math nerds with guns. (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} the_oscar_cat) wrote,@ 2007-04-30 22:21:00 |
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| Current mood: |  pleased |
| Entry tags: | fic, podfic |
yin_again 's Yinathing: (Brendan/Emmett) Of Possibility.
Title: Of Possibility.
Author: the_oscar_cat
Pairing: Emmett(Boa v. Python)/Brendan Dean(Thoughtcrimes)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not for profit.
Prompt: Brendan/Emmett, argument, a door
Notes: HUGE thanks to lazlet for beta-age and generally kicking this story into shape. I’m not sure this story would have been written without her support, and certainly wouldn’t have been half as good without her input.
Happy birthday yin_again - it’s hard to express how much I enjoy your stories and podfic. So I’ll just say thank you (again).
(ETA: This story can also be found as a podfic: download here (permanent archive).
They fucked in the lab when an experiment ran over and it almost made more sense just to sleep on the battered couch in the coffee room than attempt to drive home. But time was of the essence, and Brendan was expected back in New York in fifteen hours. He arrived after dark, bearing take-out and a tub of coffee ice cream that was slowly turning the paper bag transparent.
He wandered around the lab, listening to Emmett’s day and peered into the cages and tanks, his hands deep in his pockets, while Emmett piled up papers and made space on his desk for the food. He twirled a chopstick in his fingers as he talked, then grabbed up its mate, repositioned them and Emmett tried hard not to stare as Brendan picked at a container of rice.
He wrapped his fingers around the ridges in the outer door to Betty’s enclosure, almost trembled as Emmett traced the ridge of his hip with the fingers of one hand. The thumb of the other a wide, slick constant full of promises.
---
Emmett first met Brendan in a bar, even though those things never really happen. He’d noticed him, striking and rumpled, picking at the label of his imported beer. For the next hour or so it felt like every time Emmett looked up he was looking his way for just a fraction of a second, before his attention flicked back to the dark haired woman he was with.
Emmett had thought nothing of it. Okay - not true. He’d thought ‘hmmmm yes’ and settled back in his chair, but assumed nothing, until the woman tapped him on the shoulder, said ‘This is Brendan,’ smiled sweetly at Brendan’s scowl and then left. (At the time, Emmett had just assumed Freya had the same knowing powers as most women he knew. You didn't need to be a mind reader to guess that Brendan was interested.)
Despite such an unexpected introduction, conversation had come easily, and there had been more rounds, and small smiles traded back and forth as they tried to get the barman's attention. Emmett knows now that Brendan - of course - remembers it all in full technicolor but, when he looks back, his own strongest memory is of the attraction - the want - that attached itself to his pulse, a constant buzz over and above that of their drinks.
It wasn’t suprising then that before the night was out, he’d let himself be pushed back against a wall three side streets away from the bar, curled his fingers around Brendan’s loose black tie, and shifted his legs apart, making room. (He felt as well as heard when Brendan chuckled against the corner of his mouth, tremors against his skin. Long fingers brush-tickled into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he nipped at Brendan’s full bottom lip, tasted the remains of bar smoke and lingering alcohol.)
---
Stilted and tentative emails gave way to stupid and funny emails that made Emmett snigger into his morning coffee. In time they slipped further into a familiar pattern of weekend flights and dozens of tiny lifelines that he wouldn’t catalogue, couldn’t name. His research was coming together, and he couldn’t put his finger on when that stopped being enough.
Papers started to get published (Emmett found two of them, dogeared and coffee-ringed, in Brendan’s desk drawer while being sent to hunt for batteries), and the slow trickle of grants became a torrent and then a roar, so that bills actually got paid, and Emmett woke up thirty-seven and boss to almost a dozen post-docs and research assistants.
Brendan started addressing all emails to ‘The Man’ like he wasn’t himself living the life of an authority figure (regardless of the huge amount of downloaded tv and music that may or may not have found its way on to his hard drive).
---
Brookhaven called the same day Brendan got shot in the gut and Emmett rode that latest rollercoaster on adrenaline and caffeine, poised to move at the drop of a hat but frozen, impotent, waiting for news. The words ‘so close’ replayed over and over in his head, alternating between being a question and a prayer, a hope and a failure that felt all too familiar, long carved into his bones, like the scar of initials on a tree.
He refused any calls that weren’t Freya or god, Harper - because he just couldn’t, just couldn’t - and solidified a reputation of being in demand, of exclusivity. (How the hell could he talk business when all his plans pointed east, when all his plans were bleeding away?)
He ended up locking himself into the anti-room of Betty’s cage, barely aware that her smooth red forehead rested on the otherside of the glass partition he was slumped against. He chewed at the skin around his nails until his fingers were pink and burning, until Freya (finally and thank god) brought news and a location, a prognosis, all wrapped up in a trembling voice trying very hard to sound calm.
Brendan had a close call, a wicked scar, a three week hospital stay, and a four month convalescence. He spent most of it on Emmett’s couch, talking to Freya by phone and reading case notes on his laptop. His success rate barely dipped.
---
And after all that it really wasn’t that hard to up sticks (and computers, and numerous delicate one-of-a-kind pieces of equipment, dozens of standard size vivarium, deadly snakes, not-deadly snakes, thousands of carefully stored samples and countless cages and rodents) and move, if you ignored the basic practicalities of moving a giant snake across the country without it escaping, or being shot at - neither of which, thankfully, happened.
Betty got a bigger terrarium (an entire floor of the building, minus the usual two layer safety entrance) and Emmett got lots of invites to speak at conferences.
He worked hard on trying not to notice that half the people clamoring to see him were the same ones who’d been scoffing and rejecting his applications back when it was all just a theory.
---
During the inaugural meet and greet (aka ‘free booze, weird cream-filled canapes, and backbiting’), three beers in Emmett watched Brendan roll his eyes as they both listened to ‘McMillanFromYale’ talk about his latest splicing and sequencing. He could feel a thumb stroking back and forth along the length of his palm, curling his toes and making him hard, but Brendan merely nodded in all the right places and sucked at the foam on the top of his beer.
Late the next day, slightly sore-headed, and missing a good five hours sleep, Emmett presented a talk about the benefits and ethics of biological harvesting. And perhaps he stumbled - paused - slightly halfway through. No one noticed, and no one looked round to see Brendan, slightly frazzled and subway-damp, slip through the auditorium doors and fold himself into the back row.
Emmett smiled, smoothly picked up his place and carried on.
Additional geeky research notes:
Brookhaven seems like the kind of place someone doing research with giant snakes might end up if they particularly wanted to end up near New York City, for whatever reason.
