing and his mouth is twisted in a smile that wants to be a laugh, but that kind of hurts, too.

“I,” he says, voice strained on the snort he’s not snorting, “have no idea why you’re here, Mister Strider.”

You quirk your lips up. It’s less of a controlled movement than it normally is, for some reason. “My brother sent me.”

“Did he?”

“I need a psych report or else I’m going to lose my job.”

Doctor English adjusts his glasses, thinking. “And you decided to come to a sex therapist?”

“I decided to come to a psychologist, which you are.”

“Well,” he says, shaking his head and probably thinking something about “kids these days”--no, youths, this is definitely the kind of guy who thinks about youths. “Yes, I am an accredited therapist, but this isn’t exactly my cup of tea, Mister Strider. I haven’t brushed up on those procedures since my school days.”

You shrug. “How long ago was that? A decade, tops?”

This time, he does snort. “Jumping jehosaphat, do I look forty?”

“Hey, take it as a compliment,” you say, and it dawns on you that you’ve been talking to this guy without effort for thirty minutes. You’ve made him laugh, even though you were being an ass pretty much on purpose. The fact that you were paying for his time aside, you are clearly talking to a psychologist of your own free will, and he is listening with apparent enjoyment. You give him a closer look, now--the look you normally save for a delicate welding procedure. Time slows as you kick your brain out of sleep mode.

Jacob English, trained psychologist. Caucasian male, probably of British descent, originally from the Falkland Islands. Black hair, green eyes, six foot six, approximately one eighty, mostly muscle. Tanned face and arms, but with pale skin behind his tie you can safely say is closer to his natural shade. The dude has wicked tan lines, of this you have no doubt. Few freckles, no visible moles or tattoos, lack of orthodontia in his past, thick eyebrows, expressive features. His nose looks almost Greek, but you could put that down to just about anything. All you can tell for sure is that it’s been broken, before, and there are scars on his knuckles and one silver slice right through his left eyebrow--all faded with age.

Standard questions: he didn’t ask you to take your sunglasses off. He didn’t ask you how old you were. He didn’t ask about your accent, at least not directly and you doubt he meant it like that. He didn’t ask about your phone charms, or your sweatbands, or the gauges in your ears, or your own scars on your arms and poking out from the collar of your t-shirt. He didn’t ask about your parents. He didn’t ask about Strider Industries, even though he does know what it is. He has green eyes.

You pause. You noted that twice.

Doctor English is looking at you. You keep your brain on just in case, but all he asks is, “And why is that?”

“Easy,” you say, smiling like a shithead. “You talk like you’re about a hundred.”

He laughs, again, and you notice that he’s not self-conscious about any of the things you’ve pointed out about him. He’s not self-conscious at all, or self-aware, really, but no one really is. Confident, you guess. Smart, in spite of himself, because he does have a medical degree.

“I’ll have you know that I’m turning thirty this year,” he admits to you, “so I suppose this is all warranted.”

“Nah,” you say. “I’m just fucking with you.”

You’re being nice to him. He’s being nice to you. He’s not bothering you about deadlines or budgets or appropriate topics in the workplace. You made a joke about sex organs and he didn’t laugh but really wanted to. He laughs a lot. He made you want to laugh.

There’s a word for this, you think. This is a virus I can diagnose.

“I can’t promise I’ll be very helpful to you,” he says.

“I don’t need help,” you say. “I just need someone who can sign a paper.”

He looks skeptical, and rubs his scalp with one hand while fishing around his desk for a pencil. “I can do that, I suppose, but we haven’t really done anything, this session.”

An illogical part of you doesn’t like that he calls it a “session,” even though that’s what it is. You paid (your brother’s) good money to talk to this guy about absolutely nothing for an hour, and you were taking an issue with his semantics instead of his thievery. You notice that there are ink stains on both of his hands. Doctor English is ambidextrous and uses fountain pens.

“Shall I schedule one for us this time next week?”

Something in your stomach slithers, like you swallowed a tadpole and it is trying to escape. Not a week, you decide, and you’ll examine the whys of that later. “You got anything sooner?”

He flips through a beaten-up leather journal. His laptop lays forgotten on his desk. “I have something on Monday,” he says, “but it’s pretty early...”

“Fine,” you say.

He smiles. “Morning person?”

You have never been awake before one in the afternoon. “Sure.”

He smiles even more, somehow. This should be impossible, or illegal. Your stomach tadpole is trying to get your attention. “Me, too,” he says.

You decide that this room is way too fucking hot, and you stand. You toss your business card on the desk--the one you use for DJing, not the one from your dayjob. “Sign me up, English,” you say, and turn to leave.

“See you then,” he says. Then, he says, “I’m looking forward to it,” and that is just so fucking strange that you turn around.

Doctor Jacob English--Jake, he’d said, he calls himself Jake--was haloed in light. A window on a nearby skyscraper was acting as God’s own magnifying glass, hitting you in the face with his tall, broad, tanned semi-sillouhette. His hair is a tangle, his teeth are crooked, and he’s smiling at you, because he means what he just said. He’s not just doing his job. Or, he is, but he likes doing it. He likes that you are his job, and that you will return on Monday at the asscrack of dawn.

The tadpole grows legs and kicks you in the heart, and in that horrible, sunlit and smiling moment, you know exactly what the hell is going on, here.

You realize that you need a sex counselor.

Lucky you.

Chapter Text

“Tell me more about Little Cal.”

Jake is wearing a yellow shirt, today. His tie is grey with green stripes. You know nothing about fashion, but you sense that this is wrong, somehow. He’s rolled up the sleeves, again, and you notice that he doesn’t have a watch or a watch tanline. Pretty much everyone who works for your brother wears a watch. Dave doesn’t. Nor do you. Nor does Jake. There’s something there, you think, but you can’t figure out what.

“Lil' Cal? What about him?” You ask. You’re not defensive, because Jake hasn’t given you reason to be. “He’s the shit.”

Jake is chewing on the cap of his pen, and removes it to talk, the way one would when smoking a pipe. He plays with the clip in his fingers and mouth, thumb snapping it, teeth worrying it. “He’s a puppet, you said. Does he have a sleeve for your hand?”

It sounds obscene, when he says it like that, and you focus on not squirming. “No. He’s not--he’s the kind that would have strings.”

“But he doesn’t.” Just a statement. No accusations. It’s cool. It’s all cool. You’re jittery from the two pots of coffee it took to wake you up in time for this appointment. Jake doesn’t get it, but he’s not freaked out.

“Nah. He’s my best friend.”

Jake nods and writes something down. You stare at his pen. He looks up at you and strangely, disarmingly, he’s smiling.

“I’m just taking note that he’s important to you. I promise.”

You think, of course, confidentiality, he’s not going to go around to papers with this shit. He’s not gonna drag Lil' Cal’s name in the mud. Cal is fine. You’re fine.

“You’re worried.”

You look at him. The green eyes you notice too often are on you, but they’re weirdly soft, like you’re a sad scene in a movie and he’s dedicating you to memory. He’s invested in the characters that are your facial twitches. He wants to see the story play out, and you don’t really want him to but who cares, you’re a fucking movie and he’s watching you.

“I can tell,” he says, pointlessly. “And I understand your hesitation. I mean, jeez louise, you’ve kept this a secret from pretty much everyone, haven’t you?”

You really don’t want to have to punch him. For Lil' Cal, you will, and you’ll storm out of here and sue him and take away all his money, but you really don’t want to. You stare at him.

He sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair again. He’d come into the office with it perfect. It’s not, anymore, and it’s barely nine.

“That must have been really hard for you,” he says, “not to mention Cal.”

You freeze. The frog in your heart is freaking the fuck out, croaking and kicking at you. You say, “What?”

Jake nibbles the pen cap, glaring at one of his plants. “He’s your best friend, and he can’t even be with you at work or in public. You care about him, and he obviously cares a lot about you, but you haven’t told anyone about him because he’s a puppet.” He sighs. “Sorry, mate, but that sounds like it frigging sucks for both of you.”

You watch the cap return to his mouth after he speaks, and you feel a pang of something. It’s like your heart has a sore throat. Your skin prickles and you feel too tall, suddenly, even though you’re sitting down and you’re still shorter than him.

“Yeah,” you say, after staring at Jake blank-faced for a few seconds. “It really fucking does.”

He nods.

“I mean, my bro knows. It’s not like I keep him a fucking secret or anything. Just, no one asks, even when he’s in the room with us. And when they do, it’s always about that creepy guy in the corner.” Both you and Lil' Cal are creepy guys in corners. That’s the way you like it. That’s fine.

“Does anyone else know?” He asks. “I guess I assumed not, but if you’ve told your bro, then...?”

You noticed a while ago that Jake uses whatever terms you use to describe people: “bro” for Dave, “workjerk” for Dave’s receptionist, that sort of thing. It’s weird, like you’re teaching him the correct pronunciation of your life. You wonder how outlandish you could get before he stopped, or if he ever would stop.

You’re thinking about this because you don’t want to think about Roxy.

“Mister Strider...? If you don’t wish to answer, that’s fine.”

You can’t not answer, not after he phrased it like that. “There is one other person,” you say, “but I haven’t talked to her in years.”

Jake has his pen primed and ready in his journal, and you know he’s going to make a note of this.

“Don’t make a note of this,” you say.

He blinks. “Oh.” Then, after a moment’s consideration, “May I ask why?”

You could say no, but you’re not a coward. You’re a Strider. “Yeah.”

“Then I believe I’m asking.”

You allow yourself the luxury of squirming. You bring one ankle up to rest on your knee, and you cross your arms, closing off your body but still looking casual. You wish you had a hat so you could pull its brim over your face, obscuring your eyes under another layer of shadow. But you don’t, so instead, you tell him about your other best friend.

“Roxy Lalonde was my friend from school. I mean, we were taking the same online classes, same accelerated rate, and we exchanged emails and shit, did a lot of instant messaging.” You say it like that because you’re not sure Jake would know what IMing is. He just nods, soft. Very soft, which is not a way you thought you’d describe nodding but okay. “We were both awkward thirteen-year-old geniuses with ridiculous families and no friends. It just... made sense, at the time.” You swallow.

You hate this part of the story, because you really loved Roxy. You still do, in that annoying way where you refuse to ever let anything go. Once someone works their way into your heart, they’re there forever, even when they don’t want to be. It’s like you’re a roach motel of emotions.

“It wasn’t Cal’s fault, at all. She knew about him, and she didn’t care.”

You remember introducing them over Skype--your first webcam conversation together, and you started off by ushering her into all of your secrets and hangups and personal shit, starting with Cal. Cal is just that important, and if she didn’t understand, you had no idea what you’d do. The first thing she’d done was wink at Cal and ask if he was single. Roxy was your coolest friend. She was your only friend, really, but she was the only person worth befriending.

When she’d confessed to you, you’d turned off your computer and gone to bed. Cal had been with you, then, and you told him what had happened. About how it just made you feel tired and a little sad. About how you wished you felt the same just so you and her could both be happy and together and have babies and make a family that wasn’t so fucking confusing and terrible all the fucking time. How you’d spent a lot of time thinking about how you wanted to hug her, maybe even kiss her, but how anything beyond that made you feel absolutely nothing.

You shrug a shoulder, and look up at Jake, so your heart hurts in two ways, the old one and this new one you’ve discovered. “She told me she liked me. I kinda freaked out. We drifted.”

Jake shifted in his chair. “Huh.”

That sounded stupid, even for Jake, so you quirked an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just, I don’t buy it.”

You consider hitting him again. Not for any righteous reason, like on Cal’s behalf, but because he’s being a dick. “What?” You demand.

“You ‘drifted’? What in blazes does that mean?”

“‘I don’t buy it’?” You shoot back to him. “Where the hell did you get your degree, Associated Sociopaths?”

He frowns and snaps at you. “You let your only human friend go because she liked you? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“I was fifteen!” You say, and apparently you’re shouting, now. Miss Crocker can definitely hear you, and that’s great, so you just keep yelling. “I freaked out, acted like a jackass, and lost her. Is that what you wanna hear?”

But Jake’s yelling, too, and your heart starts hammering in your chest like you’re in a swordfight instead of a conversation. “No, it bloody well isn’t, and you know it isn’t! She was the first person you ever told about Little Cal, and you ‘lost’ her like a set of frigging keys?”

“What was I supposed to do?! She liked me and I couldn’t like her! What the fuck is your problem, English?”

“Why not?” He yells back at you. “Why couldn’t you? She was there for you, you had everything in common--”

“Because I can’t!” You say. The office falls silent. “Couldn’t,” you amend weakly. It sounds flat, and it’s pointless, because Jake heard what you said the first time. Everyone in New York heard what you said the first time, you were yelling so loud.

Jake’s face is still contorted in anger, but his eyes are shining, and for one horrible moment you think he might cry. You want to kill something. Maybe him. Probably him, actually, because you didn’t want to talk about this.

“Why can’t you?” He asks, and his voice is level again.

Was he manipulating you? You are torn--he would have to be a fucking wizard to trick you into admitting what you just admitted. He’s definitely not that. His reactions were as confusing as they were apparently genuine.

You sit down, and you try to come up with an answer that doesn’t sound like bullshit. You focus on your breathing, trying to even it out. If your bro had seen you lose your cool like that, he’d be beyond disappoint.

“I,” you start, and your voice cracks like you are fifteen again. You clear your throat and start again. “I just can’t. Dunno why.”

Jake doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t even have his pen in his hands, anymore. You bitterly hope that he swallowed the cap during all the shouting and douchiness. “Is it because she’s a girl?”

You give Jake a look of pure “shut up you moron.” “No. It’s not.”

He shrugs a shoulder. Just checking, says the shoulder.

“I’ve never liked anyone like that,” you say. “The closest I’ve come to it was with Lil' Cal, and we’re better as friends.”

You know that a sex therapist has got to know at least the basics of asexuality, aromantic bisexuality, and object sexuality--the Google search history of your terrible, lonely puberty. You also know that he’ll know that none of these fit, given what you’ve told him. You guess that he’ll reach the same conclusion you did: apathisexual. You just don’t give a fuck. You physically can’t.

Or, at least, you’d thought so before last week, when you’d fallen at first sight for a dude a generation older than you with weird teeth and eyes and speech and occupation and everything else, as far as you were concerned. He’s weird, so you like him. He’s weird because you like him.

You like him. It still sounds so weird, to you, but there is nothing not weird about this situation.

Finally, Jake sighs. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he says, and of course it’s genuine. “I wasn’t mad at you.”

You figure you deserve an answer, so you ask, “What was the problem, then?”

He makes a weird “mmm” noise as he thinks, biting his lower lip. “I was mad that you would give up on someone you cared about just because it was awkward. I didn’t want to think about that.” He smiled. “Unprofessional to the extreme, I know.”

You blink. “It wasn’t unprofessional,” you say, because it wasn’t. You’re putting the pieces together. You are the puzzle master, it is you.

“No?” He’s still fucking smiling.

“You were manipulating me.”

He shakes his head. “I was being honest.”

“You were being me at fifteen. Half of me, at least.”

“The half you didn’t listen to,” he says. Then, he nods. “But they were pretty much my thoughts as well, old man. I wanted you to hear them again.”

Here it is. Here’s the weird frog-sore-fuzzy-tall feeling you’ve identified as love. Your palms are swampy and you can barely keep from vibrating out of your seat on fidget power alone. Jake understands your thoughts and gets righteously angry for you, the way you get for Cal, and you’ve talked to him for about four hours total at most.

“Because I’m going to ask you to get in touch with Roxy Lalonde again.”

Well, fuck. You saw it coming, which is the only reason you don’t ask why.

He explains anyway. “You must still have her email address and the like. It doesn’t have to be a huge declaration of anything, just a simple ‘hello.’ You must admit that you don’t sound like you’ve gotten closure on the matter, so to speak.” He rests his strong chin on his strong hand and you want to do... something. “Does that sound reasonable?”

It does, and you hate that it does. It’s not like you haven’t tried to get back in touch, but your version of “tried” is thinking about it and then deciding against it. You don’t know how to phrase “sorry for ignoring you for six months, then deciding it was a lost cause after that time. Are we still BFF?” Because you miss her, but you know you’re not exactly a relaxing presence. If anything, you’re a chore for most people to deal with. You figure that Roxy’d find you a chore now as well, since you’ve only gotten worse at dealing with people over time.

“Mister Strider?” Jake’s face is comically concerned. You want to scratch him behind the ears. “I don’t pretend to know how you’re feeling--I don’t know from nothing, with personal experience. But I think it’s a good idea.”

You nod, because you think so, too. You can manage a hello.

“Good. Same time next week?”

“No.”

He smiles. “Earlier?”

You schedule your next meeting for Wednesday after lunch. That gives you time to actually sleep, as well as do your Feelings homework. You make a show of noting the time and date into your phone’s calendar--the one that’s totally blank, because come on. Jake doesn’t mention it, even though he must realize by now that, other than these meetings, all you do is eat, work, and sleep.

You label it in your phone as a date.

Chapter Text

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostic [TG].
TT: Hello.
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostic [TG].

tipsyGnostic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT].
TG: wohoaaaaaaaaa
TG: tis distri!!!
TG: did he pester me on accdient afterh so long
TG: or did he die and come badk to life???
TG: is he a ghost for bustin
TG: with my awesome riflef of sick truths???
TT: ...
TG: omg therje he is agin!!!!
TG: hi distri it has been ltreally forever.
TG: *litarally
TG: *lit really
TT: I’m pretty sure I deserve worse than this.
TG: yeah you do obvs but why start with teh heavy stuff
TG: i am happy to see you!!!
TG: tell me things, tell me tell me
TT: I don’t know what to say.
TT: I jumped into this assuming you wouldn’t be pestering me back. I’m surprised you haven’t blocked this handle.
TG: why would i
TT: ...Which reason should I mention first?
TG: k if this is a pity party im just leaveing is that col
TG: *cool
TT: What do you mean?
TG: ru goin to apolologize or talk to me or what
TG: ur saying a whole lota nothin and im getting bored fast
TG: you messagged me so whats the deal
TT: My therapist told me to.
TG: omg
TT: Pretty much.
TT: He told me I didn’t have “closure” regarding this event in my past.
TT: Which I don’t, so points to him.
TG: you have a theraoist??
TG: *thereapist
TT: Yeah. It’s a new thing.
TG: omgomg
TG: y
TT: Y as in why or y as in yes?
TG: ummmmm both!!
TG: cuz y are you talking to a dude about taht stuff
TG: you hate ppl so what
TG: and also y because youre talkint o me!
TG: and i missed you
TG: and if you ask “rly” i am going to punch ur lights out so watch out!!
TG: of course i missed you
TG: you nerd
TG: so yes ysesyesyyysyesyesyse youre talking to me!!
TG: i triedd talkig to you too you know
TT: But I blocked your handle.
TG: but u blocked my handel like a dude who hates himself sum baroque opera
TG: so what was that about
TT: Nice.
TT: Basically I was a coward, and didn’t know what you’d say to me. I was scared you’d friend break up with me, or something.
TG: ya but then u did that yoursef so
TT: I know.
TT: I was a jackass.
TT: And I’m sorry.
TT: I didn’t know how to deal and so I just didn’t.
TT: I’m sorry, Roxy.
TG: .................
TT: ...
TG: ..............................
TG: .....................................
TT: You’re making me squirm on purpose.
TG: (deal w/it!!!)
TG: ..........................you r FORVIVEN.
TG: *forgaven
TG: *gorgiven
TG: *i am cool w/you
TG: ur a jacakass but youve always been a jackass
TG: its not news!!! its who u are and part of the distri package
TG: machine wash only wih lik colors and tumble dry, is a jerk to friends
TT: I’m dry clean only, actually.
TG: whatever
TT: No, this is important. My colors will run. I won’t last nearly as long.
TG: lol so youre a coolkid again now that u said your piece
TT: Thank you for forgiving me, RoLal.
TT: I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say, here.
TG: uh how about what uv been up two for the past
TG: FOUR
TG: YEARS????
TG: whatta maroon this guy
TT: That reminds me.
TT: I need your help with something.
TG: shoot
TT: I think I’m in love with someone.
TG: ..........
TT: I know. I’m talking to the worst possible person about this.
TG: OMGOMGOMG HWO!!
TG: *HOO
TG: HOO IS IT
TT: I wanted to ask anyway because you’re the only person I know who--
TT: Oh.
TT: Seriously?
TG: uh duh seriusly i wanna know!!!
TG: you were all closed door craycray when i knew u and now theres LOOOOOOOVE in your liefe!!
TG: i mean not to break ur heart but i
TG: am over you
TG: so
TT: I had hoped so.
TG: ya if you liked it you shoulda put a rin gon it
TG: i cant be taimed
TT: Understood, Beyonce Cyrus.
TG: lol
TG: WHO IS IT???
TT: My therapist.
TT: Stop right there.
TT: Do not type what I know you are typing.
TG: OOOOOOOOMGMGGGGGG!!!
TT: Do not reference a romantic comedy that this is “like.”
TG: ITS JUST LIEK
TG: oh
TT: Thank you.
TG: it is tho
TT: I know.
TT: But in actuality it’s a huge problem.
TG: wut y
TT: He’s my therapist.
TT: Patients falling in love with their therapists is a very common phenomenon.
TT: Beyond the fact that I am literally paying him for his time, and that he is ten years older than me,
TG: hot
TT: I know.
TT: There are doctor-patient confidentiality issues, as well as common decency in the way.
TT: Plus, how do I know that I like him, and not just the version of him he is at work?
TT: Everyone likes talking about themselves. He’s trained to be good at listening, and listening selflessly. I can’t expect him to be like this outside of his office.
TG: unless u stalk him
TT: Unless I stalk him, which is illegal.
TT: Or ask to see him outside of work, which might as well be me making romantic overtures.
TG: wait but
TG: hol don
TG: u said everyone likes talking about themveslves
TG: but u dont
TG: you SO dont
TT: Huh.
TG: u dont like talkin about ANYTHING
TG: so u know hes special right?
TT: I guess.
TT: He could just be really good at his job, though.
TG: is he?
TT: ...Sort of.
TG: explsain
TG: *puts o n her sexy therapist glasses and licks end of hr pencil
TG: all ready to rite
TG: *writ
TG: *right
TG: tell me ur probs dirky
TT: This is uncanny.
TT: Do all therapists have oral fixations? Is this a thing?
TG: ahhaafeolololol
TG: u r dead
TG: k o
TT: Shut up.
TG: lollllll
TT: What I meant to tell you, before you decided to become a sexualized fantasy version of a legitimate profession,
TT: Is that he doesn’t seem like a standard office worker type at all.
TT: He is not built like a pencil-pusher, for one thing.
TG: omg
TG: *fnans self
TT: Not my point.
TT: Seriously, though, google Jake English.
TG: ok
TG: typey typy
TG: ............
TT: Soak that in for a sec.
TG: hang on
TT: Ok.
tipsyGnostic [TG] sent timaeusTestified [TT] a file: jaaaakey.gif
TG: it is like tshi
TG: *this
TT: Oh my God.
TT: Can I keep this?
TG: ofc
TG: it is my most wondersful cration
TT: It’s amazing.
TT: How can you make such awesome Blingees so fast?
TG: itsa gift
TT: Seriously.
TG: did u know that he was in da british maries
TG: *marines
TT: I did.
TG: so
TG: hes a seaman
TT: I did notice that.
TG: soooooo
TG: u want a seaman 2 plunder ur booty
TT: He’s not a pirate, Roxy.
TG: still tho
TT: Still, though.
TT: What all this was supposed to explain is that he’s a good listener, but he’s far from standard practice.
TT: I’m sure he’s gotten into serious trouble for his methods before.
TG: wait so
TG: are u comfortble with them?
TT: Definitely.
TT: That’s the problem. Or, not-problem, however you want to look at it.
TT: We really gel as doctor and patient. I don’t want to lose him as a therapist so soon just because I also happen to want booties plundered.
TG: how many session u had
TT: Two.
TG: ...............
TG: wow
TT: I know. I’m pathetic. It’s big news.
TG: no just
TG: u LOVE him???
TG: after 2 seshs
TG: you love him
TT: Yeah.
TT: I know, it’s probably actually just a crush, and I’m blowing things out of proportion.
TT: I don’t have the perspective to know for sure. I have no past experiences from which to draw data. From what I can tell, data doesn’t seem to work in these situations anyway.
TG: ya rely
TT: So what am I supposed to do?
TG: well
TG: tell me ur feelins
TT: What about them?
TG: liek
TG: u say love but idk what that means for you so
TG: how does he make u feel?
TT: Let me preface this by saying I’ve never felt this way before about anyone.
TT: So, to me, it feels very serious, not only because I’m young and inexperienced,
TT: But because I’ve met hundreds of objectively attractive people in my life and have never reacted this way. Ever.
TT: Not even to one of my best bros.
TG: ya u dont have to tell me
TG: ur crazy
TT: At least now I know why.
TG: ur gay?
TT: No. I just have extremely specific and questionable taste.
TG: lol
TT: It’s true.
TT: He doesn’t have an inside voice, his accent is something out of Wallace and Gromit, and he can’t stand wearing suits even though he puts one on every day.
TT: He’s like a giant puppy with a medical degree.
TG: cuuuuuuute
TT: One time he accidentally knocked over one of the potted plants in his office and said, I shit you not, “Gadzooks, sorry!”
TT: As in, to the plant.
TT: He was apologizing to the plant.
TG: marry him
TT: I plan to.
TT: To answer your question, though...
TT: I feel... awkward? And happy and unhappy at the same time.
TT: I’m excited to get to his office and see him, but this is therapy and I do have issues.
TT: He’s never judged me, though.
TG: go on
TT: I told him about Lil Cal.
TT: He didn’t even bat an eye. He talked about him using the “he/him” pronouns. That’s gotta be his therapy training, since I was using them as well, and he agrees with me on all sorts of stuff.
TT: But I’m pretty good at sensing lies and reading body language, at this point, and he...
TT: He didn’t get it, but he didn’t pretend to get it, either. And he wasn’t disgusted or freaked out.
TT: It wasn’t him being professional. He cares about my feelings, which is his job, but he sincerely cares instead of professionally cares.
TT: Like, he’s invested in me.
TT: More than he has to be.
TT: And it’s fucked up and complicated because he only started talking to me because I paid him to. Like a feelings prostitute.
TT: But now I have the feelings, like they were an STI he gave me because I didn’t use a heart condom.
TT: And now I have to live with feelings for the rest of my life, and won’t be able to represent my case in court.
TT: I’ll be dead by then.
TG: wait cort what
TT: He is the Antonio Banderas to my Tom Hanks.
TG: i havent seen this movie
TT: You should.
TT: It doesn’t actually have prostitutes in it, but it’s pretty good anyway.
TT: The question is, how do I go about this whole feelings debacle?
TG: okay so
TG: here is what u do
TG: are you listenin
TT: I’m listening.
TT: Or, technically, reading.
TG: good
TG: u take sum notes on this ok
TG: the lovedoctor is in
TT: My pencil is at the ready.
TT: My recorder is on the desk. I’m ready to memorize this shit and recite it in front of the whole department.
TG: good
TG: so
TG: what u do
TG: is u go into his office
TG: u say hey doc i got a problem
TG: he says gee gadzooky what kinda problem
TG: and u say
TG: (ARE YOU LISTENIN)
TT: I am.
TG: u say
TG: ur wearing too many cloths
TG: and u take em off and push his papers off his deks
TG: *desk
TG: and then u make sex
TT: Good, good.
TT: When do I ask him out, though?
TG: after
TG: during the cigarettts
TG: hey bb was it good for u
TG: wanan do it in restrant next time
TG: he says oh dirky i will tottally go steadies with you
TG: here is my varcity jaket
TT: Haha.
TG: i threw it on da floor in a fit of passions
TT: I will treasure it forever.
TG: yw
TT: In reality, though, I’m pretty fucked, aren’t I?
TG: yeah
TG: sry 2 say
TG: ur fucked.
TT: Did I mention that he’s actually a sex therapist?
TG: ..........
TG: OOOOMGGGGHGHGGG!!
TT: I missed you.

Chapter Text

Mint green shirt, no tie, open collar. Jake English’s chest is just as hairy as his arms, which is to say, just enough to make him look even more rugged. He’s got a few scars there, as well. You address most of your answers to them, and the little dip of his collarbone you can make out through his white undershirt.

You figure he could lift you in his arms without effort. You’re skinny, but you’re swordfighter fit instead of teenager weedy, and muscle is heavy. He could still lift you no problem, and carry you like a sack of emotionally constipated potatoes.

“I’m jolly glad to hear that!” He says about your rekindled friendship with Roxy. “How long did you end up chatting?”

He could run with you in his arms, or on his back, for miles. You realize you’re sizing him up like he’s a horse you want to buy. You have to force yourself to not think about saddles and riding crops. You recognize that you’ve never had to deal with hormones, before, and they’re all hitting you at once. It doesn’t make things easier, to know this.

“A few hours,” you say. “It was surprisingly easy. She hasn’t changed.”

“Hot dog,” he murmurs, just smiling at you. “Really, Mister Strider, I couldn’t be happier.”

You lean to one side of your chair, looking him over. “I could be.”

“How’s that?” He looks eager. He’s ready to help make you happy, just the way a therapist slash romantic interest should.

“I had something I wanted to talk about, actually,” you say, because this is the man to ask about it, when all is said and done. There isn’t anyone else with the necessary knowledge, or anyone else you’d particularly want to ask.

He blinks, because you’re being weirdly cooperative. But he sits up, posture very much “at attention.” “Should I get my notes?”

“Nah, this is a whole new deal.”

This is, in fact, The New Deal. You drafted up a few flirty problems and questions with all the executive finesse of FDR himself. It’s a series of sexy maneuvers you plan to slip into your conversation, to gauge his interest in you as well as his interest in your interests. You’ve got the three “R”s all ready for him: RoLal, Robots, and the Real McCoy. Phase one has started, and you’ll leave him with that for processing. Now, it’s time to introduce phase two.

“You know I’m Donatello,” you say.

You let him think about that one. It takes him a moment to realize you’re not going to elaborate, and you see his face shift from confusion to consideration.

“You’re not a painter,” he says, chewing on a fingernail.

“No.”

“So... wait!” He thumps his hand on the table. “You’re ‘into machines’! Right?”

You nod, and allow him a second of your smile. “Good job.”

“Haha, I love that animation!” Then he pauses. “Wait. Is this...?”

You shrug. “I’m not saying I’m attracted to them sexually. At least, I haven’t been in the past, but I can kinda see it happening.” He doesn’t freak out. he doesn’t even think about freaking out. Robophilia is a thing, you know, and he has most likely heard weirder shit in his line of work.

He looks at you, tiny smile like “go on,” and you do.

“I design robots for a bunch of different purposes,” you say. “I can’t really get into it without violating contractual bullshit, but basically, I finish my work and then I build robots for fun, on company time, because more likely than not I fuck around and find something new they can patent. It’s just a thing I do.

“So, during my fuckaround sessions, I made myself a friend.”

This sounds pathetic. A lot of things you say to Jake in these sessions sound pathetic, but they’re true, and he deserves honesty. No point in basing your relationship on lies when he’s pretty much sworn to secrecy, and you want him to like you for you.

You hope that Jake doesn’t think you’re pathetic.

“His name is Squarewave, and he has one of the most advanced sensory and social interfaces in the world, right now. The other most advanced ones were also made by me. I’m not telling you this to brag, I’m telling you this to set the stage for the next thing.”

Jake nods. You know he didn’t think you were bragging. It makes the back of your neck feel clammy and electric. You wish he would knock this being perfect and understanding shit off, sometimes.

“Squarewave and I shoot the shit about a lot of things. I’ve told him about RoLal, my brother, and you. Don’t look so happy that you make the list,” you say, because Jake just lit up like a Christmas tree. “I only talk to three humans, and you’re one of them. You came up in conversation naturally. He asked where I kept going, and I said therapy with this one guy named Doctor English. No big deal.”

“I’m still happy,” he says, “to be listed among people you hold in such high esteem!”

Stop it, you almost say. Instead, you say, “Yeah. Gold star, I guess.

“Anyway, Squarewave asked me what it was like to talk to humans instead of robots. So I wanted to think up a good answer for him, because he pretty much only talks to me, and he deserves to know what he’s getting into on this. He’s learning.” You’re proud of Squarewave. You let it show.

“Golly,” he says. “And you’d rather tell him an answer instead of program one?”

“I don’t have an answer, English. I’m asking you for an answer.”

He turns in his chair, and the window behind him colors him in bright stripes through the blinds. His front teeth are outside his bottom lip as he thinks, brow furrowed and cheeks hollow as he sucks his tongue. You’ve never seen him make the same expression twice: every smile is different, every pondering face a unique facet. You become irritated at the juxtaposition that he is so easy to read, but there is still so much you don’t know. You can see this mountain of Jake information, but you know there is more beneath the surface. He is a warm, smiling iceburg, and he is considering your question.

“So,” he clarifies, looking your face over for expressions you won’t let him see, “you’re asking me to make an argument for the human race, I take it? For Squarewave?”

“For Squarewave,” you agree. You’re both clear on that--or, really, that it isn’t just that.

“Right.” He sighs, then, puffing his cheeks out and opening his eyes wide. “Well, jeez, Mister Strider, that sure is a can of the ol’ worms. I have my reasons, but I wouldn’t be on the level if I said they were universal.”

“You were unhappy as a child,” you say.

He stops. His constant nervous energy turns off like a light. You blink, but don’t respond.

He says, “What?”

“I googled around a little, but it was already pretty obvious. Abnormal living situation, probably missing a parent or two. Lack of socialization during critical times, I’d guess. You only had one or two people, and when you joined the Royal Marines, you lost them entirely. You never had a hard time trusting people, which did and does gets you in trouble. You’re too empathetic--you take on other people’s burdens as your own. You’ve seen death, but it doesn’t pull you down. You’ve experienced pain, but you don’t dwell on it. You are, in general, a happy person, even though your life up until relatively recently has been complete and utter trash.”

He’s pale, now, you notice. The scars on his face are cast in sharper relief, and he is not smiling at you.

You don’t stop, even though your heart is screaming at you to. If you don’t stick the landing here, you’ll break, and he’ll throw you out of his office. You can see in his eyes--green, you realize again--that he wants to. You made this conversation a fight. You need to know that Jake does when you do this. He needs to pass this test.

You continue. “I know that I got some stuff wrong there, but you get the idea. You’re not in a position anyone’d envy. You miss your old life, but not the people in it, am I right?”

He looks at you, and he says, “Dirk.”

Your skin is on fire. All the moisture has left the room in a clap of thunder, and you are statically charged against your clothes. You note, dully, that he’s never said your name before, and when he says it it sounds like “derk,” or “dark,” or something less pointy and jagged than when your brother says it.

You continue. “I want to be able to tell Squarewave that people are worth it. I don’t think they are, but you do. After everything you’ve done and seen. So, instead of the cliches you were parading out before, give me a real answer.”

You ask, “Why?”

It isn’t raining outside. The light shines in, the air outside is just as hazy as it was a moment before. It doesn’t look different, or physically feel different. Jake is looking at you like you have just ripped apart a small animal in front of him, but that’s not all he looks like. He also has something else, something as plain and painful as a broken nose but you don’t know what it is. And then, you do.

He looks sorry for you.

“You,” he starts, before cutting himself by clearing his throat and taking a breath to recover. “You are downright Holmesian when you want to be, you know that?”

You know that. You don’t say a word.

“I don’t know how I feel about you prying into my history,” he says, but you can tell he knows exactly how he feels and it’s angry, “but what’s done is done, I say. You did bring up some interesting points! I have seen many things that would cause other people to think poorly on humanity as a whole, while I still do love it.

“You only travel for work purposes, is that right?”

The question surprises you, so you nod.

“That’s what it is, I think,” he says. He’s still not smiling. This is the longest he’s gone without one in your presence. You begin to count the seconds as they pass. “You’ve seen your work, which is full of competitive people who’d give their left leg to be you, and you’ve seen strangers, who couldn’t care less about another strange fella on the street. You’ve made friends, Mister Strider, so you know how that feels. How affection feels, with other people. You’re not any sort of sociopath.” He tilts his head, and the muted light hits the lines of his throat like cream hitting coffee. “In fact, I’d say your cup runneth over with emotions, sometimes.”

You swallow.

“You spoke with Roxy again, and, though you were apprehensive, she welcomed you back. You hold entire conversations with Little Cal, and you apologize to him when you overstep. You’ve worked for your brother for your whole life, and you’ve never thought about leaving, I’d wager. Not seriously, anyway.

“You’re one of the most loyal people I know, and I think you love people. You don’t need me to tell you the why and the how.”

You realize that your throat is try. You swallow again, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “You’re saying I need an adventure?”

And then he smiles again, and you will probably get sick from all of the internal temperature changes you’re feeling, today. “I’m saying you should have some hope. Some faith, if you like. Take a few risks.” He quirks an eyebrow--the eyebrow, the one with the scar--just so, daring you. “Or is that a bit too much excitement for you, Mister Strider?”

It’s an obvious ploy, and it works. You’re done. Jake just sunk your battleship.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” You ask.

His amusement shifts to confusion again. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He pauses, thinking. He strokes his chin--you notice that he missed a spot shaving, a small patch of black stubble under his right ear. Your fingers tingle, as if you are feeling it instead of seeing it.

“Nothing, really,” he admits. “I have a few appointments in the morning, but my afternoon is free. Why do you ask?”

Good. Perfect. You’re doing this. You’re making this happen.

“I have a proposal,” you say. Making it sound like business will keep your heart from jumping out of your chest, you hope. No guarantees, though, so you make it quick. “I scheduled a paintball session for tomorrow.”

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I shoot people with paint and get a weird sunburn from the goggles. I talk to and strategize with strangers, hold open doors, and am basically a fucking gentleman the whole three hours I’m there.”

“Gosh!” He says, eyes bright. “Jeez, Mister Strider, that sounds like a perfect day out! Fresh air and new faces would definitely do you good.”

“More like sneezing on pollen and shooting people, but whatever.”

He groans. “Come on, man, you wouldn’t be proposing this in the first place if--”

“You don’t know my terms yet, English.”

He shuts up, and you continue.

“Let me make this clear: I do not want to do this. I’m ambivalent about guns, but fencing clubs don’t offer much by way of social contact unless you force it. I’m ambivalent about the outdoors, but laser tag is in the dark, so, again, gives you a level of distance from other players. Paintball is going to be annoying as hell, but the most socially useful.”

Jake considers this, and nods. “I guess I’m on the trolley, so far. What are your terms, Mister Strider?”

You look him in the eye and drop the bomb. “You come with me.”

He sits up in his chair, back ramrod straight. “Uh,” he says.

“You, me, Roxy, and a plus one. Your plus one,” you say, “because who the hell else would I bring to keep the teams even?” You also want him to show you your competition. You want him to bring along someone he likes, so you can see how you measure up, even to just a friend. You want to know who he would bring to calm him down and make him feel comfortable in a strange social situation.

“Um,” he says. “And if I don’t agree?”

“I’m not going to threaten to stop coming to therapy,” you say, “because that’d be dumb when we’re making progress, and I want to keep coming.” This makes him happy, so you lay it on thick. “I look forward to these sessions. It’s nice to get away from work, like you’ve been saying, even if it’s to come here and talk about weird shit for hours.

“So, let’s say that if you don’t come, I’ll do my best to be uncooperative in the future. I’ve done what you’ve asked, after all.”

“That was for your own good,” he whines, because apparently he is six years old.

“So’s this,” you say. “Don’t you want to help me get into the social swing? Or are you too milquetoast to try?”

He recognizes the cheap ploy from when he used it, and it seems to take the wind out of his sails. His chest deflates like you popped it, and he looks up from his slumped position with an expression like a chastened schoolboy. You want to touch the bend in his bowed shoulders. You wonder if they are tanned like his arms, or pale like his chest.

You want to punch yourself in the dick and stop thinking about this stuff so you can focus, but before you can, he says, “Well, it doesn’t look like I have much of a choice, do I?”

“You don’t,” you emphasize. And, “It’s at two o’clock tomorrow.”

“You bastard,” he says, smiling and affectionate, like “bastard” is a pet name, now.

You just smirk.

Chapter Text

Roxy Lalonde arrived last night. You spend the whole night catching up, introducing her to Squarewave and Sawtooth, and drinking. You’ve only had sips of champagne, before, and Roxy saw it as her solemn duty to introduce you to vodka and gin. You have never been so happy to wear sunglasses.

You arrive at the park early to rent gear. You’re both wearing clothes you don’t mind getting paint on--you in a thin, long-sleeved shirt that once belonged to your brother, along with faded jeans and red Chuck Taylors; her in a faded lilac tank top and sweatpants with JUICY across the ass. She holds her gun like someone who can shoot a bullseye at 300 meters, which she can.

“Don’t show your hand so much,” you say. “Not everyone here knows you’re a rifle expert.”

She looks at you with innocent confusion. “Whaaat,” she says, and the smell of warm gin hits you like a tidal wave. “I’m jus’ holdin’ it!”

“Then don’t. You’re making me want to call you ‘ma’am.’”

She blows a truly amazing raspberry with her black-painted lips before laughing. You smile back. You’re excited, and nervous, and she knows and you know she knows. It’s weird seeing her in person, but it’s not bad. You trust your “winggirl,” as she calls herself.

“Mister Strider!” Calls the man of your dreams, and you turn.

The first thing you notice is that Jane Crocker is his plus one, and your smile slides off your face like water off an anxious duck’s back. She looks prettier, outside of the office--dressed for the day, of course, but her hair looks cuter than you remember, her stomach a little flatter, her cheeks rosy instead of just red. Maybe the lighting in the lobby is just bad, or maybe you’re just seeing her linked arm in arm with Jake English, where she looks like the happiest camper. Joy makes people beautiful. You feel a little nauseous.

Doctor English looks more relaxed and comfortable than you’ve ever seen him. You wouldn’t call him a tense person by nature, but you can see the lightness in his stride and the swing in his arm, and you realize that he should never be inside, ever. He is wasted, inside. He wilts.

Roxy grips your bicep and says “Oh my God.”

“I know,” you whisper back.

“He’s wearing cargo shorts,” she says. “That shouldn’t be hot.”

“I know.” You wave back to him, and his smile brightens. “It looks like he’s all about breaking the rules.”

He approaches you with his plus one, standing in front of you as a pillar of tanned muscle. You can see his biceps, for once, and his legs. You’re not normally a swooner, but you feel one coming on. “Glad to see you, Mister Strider.”

“Dirk,” you say. Then, with a wry grin, “We’re all friends, here.”

Roxy steps on your foot. “Hiya, I’m Roxy,” she says, and leans her rifle against her shoulder so as to stick out her hand for shaking. “I’m this dork’s bestie. You’re Jake?”

Jake’s face goes from confused by Dirk to delighted by everyone in less than a second, and pumps Roxy’s hand with an enthusiasm that makes her say “oof.” “Yes indeed, madame! And this is my friend Jane.”

“Hello,” she says, clearly thinking this whole setup is weird as hell. Her smile screams “polite.”

“Dang,” Roxy says, punching Jake on his free arm, “you brought a hottie! It’s nice to meet you, Janey.”

Everyone laughs, then, and you label the laughs as best you can. Jake is laughing because Roxy implied that they are dating, and is a little embarrassed. Jane is laughing because of that, as well, but also because Roxy called her “Janey,” which sounds silly. Roxy is laughing because she always laughs with other people; she simply cannot help herself.

“Let’s get started,” you say. “Get your gear.”

“Right-o!” Jake pats Jane on her hand, and she releases his arm. Her fingers linger on his skin just a shade too long. You rub your shoes on the pavement until they squeak. “I’ll fetch us the equipment, shall I, Jane?”

“Oh,” she says, but he’s already on his merry way. You watch him go. You realize, with the swiftness of lightning hitting the earth, that you are an ass man.

“Oh, um,” says Jane. She’s looking at you. Taking a hint that you can’t even see, Roxy sidles up to her, looking down the inch or so difference between them with a winning smile.

“So,” says Roxy with a wink, “Come here often?”

Jane hoots. You think it’s pretty adorable, and don’t really like that it is. “Gosh, no! I’ve never shot anything with anything in my whole life.”

Roxy laughs, somehow not at Jane, somehow just happy. “Well, you’ve got a soldier to help teach you, right? Give ya pointers?”

“He’ll do his best, I’m sure,” she says, playing with her hair. There’s a baby blue hair clip in it--practical, but sweet. Something a young woman would wear. You have no idea how old Jane is. “I just don’t know how capable a student I’ll be!”

“Welp,” Roxy says, rocking back on her heels. “If he sucks, I’m here. And just between you and me, I’m awesome.”

Jane hoots. Roxy laughs. They are already friends. You stare at them, awed and silent.

Jake returns with a clacking heap of plastic and rubber. “I got us guns!” He crows, and no one should sound that happy while talking about guns without being immediately locked up, but you just roll with it. He hands Jane a rifle loaded with light blue paint, because of course he would. She brightens very quietly, like a flower blooming, and watches Jake fiddle with his own gun and mutter to himself.

You catch his eye. “Feelin’ confident?” You ask.

He’s beaming at you like a floodlight. There is nothing graceful about it, and you love it. “I’ve been going to the shooting range for years to keep my claws sharp. I’ve never done paintball, though! This should go down a storm, don’t you think?”

“You’re weird,” you say. His face ripples, like he’s not sure what to be feeling in response. “I like it,” you clarify.

“Oh,” he smiles. “Well, then.”

You say, “Let’s go. Roxy, you’re with me.”

“Aww man,” she whines. “Like I wanna be stuck with you!”

“Ready, Jane?” Jake asks. Jane nods, but she’s looking at you. You nod to her, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes widen.

You grab Roxy’s hand and pull her toward the two lines of rowdy semiadults with fake weapons. “Let’s go,” you say.

“Bye, Janey!” Roxy calls over her shoulder. “We’re gonna be Red Team, so you be Blue, okay?”

“Okay!”

You steer her into the correct line with you, processing everything. Jane has suspicions about you, which actually makes you feel a little better--you are being clear with Jake, he’s just being an idiot. Roxy’s a surprise, as well, since the last time you’d talked to her she’d only had one friend, and that was you. Looks like her late teens were being kind to her, though, at least socially. You knew her mom was still giving her shit, but it wasn’t as corrosive, somehow. She’d grown.

Had you grown?

“Hey, dickprince,” Roxy says, pinning a bright red armband to your shirt. “You’re thinkin’ too much again.”

“No I’m not,” you instantly reply. “I’m thinking for two, unless you wanna pull your weight.”

She ties a red sash around her waist and fixes it into a bow. “You’re on autopilot, weirdo.” She then shoves her free hand into you hair, smooshing the spikes and generally making it shitty. You shove her hand away, but you’re smiling, a little.

“Getcha-getcha-getcha-getcha head in the game!” She shouts into your face.

“Jesus,” you say, and hold your nose closed. “You smell like a bar.”

You both walk into position. You can see the Blue Team filing in, as well, though not Jake and Jane. You assume they’re behind one of the giant inflatable shapes that serve as cover. You bring your rifle to your shoulder and sit behind a cylinder, Roxy by your side.

“You smell like a butt,” she tells you. “And your hair is dumb.”

You pull off your shades and immediately replace them with tinted goggles. No one’s seeing your peepers without an engraved fucking invitation, not even Roxy. “You’re going to get paint in your cleavage.”

“At least I have cleavage.”

You look over at her with naked affection on your face. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

She smiles up at you and sticks out her tongue between her teeth. “Neither do you, assdouche.”

The alarm sounds, and your team moves forward.

Someone is instantly hit in the chest with familiar green paint.

“Aw, shit!” they say, and raise their gun in defeat. “I’m hit.”

“Sorry about my friend,” you tell him, voice loud enough to carry. “He’s a jerk.”

“Hey!” Shouts Jake. “I was just showing--”

You lean out of cover, aim your gun at Jake’s voice and pull the trigger. All three pellets hit walls, but you do hear him yelp.

“Let’s move,” says Roxy. You nod.

You soon make a few very important discoveries. One is that you basically suck at paintball. You spend most of your time behind cover, not moving, watching Roxy snipe dudes from across the field with hot pink paint. The closest you come to hitting someone is when you try to shoot the center of a red blotch for target practice and some poor sap moves into the way.

You apologized, and they raised their gun to you in reply, which would have disappointed you if you had faith in people. You rolled away and Roxy covered you.

Another discovery? Jake never shuts the fuck up when he’s not actively listening to someone. You can hear his “Jeepers creepers!” and “Hoo-ah!” from across the field. The only time Roxy has actually been in paint danger so far was when she was laughing at Jake’s “No need to get in a lather, fella! Just get hot!” You have no idea how he survived in actual combat. You assume duct tape was involved.

Between Jake, Roxy, and a Jake-assisted Jane, the game is nearly over in eight minutes. Someone you don’t know hits you in the shoulder with grey paint, so you raise your gun in surrender and your middle finger in salute. He calls you a fuckass under his breath, and Roxy instantly goes after him.

“That’s my never-was, you piece of crap!” She shrieks. You know she’s joking, but it’s still weird to hear. A moment later, she’s looking at green paint on her arm.

“No swearing!” Shouts Jake. “This is meant to be fun for all ages, Roxy, come now!”

Roxy looks at you. “What the fuck.”

“Game over!” Calls the scorekeeper. “Blue Team wins!”

You file out of the enclosure, picking the rubber pieces out of the paint on your sleeve. Roxy dips her fingers in green and gives herself stripes under her goggles.

“War paint,” she tells Jake, who had looked a little apologetic about shooting her. “C’mon, Jake! Boys versus girls time, I’mma destroy you.”

He laughs, his smile all teeth, and says, “You’re on!” His eyes, behind his glasses inside his goggles, are sparkling. “Right! Dirk, we need to show your friend what-for, I think!”

Jane smiles warily at Roxy. Roxy responds by taking her hand. “Let’s kill ‘em,” she says, which Jane does not seem to find very reassuring.

“I’ll take Red again,” you say. “I need to find the fucker with the grey paint.”

Jake pokes you in the arm. You look up at him, because, what?

“No swearing,” he says, and he means it.

You look at Roxy. “I suddenly don’t mind so much if you hit him,” you say. “Try to get him in the ass; there’s cushion, there.”

“Dirk!”

“Time to go,” you say, and soon enough round two is starting. You are totally fine following Jake around, indulging in your newfound ass appreciation as well as keeping out of the way. Jake “takes point,” as he calls it, and soon you are leaning against an inflatable wall and watching him scan the area, his smile fierce, his bare legs inches from your hands. You lace your fingers together and squeeze them, rifle heavy in your lap.

Jake hits someone and gives a whoop of victory, and your stomach clenches. “So,” you say, and Jake turns the full force of his happiness on you. Your face is red, already, from the sun. You are a sham of a Texan.

“Having fun?” Jake asks, before noticing that your hands are not on your weapon. “Hey, now, are you even playing?”

“Let’s play a game,” you say. “Twenty questions.”

“Dirk--”

You look him in the eye and say, “I trust you to keep me safe.”

Jake turns back to looking over the battlefield, looking a little flushed from exertion. All that running and jumping and shooting must be taking its toll.

“That’s dirty pool, Mister Strider,” he mutters, but that’s not a no.

“Favorite color?” You ask.

He snorts. “Green. Though you’ve probably deduced that, haven’t you?”

“It’s pretty elementary,” you agree. “Favorite music genre?”

He squeezes the trigger. Someone in the distance yelps. “Swing. Jazz, as well, but sometimes it gets away from me.”

“Favorite movie?”

Jake gives you a look, but remains on guard. “That’s hardly a fair question. And speaking of, when is it my turn?”

You barely stop yourself from scoffing. “Your entire job revolves around asking me questions. I know nothing about you. Indulge me.” Then, “Just give me your top three.”

You learn that his top three movies of all time are James Cameron’s Avatar, any Indiana Jones film, and Star Wars, Episode IV. This is unbelievably shitty news, and you tell him as much. It is not so much bad taste as no taste at all. He laughs.

Jake also tells you that his favorite food is pumpkin, his favorite holiday is Christmas, his grandmother taught him to shoot a gun, he prefers dogs to cats, he once owned a fish and when it died he was inconsolable for a week, he prefers building his own computers to either Macs or PCs, and he would fuck Indiana, marry Neytiri, and kill Han Solo.

“Harsh,” you say.

“It wasn’t a fair question!” he insists. “You are asking impossible ones on purpose.”

He then claims that you are both “camping” and insists that you start moving. You follow him behind other bits of cover, trusting him not to lead you into an ambush, if ambushes are even a thing that can happen in paintball. You ask him five more questions, to which the answers are the Phillipines, twenty-one to his first girlfriend, he has no idea but probably Sporty Spice or Ginger, definitely Betty, and never.

“Seriously?” You ask. “I thought you were all sexually free and progressive.”

“I am,” he says. “At least, I jolly well hope I am! I’ve just never seen the point of them, I guess. No judgement for others, obviously--”

“You don’t ‘see the point’ of one-night stands,” you clarify, giving him a look. “Pretty sure the point is to get laid, Jake.”

He shrugs a shoulder, leaning out of cover. “I’ve just never wanted to be intimate with a stranger,” he says.

You are a little baffled. “How can a sex therapist be a hopeless ro--”

You’re cut off by a flurry of loud popping noises you recognise as paint pellets hitting your cover. They skirt just over your head, bursting on the wall in front of you and spraying you with indigo paint. For half a second, you are convinced that Jane got you, somehow, but the color is too dark to be hers and you doubt she’d go so overkill with the paint. You touch your face, and your fingers come back speckled in blue.

“Shit,” you say. “Does this count? It looks like it counts.”

Jake is looking at you, and it is not with concern. He is crouched down next to you, closer than he had been moments before, and getting closer. Your mind is creaking under the strain of sensory overload. Your mind says, Jake is close to you because this inflatable cover block is smaller than the others. He ducked to hide from the paint assault. He must be checking your face for a bruise--he must think you were hit directly. Then Jake brushes one of his rough, calloused thumbs just under your lips, nearly cupping your face in his palm, and you stop thinking altogether.

You can count the number of people who have touched you intentionally on one hand. Dave would help you up when you tripped on the playground and bump your fists when you got all As in your classes. Cal holds you when you are sad and wraps his arms around you as you sleep. Today, Roxy stepped on you and hit you and hugged you with the force of an insistent toddler. And now, Jake’s skin is barely an inch from your mouth, and you are painfully aware that you have never kissed anyone.

Jake pulls his hand away and looks at it, rubbing the slick blueness between his fingers. His pupils are a little wide, but he’s giving you a wry smile. “I think it counts, mate,” he says, and his voice is deep and masculine and Jake and you feel like you’re dying.

The indigo asshole shoots at your cover a bit more and shouts, “Come out, dumbasses, I know you’re there!”

Jake huffs. “So much friggin’ cussing, today.”

You want to say, “Sorry about offending your delicate sensibilities,” but your mouth is dry. Instead, you raise your gun and your blue hand in surrender. Jake does the same. Your assailant shoots you both square in the chest.

“Oh, are you surrendering?” She asks. You can see her tangle of black hair just over her cover. “My bad!”

“That’s really not on,” Jake says.

You find your voice enough to say, “Han. You shot first. Look.”

Her cover is pretty much soaked in green. He blushes, and you leave the field of play to sit on splintery wooden benches and wipe off your paint stains with paper towels.

“Do you have a color fetish?” You ask. Jake sputters. “Or whatever it’s called,” you clarify. “I have no idea if it’s even a thing.”

“Uh,” he says, and his face looks even redder next to the little splotch of blue he missed below his right eye. “No. I mean, I don’t think I do? I’ve never thought about it.”

You shrug a shoulder and wet a paper towel from your water bottle. “You got in my grill pretty fast after the blue bukakke. I was wonderin’ if it was a thing, for you.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” says Jake, “but no, I don’t think being blue influences my affections in any literal way.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Is this because I said I would marry Neytiri?”

“Avatar is a terrible movie, man,” you say, without remorse or quarter given. “The fact that you like it is genuinely upsetting to me.”

“I would apologize,” says Jake, “but that would besmirch Neytiri’s honor, and she is a lovely girl.”

“You’re the worst,” you say. “Hold still.”

You watch your hands on Jake as if from a distance, calibrating the pressure of their grip, sensing the heat of Jake’s face and storing away the data for later. He has taken off his goggles, so the only thing separating you from his eyes are his glasses, rectangular and brilliant in the sun. You place your index finger and thumb on his chin, angling his face as you wipe at the blue paint with the towel. You feel invisible stubble on the pad of your thumb, and if you didn’t have a few mental steps away from the situation, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from running your fingers along his jaw, tracing it, feeling him. The paint crumbles off, and when the stain is totally gone, you take a breath, and then your hands away.

Jake looks at you, and slowly raises a hand to scratch his face, where your hand was on his chin. You tickled him, you realize. You touched him and he reacted.

You are going to jerk off until you chafe, tonight.

Jake clears his throat. “Uh--you still have a few questions left. Care to ask them?”

Four left, in fact. You decide to go slow--or, at least, slow for you.

“Are you dating anyone right now?”

He smiles absently, shaking his head. “I haven’t the time for such things, right now. Work is keeping me busy as a bee, these days.”

You don’t need to ask if he’s sleeping with anyone, because he’s already made it clear that dating and sleeping with are prerequisites for each other. This still strikes you as delightfully old-fashioned for someone who probably talks about orgy social etiquette to his clients. You press on:

“Are you interested in anyone right now?”

Weirdly, his smile just gets wider. “Jeez, Mister Strider!” You don’t know what he means by that, so you just stare at him. He looks away. “Sorry, but this line of questioning has me all backward.”

You skip to the punch. “What if I asked you out?”

You aren’t surprised when he answers easily. “I’d respectfully decline,” Jake says, “because you are my client and I am your therapist.” You are surprised when he stands, though.

“Wait,” you say, holding out a hand to catch at nothing. “I have one more.”

Jake shrugs his shoulders and begins to stretch. You hear his bones creak and pop, and watch as his muscles pull at each other, curving and--you’re distracted. He’s distracting you.

“No, you don’t,” he says, easy and cruel. “You asked about the paint, remember?”

You do remember. You asked if the paint spatter “counts,” and he answered. You wasted a question without realizing. You look up at Jake, who has the sun behind him as always.

“You,” you say, “are a devious motherfucker.”

He smiles. “I think we have that in common.”

“Jake!” Calls Jane, and you realize you’ve lost the moment. Roxy is leading Jane over by the hand, as if skin-to-skin contact is barely a thing, and they are both looking at you. Jake looks over and gives a jaunty salute.

“Salutations, ladies!” He says. You want to crawl under the bench, a little, or punch someone. No one here, though. Well, maybe Jake. You can see that happening pretty easily, right about now.

“Hey, boys,” Roxy says with a wink. “Miss us?”

You can barely stop yourself from saying “No.”

Jane walks to your side and looks up. On anyone else, you’d think the cutesy maneuver was a little much, but her expression isn’t cutesy. It isn’t openly hostile, either, which is a nice surprise. No, with that one eyebrow raised and those lips pursed to the side, she looks like she’s looking at you through an invisible magnifying glass.

“Mister Strider? Or Dirk, I should say,” Jane says. You are acutely aware of how Jake isn’t looking at either of you. “Ready to go?”

You shrug a shoulder. “Actually, I’m feeling a little wiped. Wanna get a snack or something?”

She looks surprised, but levels out easily enough. You can almost see her smoothing down the skirt she isn’t wearing. “That sounds lovely, Dirk.”

You leave Jake and Roxy to target each other without preamble. You assume you’re going to have to help Jake clean pink paint off of his extremities, but you don’t mind. Roxy’ll be gentle.

You buy Jane a bottle of iced tea from the rundown Snack Shack near the entrance, and when she assures you that wasn’t necessary, you buy her a cookie, as well. You sit next to her at a picnic table, sipping water and staring straight ahead, as she nibbles and looks at you. You feel like a crime scene, with the way she is analyzing your expression (blank) and your clothes (dirty) and your shades (locked in place). She speaks first because you let her.

“Dirk?”

You turn to look at her. To her credit, she doesn’t shrink away. Maybe your Strider gaze is getting worse, actually, because you haven’t been able to stare down a single person, today. “Sup?”

She’s a little pink from the sun, but is otherwise an immovable barrier. Her face tells you that you will answer her questions, or else she will play bad cop in a shake of a lamb’s. Her pin is still perfectly straight, sweeping her hair from her face.

Her one raised eyebrow climbs. “You were the one who had the idea to come out today, weren’t you?”

This is barely a question, so you barely answer by nodding once.

She takes a dainty bite of her snickerdoodle and asks, “And why did you?”

You could take her literally, and explain about how neurons fired in our brain, causing you to lace thoughts together to form a coherent idea, but you decide not to. She’ll only get more upset, anyway, and after Jake you are quickly approaching your limit on talking for the day. So, you shrug again.

“Seemed like fun,” you say. “It’s in line with what Doctor English told me I should be doing--having outdoor shindigs, or whatever.”

Jane grabs onto that like a piece of DNA evidence in a courtroom drama. “About that. You’ve been seeing Jake for, what, a week and change now?”

“Two and a half.” And then, because you have already dug your grave, “Almost three.”

There’s that disappointed look again. You were pretty much waiting for it. “I need you to level with me, Dirk,” she says. “Why are you seeing Jake?”

That’s a tricky answer to phrase, but you have a few ideas about what she wants to hear. “I’m socially inept,” you say. “He’s helping me with that.” This is technically true, which works well for your purposes.

Jane snaps. She puts her hand on your arm, and you really do not want it there. Before you can slip out of her fingers, you make the mistake of locking eyes with her. This is a mistake, because:

1. Jane Crocker has piercing baby blues that stare into your soul and are a little sad you didn’t try to tidy up the place;
2. You freeze to the spot like she put the whammy on you;
3. You realize you suddenly know nothing.

“Listen,” she says, and you do, because who couldn’t listen to a woman like this? She’s pure Old Testament thunder and lightning. “I don’t know what you want with him, but I have some ideas, and they all stink. If you have any sense in that big important child prodigy brain of yours, you know that this whole situation stinks to high heaven.”

You find your voice. “Hey--”

“Hey yourself, buster.” Your mouth closes. You weren’t in on the decision--it closed without your input. Jane continues. “Jake’s my friend. I’m looking out for what’s best for him, and a client making eyes at him is exactly what he doesn’t need.”

“You,” you say, but your voice is softer than usual and your stomach is doing backflips and you wonder, suddenly, if you are having a stroke. “You’re--jealous?” That wasn’t supposed to be a question.

She looks about ready to slap you. “Bull. You’re over the moon for him, and frankly, it’s dangerous.” She shakes your arm, a little, and she’s not strong but it hurts a little anyway. “He’s your therapist, Dirk.”

“I don’t need therapy,” you rasp.

She frowns at you like you are shit on her sneaker. “Well then why bother him at work at all?”

This isn’t a very good question. The answer is, to you, pretty obvious. However, right as you open your mouth, she makes a small noise of frustration.

“And don’t give me any of that ‘it’s the only way to see him’ baloney!”

“I,” you say. “Isn’t it?” You are really bad at talking to this woman. She is really bad at not rolling her eyes at you, as she is doing now.

“He doesn’t just live in the office, kid,” she says, and that’s twisting the knife, a little, calling you “kid” as if you’re fifteen with a crush. You’re nineteen. That’s a four year difference, right there. Jane says, “Stop being his client. You should never have been his client, as far as I can tell.”

“But,” you say.

And here, she lays it down, like the sickest beat you have ever heard.

“Howzabout you just ask him out to dinner? He doesn’t pick up hints, not even ones with his name on them. Believe me,” she says. “I know.”

Because of course she knows. Because of course she was Jake’s friend before becoming his assistant, she agreed to work with him as an opportunity to become closer, and subsequently realized that it would never work between them. Of course she was disappointed in herself for putting herself in that position, especially for wanting to get closer to someone who was now her boss, personal histories aside. Of course Jane still loves Jake, and she sees you as making the exact same fucking mistake she made.

This doesn’t sound at all like a warning. Jane isn’t telling you to stay away from Jake. She’s telling you not to fuck it up.

“Oh my God,” you say.

Jane takes her hand off your arm, and you rub it absently. No bruising, which is good, because how embarrassing can you get? “Done interviewing your thoughts?” She asks. You nod. “Good. So, what’s the plan?”

You fidget. “Don’t schedule another appointment.”

She nods, satisfied. “And?”

“Ask him out to dinner,” you say, “like a normal person.”

“Good boy,” she says.

“You know who you remind me of, Crocker?”

She shakes her head.

You say, “Superman.” She cocks her head to the side, questioning, so you explain. “You’ve got really insanely blue eyes, and you’re fucking terrifying when you want to be.”

Jane laughs, and you thank whoever or whatever is in charge of these things that you aren’t actually on her bad side.

Tomorrow, you think. You’ll talk to him tomorrow.

Chapter Text

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

GT: Greetings and salutations strider!
GT: I am still getting the hang of this thing but jane had me download it a while ago thank goodness!
GT: How are you?
TT: I’m fine.
GT: Good to hear!
GT: Your message told me you wanted to cancel your appointment is that right?
TT: Yeah.
GT: Jolly good. When would you like to reschedule?
TT: ...
TT: I’m not sure.
GT: Well this coming week is a little busy but if you dont mind waiting i would be more than happy to schedule you for next tuesday? There are both morning and afternoon slots available.
TT: I don’t want to reschedule, Jake.
GT: So that would be
GT: Wait
GT: Sorry what do you mean?
TT: Pretty much what I just said. I don’t want to reschedule.
GT: Im afraid i dont understand.
TT: Look,
GT: Did something happen?
TT: I was talking to Jane--no, nothing happened.
TT: Let me explain.
GT: Well that doesnt sound like nothing happened mister strider.
GT: What did you talk about?
GT: We talked a bit as well.
TT: We--seriously, Jake. Let me type.
GT: Fine.
GT: She mentioned talking to you as well and about attempting to dissuade you.
TT: That’s what we talked about, yeah.
GT: Well her reasons were pretty damned unsatisfactory! What did she tell you they were?
TT: ...She was acting in both of our best interests’. Out of curiosity, what did she tell you?
GT: She seemed to think you fancy me.
GT: Which is ridiculous! I mean not even going into all the reasons that doesnt make any sense in general it especially doesnt where you are concerned.
GT: I mean youve never been attracted to anyone for gods sake!
GT: I asked her who her informant was supposed to be because obviously they had had a rough zonk to the head.
GT: No we are just friends arent we?
GT: Which i admit is a strange relationship to have in our situation but theres nothing particularly wrong with it is there?
GT: Mister strider?
GT: Are you still there? The internet here can be a mite dodgy.
TT: I’m here.
GT: Well whats going on then?
GT: You made a fuss about wanting a chance to type and then you seemed to have wandered away from your computer!
GT: Is something wrong?
TT: Let’s not get into that just yet.
TT: How long have you known Jane, Jake?
GT: What are you getting at?
GT: Four years or so. Why?
TT: Then you should probably trust her more. She knows what she’s talking about.
GT: Well obviously she doesnt becau
GT: ...
TT: ...
TT: Yeah.
TT: Jane Crocker is amazing at sleuthing. She’s simply the best there is.
TT: I take it from your silence that you genuinely had no idea. That’s fine. However, I hope it explains why I can’t schedule any further appointments with you.
TT: I never needed therapy, anyway. Therapy implies that I want to change, and I don’t.
TT: Don’t get me wrong; I’m really glad you helped me get back in touch with Roxy. But I don’t want to learn to be more social, or anything. I don’t need to. I’m cool just being me, even if I’m an antisocial dickhead.
GT: Dirk i dont know what im supposed to say.
TT: You’re doing fine. You didn’t sign off or yell at me, so you’re streets ahead.
GT: Ugh.
GT: Just what the hell do you mean by that??
TT: What do you mean what do I mean?
GT: Do you really think i would do such a thing?
GT: Watch you spill your feelings and then leave you to rot?
GT: You must think im the worst therapist in the world.
TT: Far from it. I think you’re amazing.
GT: Oh shut up. You dont trust me at all.
GT: You come to me and schedule appointments and spend time with me and for what?
GT: To run away from me at the end of things.
GT: Have you been listening to what ive been saying at all?
GT: You really need to have more faith in people.
TT: Look, that was a one-off comment. I knew you wouldn’t actually do that.
GT: No you didnt!
GT: Otherwise you would have told me you didnt want to see me again in person!
TT: So we’re just ignoring my confession of feelings for you? Okay, that’s cool.
GT: How can you have feelings for someone you dont trust??
TT: I trust you to levels which are truly stupid, Jake.
TT: I just happen to also be scared.
GT: Of what???
TT: Of rejection, you incredible shithead.
GT: How can you be so smart and yet also be so STUPID???
TT: Pot, meet kettle.
GT: Of course i fucking care for you!!
GT: I mean
GT: Fuck

golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT]

TT: What?
TT: Jake.
TT: Jake.
TT: Jake.
TT: It seems you are afk.
TT: I mean, I know you’re not, but it seems that way.
TT: I’ll continue to spill my guts, then.
TT: Jake, I am in love with you.
TT: Meeting you was one of the best things to ever happen to me. You’re kind, smart, funny, and can keep up with me on most levels. I like to think I understand you, at least a little bit.
TT: I understand that going through therapy under false pretenses was a bad move, and that it went on longer than it should have.
TT: I’m sorry. But, I do think I needed that therapy. I needed to get to know you in a safe environment, and I needed help understanding my feelings.
TT: As you mentioned, I’ve never felt attracted to anyone before. However, I can say beyond a shadow of a fucking doubt that I am attracted to you.
TT: This isn’t me just being romantically attracted, either. This is me being romantically, sexually, and magnetically attracted to you.
TT: In an ideal world, you would take responsibility for my feelings by letting me buy you dinner, or flowers, or a spaceship. Whatever extravagant tokens you want.
TT: But this isn’t an ideal world, and you are still essentially screening my call, here.
TT: I can get out of your life right now. Permanently. No ifs, ands, or buts.
TT: I want to be your boyfriend, but I would just as happily be your friend.
TT: Well, not just as happily.
TT: But pretty fucking happily.
TT: Please talk to me, Jake.
TT: I don’t want this to be the last time we talk.
TT: I’m sorry.
TT: Fuck.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT]

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

GT: YOU are the shithead.
TT: What?
GT: I dont like being manipulated strider! No one does!
GT: But i accept your apology and would also like to apologize to you.
TT: ...What?
GT: Ive been in bad form this whole time.
GT: I wanted to help you but i also wanted to be your friend.
GT: I probably led you on in a bunch of ways without even realizing.
GT: So i am sorry for hurting you in that way.
GT: I havent been a very good therapist i think.
GT: I got too emotionally invested. This happens sometimes but it has never happened to me.
TT: Apology accepted.
TT: Thanks for going easy on me.
GT: Wait what?
TT: Your rejection. Way less painful than I thought.
TT: You’re kind of a gentleman when you want to be.
GT: What??
GT: Wait when did i reject you?
TT: ...
TT: Uh. Wanna rephrase that, buddy?
TT: This is me giving you an out.
GT: No i never rejected you!!
GT: I told you i care for you you dolt!
TT: Okay, wow. Do not go pinning this on me.
TT: You never confessed shit.
TT: You care for your spider plant, too. You told me as much.
GT: Leave charlie out of this!
TT: No. Charlie is officially involved.
TT: Charlie and I want to know what the hell you are talking about, English.
GT: Fine!!
GT: God you are insufferable.
GT: I am attracted to you as well!!
GT: I guess i didnt think about it much before yesterday but
GT: I think it is safe to say that i have
GT: Feelings?
GT: For you.
TT: Wow.
GT: Jeepers i am terrible at this.
GT: But i am flying blind here!
GT: I havent made a friend in years and im practically old enough to be your father.
TT: If you got busy as a ten year old, then yeah.
GT: I didnt think about it because you are my client! Or were my client.
GT: And i wanted to help you because you looked so sad.
GT: Like how you got all fired up about roxy and told me you cant love.
GT: That got to me a little!
GT: Or a lot.
TT: Oh God.
TT: I didn’t even remember that.
GT: What are you serious??
TT: Yeah.
TT: The exact phrasework, at least.
TT: I meant to say that I can’t hold on to people. You get that now, right?
TT: I can’t not be shit at relationships.
GT: Well that isnt what i thought you meant.
TT: Apparently.
GT: Anyway what i am saying boils down to this.
GT: You never gave me any reason for me to think you were interested.
GT: I wasnt really aware of it happening! And then i see you watching me in public and jane tells me you like me...
GT: It was a lot all at once!
GT: And i spooked.
TT: You don’t have to apologize for being surprised, Jake.
GT: Well i feel like i do.
GT: You deserve someone who understands the way your brain works.
GT: You say you understand me. Well frankly im not that hard to understand!
GT: I like the outdoors and guns and adventure. That is jake english in all of his complexity.
TT: Bullshit.
GT: This is not my point.
GT: My point is that i like you a lot. And I want to keep talking to you.
GT: And i certainly wouldnt mind if that talking happened on dates.
GT: Strider?
GT: Dirk?
GT: Are you still there?
GT: That was a little off the cob i know but its true.
TT: Sorry.
TT: It’s hard to type with my face in my hands.
GT: haha
TT: Are you asking me out on a date, English?
GT: I am asking you out on a date.
GT: On a bunch of dates!
GT: Because i want to get to know you better.
GT: And i want to hold your hand.
TT: Jesus Christ.
TT: Way to make it graphic.
GT: Well i wont apologize for that.
TT: Um.
TT: I did not expect that answer.
TT: At all.
GT: That is pretty obvious mate!
TT: I wish I could see your face.
TT: Because this isn’t all of my news.
GT: What do you mean?
TT: I quit my job today.
TT: Let me explain.
TT: I am well aware that I am younger than you, more inexperienced, and generally still a kid working for his older brother.
TT: I wanted to prove that I was more than that. Partly for you, but mostly for myself.
TT: I’m going to start my own company. Developing artificial intelligence, that sort of thing. Focus on experimental stuff, maybe do some business overseas.
TT: This is suddenly terrible, because I didn’t even begin to think you’d accept me as I am.
TT: I am about to bury myself in work for the next six months minimum getting this whole shebang in place.
GT: Jesus christmas strider.
TT: It was going to be a gesture.
GT: You are absolute shit at gestures!
TT: Thanks.
GT: No i mean
GT: You know what i mean! You put all your chips on black and it came up red!
TT: I am well aware how badly I fucked this up.
GT: Where are you right now?
TT: But you have to realize how unlikely--
TT: I’m at home. Why?
GT: I am going to visit you.
GT: Stay right where you are.
TT: What? No.
GT: See you soon!!
TT: Jake.

golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT].

TT: Jake do not come over. My brother is here.
TT: ...
TT: Jesus H. Dick, dude. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.

timaeusTestified [TT] is now an idle chum!

Chapter Text

You never had friends over, growing up. Mostly, this was due to you not having any friends, but even if you did, you doubt you would have invited them to your house. There are several very good reasons for this, all of which Jake is systematically showcasing.

“You came to the wrong neighborhood, motherfucker,” Dave says, pushing Jake up against the fridge, which is open and also full of swords. One of these swords appears in Dave’s hand, at Jake’s throat.

“Jesus and Joseph,” whispers Jake. He is wearing a full suit, for once, and now it is hopelessly rumpled. “You’re Dirk’s bro, I take it?”

“Bro,” you say, frozen in the doorway to the kitchen like the kitchen is a saloon and you are an innocent bystanding prostitute watching two cowboys argue over cards. “Bro. Stop.”

Dave turns his head a fraction of an inch, but nothing else moves. His hands are still on his sword, the blade unmoving at Jake’s jugular. Jake, thank God, isn’t freaking out--if anything, he looks a little miffed. Still, this needs to stop yesterday.

Jake smiles at you. “Good afternoon, Dirk! The door was open, so--”

“He heard you on the stairs,” you explain. “It was a trap.”

Jake’s smile falters, a little. “Oh,” he says. “Blast.”

You don’t have time to pick up a sword of your own, so you do your best to make a gesture of surrender. Those don’t come easily to you, but you try. Dave raises an eyebrow. Who the hell is this, the eyebrow asks you. Why are you making me hesitate?

“Bro,” you say, not liking the worry in your voice but without a way to fix it, “this is Jake English. He’s my ex-therapist.”

That earns you both eyebrows. “Ex?”

You nod.

He nods back. “Good. I’ve got some words for him.”

Your innards plummet through the floor. “Bro--”

Dave materializes one of your smuppets in his hand and spikes it on the toaster. The toaster, as all Strider household appliances are programmed to do when hit with smuppets, drops a beat.

Jake’s eyes are wide in silent question, staring at you and your bro as if looking for a port in a storm. It is too late to stop it, but you try. “Bro, for fuck’s sake--”

“Doctor Jake English,” Dave says.

Jake swallows. “Uh. Hello?”

“Don’t interrupt. Don’t speak. No words,” Dave says. “Just rap. See, I can read your moves before you make them, see your mind percolate then drip down your brain stem--”
“Bro, seriously, let me explain--”
But the beat don’t stop, just the way Dave told you it doesn’t. Dave leans in, and Jake yelps. You are helpless to stop the torrent of sick rhymes falling from your bro’s mouth and punching both you and your maybe-boyfriend-now in the face. However, it doesn’t take long for the rad disses to fade into Dave’s actual concern, and you can’t help being surprised. You didn’t realize how bad you were at hiding what you’d been doing. You had made one of the world’s most classic blunders: never get involved in a land war in Asia, and never keep shit from you brother, because he will assume the fucking worst.

youre here to take dirk
told him to quit work
so he started to shirk to see this jerk
all hail, captain kirk of the uss bad decision
its my vision to see my lil bro succeed
he doesn’t need no familial division
and here you are
bustin in here like the koolaid man
tryin to wedge into the strider clan
fuckin up the plan, all the grace and swag of a mid-sized sedan
listen, english, if that is your real name
i might play the field but this isn’t a game
gtfo or i’ll put you to shame.

You watch as Jake turns from outraged, to understanding, to a little terrified. You think the sword is probably to blame for that--when your bro starts really feeling the beat, his grip on the blade gets less steady by degrees, and Jake must get by now that Dave will actually kill him for these assumed slights.

“Bro,” you cut in. “Seriously.”

He doesn’t hear you until four beats pass and you speak to him in his language. Your rhymes are weak in your desperation, but you catch his gaze and keep it, glaring and standing your ground.

Bro. Who the fuck do you think you are?
Smoking crack and drinking bars?
You’re a cool dude, you’ve been there for me,
But I don’t forgive messing with what might be nightly.
I agree, our home’s the wrong place to sightsee,
But Jake’s my guest to welcome, Big B.
Break out of the kitchen and go on the lam.
English and I need a feelings jam.

You and Bro don’t exactly fistbump, but he does end up giving you space. You’ll tell him everything later, you know--on pain of strife. He looks pissed, but you compartmentalize and focus on your new situation. The one where you’re alone a heavily-armed kitchen with one Jake English, who looks ruffled and perfect in a charcoal grey suit.

You don’t know what to say, so you turn off the toaster and just start picking up swords, shoving them back in the fridge. Jake helps you push the door closed.

“Thanks,” you say.

“No problem,” he says.

Kitchens aren’t meant to be quiet places, you think. Even when all you and Dave can slap together are scrambled eggs and stir fry, there should still be noise. The small hum of the fridge and the freezer, for example, or the light clinking of silverware settling in the dish drainer. You cannot hear any of these things, because you are too busy focusing on how fucking awkward this is.

“This is awkward,” you say.

Thank God English laughs easy. You feel tension ease from your own shoulders. “It is, a bit,” he says. “But--you mentioned a feelings jam! That seems an important matter to attend to! Though I’m not entirely certain what that is.”

You lean back against the fridge, looking up at Jake and taking him in. He’s here, you realize belatedly. He’s here, in your home. Dave didn’t kill him. He’s here.

“I could go for one,” you admit.

Jake leans against the counter next to you and crosses his arms. His sleeves are a little short, and you take note of the knots and lines of his wrists. “Well?” He asks.

You let yourself smile. Relax, self. You can do this.

“Jake,” you say.

He leans toward you, barely nudging your shoulder with his own. “Hmm?”

“I,” you continue, trying to hold his gaze, “am a fucking idiot.”

Jake laughs and nods. “I know how that one feels, mate. From personal experience,” he adds.

He’s here because he likes you, that small thirteen-year-old in your mind is saying. He likes you and you like him. You like each other.

“But,” you continue, keeping your shoulders linked through the lightest of touches, “somehow, this has not stopped me from falling for you. In fact, it probably helped, when you get down to it.”

This seems to sit well with Jake. “Go on.”

“I’m young,” you say. “Younger than you, at least. I won’t be able to surprise you with champagne for another two years. I can’t take you to high-end clubs and I can’t plan a romantic getaway to Vegas. However,” you continue, “I can make robots, I can rap, and I will do everything in my power to make you happy, so hopefully that evens things out.

“I had a bunch of plans,” you say, “about how I was going to win you over with--”

“Grand speeches?” Jake interrupts. You almost bite your tongue in surprise. You thought he wanted to hear this. “Dirk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“You don’t need to do anything to make me like you,” Jake says. “I already like you! I--” He clears his throat. “I like the way you pick your words carefully, and how you mean what you say. And I like the way you think of others. I like the way you’re good at planning, because I’m...” He shakes his head, smiling at himself, bashful, “I’m not. I didn’t even realize I--cared for you--until I thought you were leaving.”

Your chest hurts. You realize that you have stopped breathing, so you start that up again manually. The fridge is too cool against you, and you lean against Jake just a fraction more, feeling him take your weight. Testing it.

Jake looks at you, smiling like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen, and he says, “I don’t know when this started, but I can say without a shadow of a doubt...”

His voice is getting softer, but you can still hear it fine. “That I am utterly...”

Oh, that’s because he’s getting closer. His face is getting closer to your face. Like, really close. “And completely...”

You realize that he is going to kiss you. You are unreservedly fine with that.

“Twitterpated,” he whispers, and presses his lips to yours.

You try not to ruin your first kiss through laughing in Jake’s face. He did, however, just say “twitterpated,” so frankly he would deserve it. You distract yourself with the kiss, instead. Jake is warm, and smells warm, and tastes warm. You sink into him like a hot bath, moving in front of him to push into his chest. He is broad and surrounds you with his arms. You do not feel weak at the knees, because you need all the leverage you can get to try to get as close to Jake as physically possible. Your knees know better than to fail you now.

The kiss is short and chaste, just lips on lips, and you want to curl up into Jake like he’s a giant fluffy blanket. He looks down at you with a small, delicate smile, and you touch his smile with your fingertips. It broadens.

You confess, “Jake English, I am also pretty fucking smitten.”

He laughs, and you can feel it, and it makes you want to kiss him. You’re allowed to do that, now, so you do. You kiss Jake English right this instant.

He doesn’t complain.

After your eighth kiss up against the countertop, Jake says, “You are everything plus at kissing, Dirk, but we really should talk about your new job situation.”

“No,” you say, and kiss him again.

After your ninth kiss, which goes on a bit longer than your eighth, Jake says, “No, really,” and you give in.

“I didn’t jump in blind,” you say. “I have connections, people interested in getting in on my badass ideas. I have a few patents under my own name, so I won’t have to start from scratch. If push comes to shove and I go under, Bro could bail me out.”

Jake blinks. “You would let him?”

“No,” you say, “but he could. That’s like a safety net, right? One I will never use.”

He snorts. “More like motivation to succeed than a safety net, Strider...”

“Motivation, then.”

“You are absolutely off your rocker,” Jake tells you. This isn’t news, so you don’t acknowledge him. He puffs out his cheeks like a particularly sexy chipmunk. “You’re taking a huge risk! And I know that your bro would give you your job back in an instant. You don’t have to do this, you know.”

You shake your head. “I think I do, actually. Because this was partly for you, but is now mostly for me.”

He tilts his head in that one way, the I’m-listening-but-I-am-also-dumb-so-explain way, so you do your best to put your feelings into words. “I wanna do something on my own,” you explain. “I wanna finish Squarewave and Sawtooth with my own hands, my own tech. I don’t want to build on something my Bro has already done. Because,” you say, “I’m loyal, but I’m not a fucking dog. I can do my own thing.”

“You can,” Jake says, and you feel dazed because he’s proud of you. You kiss him on the mouth with your mouth, and he makes a happy noise into your lips and you are so fucking elated you could explode like a firework full of love gunpowder. Jake is kissing you, and he hasn’t said the L-word yet, but you are totally in lesbians with him and you can wait, you could wait forever for this guy.

“Dirk?” He asks, mouth against your temple. “You’re interviewing your brain again. Penny for your thoughts?”

You shake your head and cling tighter. “My intellectual property is my business, English. Literally.”

“I can’t breathe,” Jake says.

“Aww, babe,” you say. “You take my breath away, too.”

“Jesus,” he laughs.

You hit him.

Chapter Text

Your name is Dirk Strider, you are twenty-one years old, and you are a virgin. You’ve learned, through your boyfriend as well as common sense, to take issue with that phrasework: how penetrative sex is not the be-all and end-all of physical relationships, for one, and how if you haven’t felt ready or even the desire at all that is totally fine for another. Sex has never been on the forefront of your mind, and even within your monogamous homosexual relationship with a man you can only describe as “holy hot a what,” you have yet to seal the proverbial deal.

One of the reasons for this has simply been that you are a super busy guy. Starting up a robotic research company from scratch is hard work, made even harder with the knowledge that your brother did this exact same thing when he was even younger than you. You have spent countless (not really, but the number is depressing) sleepless nights on the phone, which you hate, and in person, which you hate only slightly less, talking to investors and moving ludicrous sums of money around. You have hella patents, so that’s not the problem, but you end up hiring a lawyer to help you sort shit out. Jane takes pity on you and goes over a few documents for you when your eyes start to cross.

“You’re going to need real glasses at this rate,” she said, tutting.

“These are real glasses,” you say from where your forehead is pressed against the table. “They’re real awesome glasses.”

She just pet your hair a little and shooshed you. You don’t remember falling asleep after that, but she assures you that it happened.

A second reason is that your boyfriend, gorgeous humanitarian and sex therapist Doctor Jacob English, styled “Jake” or “Babycakes” depending on your mood, is also a super busy guy. He’s his own boss, and while he does have a head for numbers, he’s nowhere near as patient as you are. Roxy volunteered to help out at the office, but as much as she likes Jake and adores Jane, it didn’t make the paperwork any less boring. The fact that Jake has somehow rented offices in such a beautiful building for so long without resorting to sex trafficking is a miracle and a half, but it is still a constant struggle. Both of you have taken to collapsing on top of each other for the past few months, too exhausted even to hold each other properly.

You always end up a tangle of limbs by morning, but you have no control over that. That is totally your subconscious seeking out heat when the room gets chilly. Striders don’t go in for that saccharine cuddle pile bullshit.

A third reason, and perhaps the best reason, is that the man you love is both very understanding and very dumb. Every time you stick your tongue down his throat, he gives you these subtle outs--taking his hand from your hipbone, loosening his grip on your hair--and you’re just slightly too much of a pussy to do anything but stop. You want to keep going, you’ve wanted to keep going for months, now, but every time you crawl into his lap you end up crawling out again. The time has never been right, you think. Garlic breath from pasta, sweaty clothes from the gym, too hot, too cold, just getting over a fever, terrible music in the background, the phone ringing, something in the kitchen starting to smoke--you have a million excuses, and you’ve used pretty much all of them.

You just don’t want to fuck anything up.

“You are megaloads of dumblord,” Roxy told you over the phone. “You can’t control how much your first time is going to suck. Because it’s gonna suck.”

“I don’t want it to suck,” you said from where you were lying face down on the carpet. “I want to at least meet his expectations, whatever they may be. Not that I have any idea what they are, because he won’t tell me.”

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Did you straight up ask him?”

You shifted. “No.”

“You totally did.”

You totally did. You sat Jake down to a lovingly prepared dinner of delivery pizza, fresh and hot, and waited until he was chewing his first bite to pop the question.

“What would make you happy in a sexual relationship with me?”

After Jake had coughed the mozzarella out from his windpipe, he wheezed something about “whatever is fine,” and shot the same question back. This seems poor form for a sex therapist, but when you told him as much, he stole your soda and drank like half of it.

“I think I’m dating a sexy manchild,” you told your lawyer.

“Uh,” said Mister Slick. “Kid, no offence, but when I ask shit like ‘anything else I can help with,’ you know what I’m really saying?”

“No.”

“I’m saying get the fuck out of my office,” said Mister Slick.

That wasn’t the most helpful feelings jam you’d ever had, but it helped you figure something out. You discovered that Simon Slick is the best lawyer you could have asked for, for your purposes. You also discovered the importance of honesty. There is no point, you realise, to speaking in riddles when you have to explain what you mean immediately afterward anyway. It’s time, you say to yourself in the mirror, to talk of many things.

Including your desire to copulate consensually with the cut stud who lives in your house. Your house, which you have shared with him for going on a year, now. He’s even started to store one of his derringers in the butter dish in the fridge, alongside your swords. The Rules of Strider say this makes you common-law married.

“Time to go about your husbandly duties,” you say to yourself in the bathroom mirror, “and figure out what the hell my husbandly duties are.”

“Dirk, are you done with the fucking shower yet?” Jake grumbles, knocking softly but insistently, as he had been at odd intervals for the past hour. “I really need to take a leak.”

“Yep,” you say to yourself. “I’m doing it. I’m making it happen.”

You consider your reflection. Bags under your bloodshot eyes, check. Freakish pallor, check. Freckles to keep your freakish pallor from looking like even tone, check. Your hair? Flawless.

“Diiiiiirk,” says the raspy voice in the hallway. “It’s six in the morning, I’m cold and tired, please just let me pee.”

You throw open the door with what would be a grand flourish if it didn’t bang against the wall and halfway close again. You figure you can still make your announcement through half of a doorway, but Jake is already busting in, wearing nothing but his boxers and an anxious expression.

“Budge off,” he says. “Seriously. I am about to burst.”

“Jake,” you say, not budging. “I have something I want to tell you.”

He is already lifting the toilet lid. “Tell me later! For the love of God!”

So you do. You wait to sit down to a proper English breakfast--three kinds of meat and two kinds of squash--before you bring the topic up again. Jake, now freshly scrubbed and in his weekend uniform of cargo shorts and a t-shirt, is as ready for ravishing as ever.

“Jake,” you say.

He’s frowning. “You haven’t touched your brekkers.”

“I’m distracted,” you say.

“What about?”

“Due to the magnitude of the thing,” you continue, “that I hinted at before you almost exploded in the bathroom.”

Jake half-nods in the way he does where he doesn’t remember the thing happening but trusts that you’re telling the truth. You recognize that he is as forgetful as he is gullible, and you just find that more charming.

You sort of wish he were wearing a tie, though. That way, when things get good--but no. No more waiting.

“Jake English,” you say, staring him in the face, glasses off and cards on the table, “I would like to pursue a sexual relationship with you. Right now. On this table.”

To his credit, Jake doesn’t choke on anything. He catches and holds your gaze, chewing his bacon evenly and setting his cutlery down. He holds his knife and fork in the European way, you’ve noticed, and the angle of his wrists while eating is strangely graceful compared to yours. Finally, he swallows and wets his lips, with a twitch of his Adam’s apple and a flash of pink tongue, and you think, Yes.

He says, “That sounds a mite uncomfortable.”

“I was joking about the table,” you clarify. “We already share a bed. We should break it in.”

His expression is one of the two or so you have yet to crack. He’s not excited, but he’s not outright uninterested, so you let yourself have a little hope. “What brought this on?”

You hold back a sigh. “Nothing ‘brought it on’ other than being alone with the man I love in the apartment we share. You aren’t headed anywhere this morning, are you?”

“You know I’m not,” he says, face still maddeningly unreadable.

You do know he isn’t. He doesn’t even lock his phone from you, anymore. Well, he does, but he hasn’t changed his password for months, and that’s practically the same thing.

“This is already too much of a federal fucking issue,” you say.

He leans back in his chair, one hand resting on the table. He’s not drumming his fingers--his hand is relaxed, the curve of his palm gentle. “How do you mean?”

You know he is slipping into his comfortable, professional mindset. That makes sense to you, but you really don’t want your proclamation to turn into yet another conversation.

“I’m twenty-one years old,” you say. “I’m registered to vote, I can and have legally purchased alcohol, and I have had my driver’s license for so long I no longer look like the picture on it. I am, within the constraints and ideals of our society, an adult.” You lean forward, resting your crossed forearms on the table behind your untouched breakfast. “In love with another adult. An adult who shares a mutual romantic attraction with me.

“From what I’ve gleaned from our conversations, you have a sex drive as well. Correct?”

He nods, then asks, “And you?”

You quirk the edge of your lips up in a smirk. “I’ve had dreams.”

Jake is quick to shake his head. “You know, dreams--”

“And fantasies.”

He stops. He isn’t flushed, but he does look intrigued. “You have?”

“Beyond what I would consider normal for someone at my stage of sexual development, even,” you say, cancelling that train of thought before it can get out of the station. “Featuring you, I might add.”

Jake swallows, and you can’t tell if it’s due to excitement or some remnant of food he’d found between his ridiculous teeth. He’s gotten better at bluffing you, and it’s one thing you dislike about being so close to him so constantly. “Go on.”

“I didn’t have them before I met you,” you say. “Or, not regularly. The thing is, Doc, we share a living space, so I’m surrounded by things that set my mind off thinking about you, like it’s in a race against me and I am gonna lose. The way you stack and re-stack the dishes in the dishwasher, for example, which you claim is for maximum efficiency--”

“It is--!”

“--But is really you being a dork. The way you always put your toothbrush facing the same way in the holder. Hell, the way your laundry mixes with mine, so my shirts end up smelling like you and I can’t put on yesterday’s pajamas without getting hard.”

Jake is doing an admirable job keeping his face blank, but there are certain things he can’t control that you revel in: his dilated pupils, the slight redness to his ears, the way his breath is coming a little quicker. You would bet money that he is flexing his quadriceps, redirecting blood flow so he can think. He’s told you, in a moan past your ear that kept you up at night, that he loves your voice. You are not above weaponizing this information.

Your fingers flex in a mindless desire to grab him and shake your logic and desire into him. What was he waiting to hear? “We have established that I love you.” Wait, shit, that’s the least romantic thing you’ve ever heard. “I love you, and have loved you, for a long time.” There, better. “I would love you even if you were totally asexual, but you’re not. I thought I was for a long time, but apparently I’m not. If you were celibate for religious reasons, or had experienced some unfortunate accident bonerectomy--”

“Strider.”

“I don’t get how we haven’t, yet,” you let out in a rush.

Jake remains quiet.

It’s eight in the morning, and you already feel like you’ve done a full day’s work just sitting here. He is like a sexy brick wall that you are trying to convince to break. You have no power tools, even though normally the combined power of your voice and the words you’re saying are hadoken levels of powerful. You are being so honest and telling so many truths that you might be retroactively undoing lies you told in your past. What the fuck else can you say other than “I love you” and “I want to bone”?

You change tactics. “I am so fucking done putting your pussy on a pedestal, Jake.”

That causes a visible reaction--not an immediately favorable one, but whatever, blushing is blushing no matter how hard he’s frowning while doing it. “What?”

“Your pussy,” you say. “Theoretical it may be, it is on a pedestal, and I am taking it down. I am not Steve Carell. I will not wait until I am forty to get laid.”

“I see,” he says.

You glare. “‘I see’? Dude, leave the manipulative bullshit to me. You are all kinds of obvious about it.”

And then Jake asks, “How do you feel about your virginity, Dirk?”

And you finally fucking get it.

You want to punch him in his stupid face, but yeah. Message received.

“You prick,” you say. “I don’t want to have sex with you just because I haven’t, I want to have sex with you because it’s you.”

He lets a small smile light up his face, but won’t let the fully-fledged toothy grin out just yet. “And?”

“What ‘and’?!” You explode. “Just tell me what you want me to say and I’ll say it. Do I need to woo you? Is that it? Because you said, way back on our first anniversary, that I didn’t have to compose shit for you every time we hit a milestone--”

“And,” Jake prompts, “what does ‘sex’ entail, to you? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, but every time we’ve gotten close to any sort of sexual contact, you’ve left me--in quite a state, I might add--on the couch. Alone. For hours.”

…Oh.

“I,” you say, mouth dry. “I grew out of that?”

“That happened last week, Strider.”

“I’m a growing boy,” you say, at least trying to keep his small smile where it is. “I hit an emotional growth spurt. Must be all that milk.”

“Strider,” he says, leaning forward and bringing a hand to run through his hair. Oh, if only that hand were your own. His hair is much softer now that he’s started stealing your shampoo. “Dirk. Our love for each other is not in question. Sexual relations do not a relationship legitimize, as you well know. But you must remember the other times you’ve told me things like this? Made similar confessions?”

It is now your turn to keep your face carefully void of expression. “What do you mean, Jake?”

He flaps his hand in a loose, vague gesture. “Oh, I don’t know. Your birthday?”

Jake, please, don’t stop, I want to feel your hands--oh, yes--God, you’re so gorgeous, Jake--

“MY birthday?”

I promise, Jake, I want this so much, come here--yes, right there--

“That one Halloween where you dressed as a sexy nurse?”

Paging Doctor English, you’re needed in whichever ward deals with my dick--

“Circumstantial evidence,” you say. “And, to be fair, you are a doctor who deals with dick problems, including my own.”

“I used to be!” He says, shoulders slumping as he lets the table take more of his weight. “But I’m not, anymore, so instead I’m doing my best to be supportive and patient and not let you rush into anything you’re not ready for, like a good boyfriend should do, but I don’t know what to do about this, I really don’t!”

You pause, thinking. “It seems that you’re sexually frustrated, Jake.”

He laughs at the table, manic. “Yes! I am! Fucking hell!”

“And yet,” you continue, “I have never once seen or heard you masturbating.”

“You--? Wait, who am I talking to, of course you would be listening for that,” he mumbles, rubbing his face with both hands. He had been so full of vim just moments ago, and now he looks like a man half-again his age and exhausted. “I’ve taken to doing it at work. I have a private bathroom, and I’ve been using it twice a day for months. I got an arm cramp, last week. That didn’t even happen when I was in grade school!”

You decide to be optimistic with this information. “So it’s safe to say that you are also interested in sexual relations with me, right now, possibly on this table.”

“I am not interested in sleeping on the couch with a hard on AGAIN Dirk Strider.”

“Huh.” You think, and then shrug one shoulder. “That’s a reasonable line to draw. Shall we?”

He looks up at that, finally. He really is gorgeous--all lovingly tousled hair and stubble. Jake doesn’t shave on weekends, and so not only is he looking at you with sinfully soul-piercing green eyes, but also with a jaw lined with Saturday Shadow. You bet he could grow a full beard in a week. You also bet that stubble would feel amazing on the bare skin of your stomach.

He blinks and asks, “What?” His full lips a perfect twist of confusion.

You are very, very tired of speculating what his stubble would feel like on your body. You want to know.

“Shall we head to the bedroom?” You say. “Or we could do it right here. I’ve got a plan or two for that contingency.”

Jake doesn’t move. His t-shirt is one of his white ones, you note--particularly thin and worn, stretched out and perfect for tugging. You can see, or imagine you see, every line of his beautiful body through this shirt. You have half a mind to dunk him in water just to watch it cling, but instead, you stand, cross to Jake’s side of the table, and plop in his lap to snake a hand under it.

“Strider, what the hell--?!”

“Kitchen it is,” you say, and grab a fistfull of his hair, steering him in for a kiss.

This is not the first time you have kissed Jake when he was unwilling. You kissed him while he was brushing his teeth, once, because he’d somehow gotten a dollop of foamy toothpaste on the tip of his nose and that was too adorable for you to reasonably cope with without kissing. It had been minty and terrible and Jake had gagged on his toothbrush, but the point is, you have no problem kissing Jake regardless of the situation. This particular kiss, with Jake pinned and his mouth open in shock, is a relatively easy one to expand on.

You push Jake’s shirt up, leaning into him to bring your torsos together, trapping him in his seat with your body weight. You nibble at his lower lip, surprising him into softening his mouth before sliding your mouth against his, making a soft sound of contentment. When he chases your hand with his own, grabbing for your wrist, you release your grip on his hair to run your fingernails along the nape of his neck with just the right amount of pressure to make him shiver. He whimpers into your mouth, and you laugh at him into his.

Jake is stubborn, but he isn’t made of stone, and so soon enough he is kissing you, sucking and nipping at your neck, his glasses pressing into your jaw in a way that would be annoying if it wasn’t Jake doing it. His stubble scrapes just below your ear, and you practically salivate.

“Don’t stop,” you say, doing what you can to keep your voice level.

For some ungodly reason, this seems to be his trigger to stop, so you keep him against your neck with two hands at the back of his head.

“Seriously. I’ll talk while you’re doing that, just don’t stop.”

He hesitates, mouth open, front teeth just barely present on your throat. Then, mercifully, he shrugs a shoulder and goes to town, flicking his tongue over your pulse and moving his hands to rest just above the curve of your ass.

“Good,” you sigh. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Looking back on our past attempts, there’s a common thread. Other than the obvious o--oh, God.”

“Don’t stop,” he echoes quietly into your ear, nuzzling your hair.

“Right. Other than the obvious one. Because,” you continue, rocking back and up into his hands as he squeezes, “because, we always start with me. Or, you do. You try to touch me before I try to touch you, or just after, and that--that’s really--”

“Focus,” he purrs, and you hate him, you hate him for knowing that stubble on your collarbone is the hottest thing in the world to you right now, you hate him for using all of your weaknesses against you in your time of ultimate need.

You try to tell him you hate him, but he’s rucking your shirt up to suck at your chest, and all that comes out is a strangled moan. “Really--uh--intense, because, I have issues with being touched, and I didn’t--a-ah--I d-didn’t think it would apply to you, because I reeeaaally--”

Jake removes his mouth from your nipple, nibbling just to the right of it. “You like it when I touch you,” he says into your chest, and doesn’t he sound a little smug?

“I really like it when you touch me,” you say, “but that doesn’t make it any less...”

The first word that comes to mind is “scary,” but there is no way you are saying that, compromising position or not. You don’t pause for long, because you know that if you do Jake will take his mouth off of you, and you think you would actually die if he did that. You would just slump forward, hard as wood and dead as a doornail. So, you reach for something else to say.

“Freaky,” you say, and you instantly wish that you’d gone with “scary” because that is just retarded.

Jake makes a thoughtful noise as he moves to your other nipple. “Define ‘freaky,’” he says before licking a stripe on your chest and blowing cool air on it.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “I mean--it’s too intense, it’s--when you touch me, I freak out, so, hey, the solution is--”

You move your right hand, toasty warm from its temporary home in Jake’s shirt, and bring it to cup Jake through his stupid khaki cargo shorts. He’s hot, even through the fabric, and almost as hard as you are. When he gasps, his breath ghosts over your damp skin, and it’s your turn to shiver.

“I touch you, first,” you finish.

Jake looks up into your eyes. It is a revelation.

You slither off his lap and onto the floor before he can feed you any bullshit “You don’t have to”s or “are you absolutely sure”s. Your hand is steady as you pop the button on his fly, pulling down the zip to expose Jake’s favorite boxers: dark blue with skulls and crossbones. You grab his shorts and boxers both and tug, trying to get them off him from this slightly unorthodox position. Jake gasps again, and you make the--you think--mistake of looking up at his face.

Jake English is not a formal man by nature, but in your experience, he has never looked so very undone. His hair is a mess, his glasses are askew on his nose, and he’s pulled one side of his lower lip between his teeth. He is tilted asymmetrically in his chair, gripping the seat of it with the desperate strength of a man about to fall. His shirt is pushed up over his stomach, exposing pale caramel skin to clash with the nut brown of his arms. If you weren’t currently busy seducing him, you would be utterly positive he were trying to seduce you.

“Jake,” you breathe, implying all the rest with the tone of your voice. He gulps, but doesn’t look away as he lifts his hips--barely an inch, but it’s enough. You slide his shorts down and out of the way.

You don’t so much taste him as feel him in your mouth, lips stretched around the head and tongue pressed to the underside. You can feel his pulse, the heat coming off of him with the intensity of asphalt in summer, and every time he wants to move his hips but doesn’t. You hollow your cheeks and suck, bringing one hand to the base to grip loosely and trace patterns with your fingers.

“Even now,” he gasps, on the verge of either laughter or tears, “even now, like this, you’re still a fucking tease--”

You take him deeper, jaw already sore, and he cries out. The instant you hear that sound, you need to hear it again and again, every day for the rest of your life. You swallow, readying your throat, and slowly bob your head, moving your hand up to meet your mouth, and then back down as you pull up. You bring your free hand to rest on the inside of his thigh until he brings his own hand to hold it. Whenever you pull off to breathe, or flick your tongue, or suck at the underside, he squeezes, reassuring, complimentary.

Soon, much faster than you dared hope, Jake croaks, “Horsefeathers. Dirk, I’m--”

“I know,” you say, even though you didn’t and it hurts a little to speak, “I know, do it, I want you to--”

You spit in your hand and pump him with earnest, dipping your mouth back on him and accidentally slurping in your enthusiasm. Jake yelps, bringing his other hand to your hair, shakily stroking it from your face. You can feel his control, even now, and you want so badly for him to lose it, to grab your hair and force himself into your mouth, into your throat--

He doesn’t, but he comes with your name on his lips. You make a split-second decision to swallow all of it, wringing it out of him with your hand and wrapping your lips around the head. It’s bitter, but you’re too busy feeling light-headed and satisfied to care.

You wipe your damp lips on the back of your hand, swallowing the lingering aftertaste, and look up at Jake. His eyes are shining, and you wonder if he is what the internet calls “A Crier.”

Nah, you don’t actually think that. You think of how perfect his smile is, and how perfect the flush of his cheeks is, and how perfect he is in general. Because you are in love, and thrumming with endorphins, and horny as a motherfucker.

He swallows, and finds his voice. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he says, raspy from his shouting, “Dirk Strider, you are something else.”

“You’d better have a few more rounds in you,” you say, “because I have a fucking notarized list of things I want to do to you.”

Jake sighs, but he’s smiling. “And you?”

You shrug a shoulder and stand, offering your arm to your weak-kneed knight in shining armor. “We’ll figure something out.”

He takes your hand, and in that moment, you are truly, sappily happy.

You plan to be happily ever after.