Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Let me know by commenting if you would like to be tagged in any of the following works once they are published!

all the following prompts are based on this post from my main blog, @buck-nialled

⑨.②.②④ ⇒ “Long In The Tooth” (LaskoxDear)

[lasko’s been eighteen for six years now, and frankly, he’s becoming sick of playing a juvenile. what makes his endeavor for a soulmate even more bewildering? they’re one of his students.]

❾ .❹.❷❹ ⇒ “Trash Polka” (AsherxBabe)

[babe is tired of wearing hoodies in summer, and leggings in the spring. but their soulmate seems too caught up in his career to mind leaving little notes and drawings on their skin, rather than meeting up for a legitimate conversation. babe takes matters into their own hands, which soon won’t be covered by a mod-podge of their soulmate’s scribbles. at least, one can hope.]

⑨ .⑥.②④ ⇒ “The Grey Area” (GuyxHoney)

[what’s more depressing than witnessing an amusement park in black and white? realizing it may be the last time you visit one, is probably what guy would answer, as he dangles upside down on Wonderworld’s “Surge” coaster. the pretty stranger next to him isn’t the worst company, though.]

❾.❽.❷❹ ⇒ “A Great Disservice” (DavidxAngel)

[david serves a dangerous line of work. and angel? they cat sit. still, both come home with cuts and scratches for the same reason.]

⑨ .①⓪.②④ ⇒ “Rumination” (DamienxHuxley)

[a re-imagined dialogue to the elemental bois confessing their feelings.]

❾.❶❷.❷❹ ⇒ “Resigned/Sullen” (DavidxAsher)

[neither david nor asher have spoken post-inversion about the turmoil they experienced in the arena. not the scars that wouldn’t heal, not what caused them, and certainly not who kept asher from bleeding out on the ground.]

⑨.①④.②④ ⇒ “Pulsation” (Foolsverse!MiloxSweetheart)

[milo enjoys feeling his soulmate’s heart thump faster when he’s present. but only when he’s present.]

❾ .❶❻ .❷❹ ⇒ “Like and Unlike” (Davidxfem!Angel)

[angel thinks she’s finally found a cure for her crippling social anxiety at Dahlia’s local gym. but she cannot tell if david, the ill-tempered coach, will be the one to make or break her progress.]

⑨.①⑧.②④ ⇒ “Parting Song” (QuinnxDarlin’)

[when you’re standing next to who you think is your soulmate, as you watch the real one whither away in a shitty steel department chair—how do you respond?]

❾ .❷ ⓪ .❷❹ ⇒ “Battered and Bruised” (Samx Darlin’)

[so long as he doesn’t tell them, sam can keep up his act of healing darlin’ without suspicion. it’s magic, after all…]

⑨.②②.②④ ⇒ “Twin, Where Have You Been?” (MiloxSweetheart)

[“well, sweetheart. one of us is gonna have to change.” in which milo and his soulmate will forever be that couple.]

❾.❷❹.❷❹ ⇒ “Midnight Oil” (AaronxSmartass)

[the matchmaker test is the one exam nobody can study for. only fate will tell a person who they truly belong with. still, aaron attempts to pull an all nighter with his overly-charming classmate in an attempt to cheat the system.]

⑨.②⑥.②④ ⇒ “All Roads Lead To…” ( DavidxDarlin’)

[david’s twelve years young and still leashed in red, wondering when he’ll meet the one on the other side of it, or if he even wants to. darlin’ is eleven years in, a hopeless romantic, and crossing the California state line when they notice their red string now has a little slack.]

❾.❷❽.❷❹ ⇒ “Change Your Tune” (GeordixCutie)

[cutie’s soulmate is the number one target on their shit list. because who on god’s green earth gets the tetris theme stuck in their head on a daily basis? well, they’re about to meet him...]

⑨.③⓪.②④ ⇒ “As If You’ll Live Forever” (ElliotxSunshine)

[the one thing more ironic than sunshine’s soulmate being a dreamwalker is how tired they’ve become of sleeping.] 

Chapter Text

“So be looking for an email from me f-for your class schedule. Again, I'm sorry about not having a…physical copy on hand.” Lasko combs a clammy hand through his disheveled hair, sparing a discreet glance at his leather satchel lying by his feet. It defends an entire ream of charred papers, originally for the pool of students that Lasko has been bestowed the responsibility of meeting today, but instead, it mocks him. “My printer ran out of ink.”

His run-in with the stubborn fire elemental without patience for one's troubleshooting of his agenda went worse than the guidance counselor envisioned—a surprise to Lasko, who always depicts the worst scenarios before plunging head-first into any social situation. Guess what Freelancer said was true: you think better on your feet than in the air , he reflects. 

“No worries. It’d be my luck,” The student laughs awkwardly, silently inviting Lasko to muster one of his own. 

“Well, before I send you off, do you have my questions for me?” His hands press onto the thick desktop glass, shielding the wood. One spilled cup of coffee too many, and a sputtering request to the Dean was all it took to gain that.

“I do have one .” Lasko’s heart begins thumping uncontrollably, and he thanks every deity above that the water elemental is also not an experienced telepath. What will they ask me? Maybe they want to pick my brain about the theory of shade resurgence. How much research have they done on me as an alumnus? Perhaps they find me unfit to be a counselor and a professor, being human-reared. They don't think I have the history, nor the fundamental teachings from my unempowered parents. Oh, who are you kidding Lasko? They’re probably wanting to know which food from the cafeteria won’t give someone massive—

“You look a little young to be a counselor, don’t you?” As if intrigued by their curiosity, the student creeps forward in the armchair sat opposite Lasko’s, and finds respite for their folded arms on the mahogany desk between them. Before Lasko’s lips could part, the pupil emits a gasp at their presumption. “I’m so sorry, please take that as a compliment. Your soulmate must be lucky to have someone with such a…youthful glow.” The excruciating cringe on their face is palpable (and noticeably lacking age lines), but Lasko revels in the sight of it. For once, he is not the one digging a grave mid-conversation. 

He could only muster a chuckle, eyes settling on his chewed-down fingernails and fidgeting knuckles—the only visible skin on his body that had wrinkles. This presumption is one he’s been unwillingly catering to for his past six years under the university, and his answer, like his relationship status, is unchanging. 

He offers a modest shrug. “Y-yeah, counselor, and professor. B-but you…you’re not wrong. I only look this young because I haven’t met mine yet—soulmate, I mean.”

The pinch on the bridge of his nose from his glasses feels abnormally tight as he gauges the student’s reaction. A curious raise of the brow, slow nod—awed. And rightfully so, with how capable and convenient the modern age has made it to scout for one’s “better half.” Apps and chat rooms galore in addition to personal soulmate seekers (a bunch of glorified PIs with hopeless romantic tendencies, as Lasko refers to them) for hire. These things leave a person little reason to go more than a year after eighteen with no celebrated crow'sfeet or growing pains. People think he’s inept or simply non-committal. Lasko considers himself stodgy for yearning to encounter his soulmate organically.

“Well, if it’s any reassurance, you aren’t the only one.” They don’t elaborate, and Lasko doesn’t pry. He remains seated, silently watching them wrangle each strap of their backpack over their shoulders. “Thank you again for the chat, Mr. Moore.” 

“Ah, just Lasko is fine. I’m not near old enough for all that 'mister' stuff.” At least, I don’t look like it , he tacks on mentally.

“Right. I guess I’ll see you around then.” 

He clarifies, “Monday at ten,” which earns him a tilted head. “For DAMN 101, which should be on the schedule that I'llemail you.” A small, upward twitch of their lips leaves Lasko satisfied with the conversation but prepared for the tens of other students who will receive the same news. 

“I can’t wait.” 

He hopes for his sake that the rest are as understanding as this one. 

“Well well, professor, how was orientation today?” Had the man still not reeked of liquid smoke and sweat from his earlier encounter with the fire elemental, or suffered from cramping fingers and aching wrists from the barrage of emails he sent out today, Lasko’s answer may not have been so curt. 

A trace of a scowl lingered in his voice, “Not in the mood, Gav.” At the evil hiss of his name, the demon transferred his gaze from the television to the strung-out university employee entering the den. Lasko makes a show of shrugging off his blazer and settling his fatigued body into the armchair perpendicular to the sectional Gavin and his soulmate were occupying.

His roommate proceeds to turn his attention to him, chorting sarcastically, “Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?” Freelancer takes the opportunity to bury their face in the bared crook of Gavin’s neck, releasing a languid sigh of contentment. 

Lasko strives to obscure his frown, but the envy boiling in the depths of his stomach wins while the muscles of his jaw tighten. “Some fire elemental with serious anger issues almost sent me up in flames with my office, destroyed all of my paperwork, and cost me two and a half hours of emailing students their schedules and trying not to sound passive-aggressive. Do you realize how hard it is to type ‘Please see attached for your semester schedule. Thank you.’ without sounding like the biggest assho–”

Amidst his rant, Freelancer’s head pops up from the den between Gavin’s neck and collarbone. “You met Damien?” 

The question Lasko volleys is an answer in itself. “You know him?” Wide eyes with a visible twitch urge Freelancer to dig through the sofa cushions for their phone.

“Yeah, he texted me earlier. A whole string of back-to-back messages about some university nobody screwing him over with his schedule. I didn’t think anything of it until…” They purse their lips. Lasko watches his friends’ eyes soaking in his appearance–blackened shirt cuffs, tousled tendrils of hair, and all. Should Lasko be expecting some vengeful threat? A stolen personal belonging replaced with a ransom note? A dead sprite in a wrapped box outside his office door? 

“How mad was he?” He scrubs his hands against his face, hoping to wipe the day away with his sour expression. 

“I wouldn’t check your Rate My Professor anytime soon.” Lasko throws his head back in defeat. Tarnishing his paperwork and his reputation in a single day? The ransom note wasn’t looking as unfavorable in comparison. 

“I thought it’d be water that didn’t get along with fire,” Gavin muses with a smirk. Lasko’s mind trails away from the soot-stained carpet of his office to the friendly water elemental he had the pleasure of speaking with earlier. Their curious nature and self-loathing sense of humor is something Lasko would have never considered himself attracted to, seeing as Gavin’s unyielding confidence and inflated ego always put his stomach through a spin cycle. 

A sharp inhale from Freelancer resounds through the house. “Oh my goodness, Lasko!” Instantly, he was patting down his body, checking his pulse, and looking around for the nearest mirror. He already knew he looked like shit, what was the big deal? 

“What, what is it?” Still, he turned his head every which way expecting a large bug or “kick me” sign on his back from Damien—perhaps the earlier onslaught of flames was merely a distraction. Or, the man’s just paranoid, per usual. 

“You have smile lines!” As if imitating a mirror, Freelancer offers a ballooning grin of their own, presenting the faint creases surrounding their lips to him. “You thought you could meet your soulmate and just not tell us?” They motion excitedly between themselves and Gavin, who was absorbing the scene before him. 

“I-I didn’t though, did I?” Did he? He thinks back to all of the students he spoke with earlier in the day, Damien included. A shiver courses down his spine at the thought—he’s always heard the saying ‘opposites attract’ but having a soulmate who wanted to momentarily kill him seems like a stretch. Having a soulmate be one of the many bodies in his class is equally as horrific, but—as he now recognizes—a possibility. “Holy shit, I-I met my soulmate.” 

Gavin inquires after a few seconds, “Who are they?” 

Lasko's head darts up, donning a veil of “oh fuck” on his visage. “I have no idea.” 

Much to Gavin’s chagrin and Freelancer’s enthusiasm, the couple agreed to aid him in compiling a list of the students he’d met in the last twenty-four hours, and omitting the ones who’ve been blessed to find their other half, according to Freelancer’s in-depth “research” when inputting their names online. 

“Sami Tryst is in my Thursday lab! They’ve got an engagement ring, though.” 

“Hudson Lang won a medal in the E&E games last year. He thanked his partner in his acceptance speech.” 

“Jacquelyn Gardner?” Freelancer snorts with a shaking head. “Definitely not your type.” 

Lasko’s head hinges up from the sheet of paper he was eyeing—scrawled with names, and taken straight out of Freelancer’s DAMN 101 notebook. With furrowed brows and an insulted scowl, he beckons “How would you know?”

“She has an eyebrow slit and ‘grade-a carpet muncher’ written in her Instagram bio next to her girlfriend’s name. You really wanna try competing with that, professor?” Lasko stays quiet, even through the contagious mixture of laughs flying around the room from the couple. 

He finally mutters, “Whatever”, and is nonetheless satisfied with a name being crossed off of the list. Four hours and one order from Max’s Rustic Pizza later, the trio is splayed across the living room carpet. Three names remain uncrossed on the sheet, staring back at them tauntingly. 

“Wait, you forgot about Damien.” Freelancer reminds Lasko with a small nudge. Not that he needed the reminder, but a small part of him was hopeful that leaving him off of the list would rule out the chance of them being soulmates entirely. His hands are reluctant when grabbing the pen set beside him, but are deft when writing the fire elemental’s first name below the rest. A last resort. 

“This is-it’s so…so stupid! I mean, aren’t you s-supposed to feel something when you first meet your soulmate? Like, I don’t…I don’t know, butterflies in your stomach or-or, or lightheaded?” Lasko exasperates, tossing the paper aside. It flutters to the ground and lands face-down on the carpet. 

“My jeans felt a little tighter when I met you, deviant.” Gavin’s admission is not lost on Freelancer or Lasko. The professor shields his face from the luminous ceiling fan whirling above him, both his arms locked over his eyes. As he does this, he jerks up and emits a harsh grunt.

“Agh, my neck. What the hell?” He sits up to allow his fingers to assess the tight skin. The invisible knot is yanked once more when he tilts his head too far to the left. “Ow!”

In unison, Gavin and Freelancer are quick to diagnose it. “Growing pain.” Freelancer adds with a fond smile, “It means they’re thinking of you.” 

His head snaps towards them excitedly, and this time, he grits his teeth and bears the stiffening of his muscles. “That’s it! I know exactly how to find them.” An accomplished smile overcomes his face. Complemented by his bloodshot eyes, something unsettling brews in the pits of Freelancer’s stomach. 

“Okay, can you stop looking at me like that now? It’s creepy.” 

“I would, but I don’t think I can move my neck anymore…” 

The awkward quiet grows thicker with every student that files into Lasko’s classroom the following Monday morning, broken occasionally by a squeaking chair or thump of a bookbag colliding with the floor. He studied the roll call list the entire weekend like he was presenting a dissertation, but now that he had reached the time to present, only four names were on his mind. 

“G-g-good morning every-everybody. My-my n-name is Lasko Moore, and I’ll be your professor for DAMN 101 this semester. Don’t think of this as a refresher course of things you may have learned in past institutions, b-but an opportunity to gain knowledge of…of Dahlia’s magical entities, specifically.” He’s afraid if he breathes too deeply, the hefty silence will suffocate him. “Now, I-I’m aware it's a bit—it’s a bit rudimentary to take attendance, but this is only for me to become acquainted with all of you. I’ll only do this for the first few classes until I’m comfortable putting names to faces.” 

The professor wastes no time going down the list. Each name he uttered–even ones that had been crossed off from the list–he let settle into the silence while concentrating his thoughts specifically on that person. It is the most foolish theory he's tested in a while, but he is desperate to know who could complete him so marvelously, and remain so subtle about the fact. The further down the list he goes, the tighter his airway constricts when he sees no visible flinch or sign of pain from any of his students. 

Hesitantly, he chokes out the next name on the sheet.

“Damien Rhone.” He looks up to find no hand raised, nor the rest of Damien’s body. Seconds tick by without a response, and Lasko feels even more on edge due to the lack of his presence. If the names that follow elicit no reaction from any of the students, either his “fool-proof” plan would be marked a failure, or he’d have to settle with the fact that he and his soulmate wouldn’t have the cutest “how we met” story amongst his friends. There’s a lot that can beat a late-night run into seven-eleven, but almost going up in flames might have to take second place. 

As he feared, the last name on the list gets crossed off when he marks the student present (and taken) judging by the early age spots marking their skin. He huffs but doesn’t make his agitation any more visible. After all, he is at work and his soulmate…who knows where they are. Hosting this lecture felt more taxing than all the others he’s taught within the last six years at the university. Discussing DAMN’s cornerstone neighborhoods for different magical beings is something he merely cites, amid his daydreams of arriving home to a relaxing cup of tea and a lengthy video essay to put him to sleep on his couch. The thought became so enticing, that he cut the class short by a whole twenty minutes and sent each departing student with instructions to acclimate to the university campus. While shoveling manilla folders and stray pens into his bag, he gets interrupted by a tap against his shoulder. 

“Excuse me, Lasko?” He cranes his neck at the voice, dripping anxiety. They offer their name and elaborate when Lasko furrows his brows. He swears he can feel a crease in between them that wasn’t there last night. “We met yesterday. I made a fool of myself, and then you said you’d email me my schedule. You never called my name when you were taking attendance, though. This is DAMN 101, right?” 

Lasko recalls their conversation vividly. He was post-adrenaline rush and flustered as all hell, but somehow their blunders were enough to take the edge off of him and his “broken printer”. Now, he studies the crease between their eyebrows. It wasn’t there when they met originally when they inquired about his age and backpedaled into embarrassment trying to fix their mistake. “Yes, it is. And  I’m so sorry for leaving you off the roll call sheet, I’m not sure what happened.” 

Halfway through their understanding nod, they emit a wince and introduce the nape of their neck to their hand. “I-it’sokay, I just wanted to double-check.” Lasko tilts his head, blue eyes turning into twinning seas of concern. 

“Are you feeling alright, dear?” 

“I think I may have slept wrong.”

“What are the chances of it being a growing pain?” Lasko voices his internal demand, throwing caution to the wind, as it were. 

“I’d say fat chance because I don’t have a…” They lock eyes with the man before them. Sleeves buttoned to elbows and crooked frames and smile lines. Crow’s feet decorated his orbital rims like fireworks and the creases of his hands mimicked scored clay. “Oh.” 

“That's about the reaction I was expecting.” 

“I’m sorry, but to be fair, this is new to both of us. Tomorrow I might wake up beside you but I’ll have gray hairs sticking out. Nobody prepares you for that kind of stuff.” Was this a rejection disguised in a prophecy? Lasko will have to hand it to them, it’s one of the more poetic ways to turn someone down.

“If-if y-you’d like to wait b-before we j-jump into…jump into anything, that’s fine. I just, I uh…I just wanted to find you. So bad.” 

“What? No, of course, I want this! I want you—I mean…this is just a lot to take in. Aren’t you supposed to feel something when you meet the person? Like increasing body temperature or…” They carry on rambling, with Lasko admiring no more than a foot away. A fond smile adorns his face, pink lips settled high on his cheeks and draped like a streamer. 

He had found them. 

“Excuse me, Professor Moore?” A panting voice interrupts their discovery as the two watch a student barreling toward Lasko with clear desperation. “I’m so sorry about being late. Did I miss anything important?” His eyes flutter around the room, finding all of the seats bare. “Where the hell is everyone?” 

“Hey, Dames! Meet my soulmate, Lasko. Lasko, this is Damien, my stepbrother.” 

“Soulmate!”

“S-stepbrother?”

Chapter Text

“Gloves again? It’s a hundred degrees outside.” Madelyn quips from her desk. As usual, Babe’s morning is all swearing and stumbles through the office building as they don a more than modest collection of clothing. 

“I think it’s a hundred and one.” Michael chortles from his cubicle. Since turning down his invitation to be his plus one at the office holiday party the year prior, he’s been more prone to poke fun at them. Babe illustrates the smirk tugging at his lips and fantasizes ripping it clean off his visage while preparing for another busy morning. Bag strap on the back of their chair. The largest iced coffee Starbucks could provide them on the ceramic coaster gifted by Madelyn, which reads some motivational slogan Babe would be caught dead uttering in any unironic fashion. 

“I still don’t know how you manage to work like that.” Their colleague’s tone is the perfect balance of judgment and concern; a siren song can draw the most taboo answers from anyone she crosses paths with. Babe is aware of this, and yet they still respond. Madelyn is approachable, but isn’t as prone to flapping her lips compared to others who lurk in the office.

“I told you before, Mads, I get cold easily. Low iron, and stuff.” Babe clears their throat and wiggles their chair closer to the computer before them. A few minutes pass, and they flicker their eyes between the two cubicles on either side of them, harboring a yapping Michael on his phone, and Madelyn engrossed in her bookkeeping tasks. Babe’s movement is subtle as they sink lower in their chair, and stretch their arms beneath their desktop to flick on the fan to its highest setting. Another glance back and forth. More nonsense gabs from Michael. Even more sounds of filing papers from Madelyn. They are sandwiched in a personal hell, but the heavy dress pants and turtleneck strangling their figure may be to blame for that.  

Relieving wool gloves from their hands has grown to be an orgasmic experience for Babe. One of the few things they miss about working remotely is the pleasure of joining video meetings half-naked, and feel content with the fact that their colleagues are none the wiser about what their lower half is lacking. In this office full of prying eyes and passive-aggressive chatter, though, the simple act of baring their hands fills them with equal amounts of pleasure and shame of a lambasted stripper.

Babe’s eyes cascade over the swoops and strikes of black ink on skin, written in their spoken language but still holding no significant meaning—the lines embedded in their palm act as lines on ruled paper. 

Sm Tourn @ Davey’s Fri 8

Buy milk, almost out

DO NOT DRINK MILK IN FRIDGE!

For whatever reason, the person who left these notes for themself also found it apropos to doodle a smiley face below the crease of their thumb. Babe stiffens at the tickling sensation on their opposite hand and draws their attention toward the writing slowly appearing on it. It’s messier than chicken scratch with some typos, like every other message this person leaves for them to discover, but Babe’s witnessed these messages long enough to decode them, or at the very least, try to. 

The first time their parents discovered the writing on their skin, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. They were freshly tween, overflowing with naivety and curiosity, and they assumed their anonymous messenger was too. Babe’s father clocked them at the dinner table and demanded they show him their hand, where a “naughty” word written in bold lettering was spelled out on four out of five of their knuckles. Any excuse Babe mustered in that moment would have been a lie because they were still clueless as to how random notes appeared on their skin, or who the person writing them was. 

They chalked it off as a word they heard from their classmates, but it didn’t satisfy their parents in the slightest. Babe missed a whole week's worth of Pokémon and Spongebob on the family television and held that grudge for as long as they could remember. But with no face or name to target their anger towards, they learned that stewing was pointless. Soapy water was the obvious solution in Babe’s mind. Just scrub hard enough and there would be no proof, right? Wrong. Whatever mystical power is embedded in this ink, or Babe’s skin, allows it to last twenty-four hours when fighting against soap, stain sticks, or even concealer. From that point on, Babe wrestled themselves into floor-length bottoms and long-sleeves up until high school graduation. 

They’ve struggled falling asleep at night, trying to view this anomaly as a “gift”. Nobody else they’ve come across has poorly drawn Star Trek characters or names of midwest emo bands littering their epidermis like a composition notebook. Not to mention the person distributing these excerpts of their life–who are they? Do they know they’re capable of something like this? Do they even know Babe exists, and ponders the consequences of this condition in their life, and cries at the reminder that they can never purchase that crop top on sale or be stared at walking down the beach with a sweatshirt on?

Babe is broken out of their spiraling thoughts by Madelyn’s request to fetch the mail from the lobby. They didn’t catch the particular reason, but their ears perked up at the words “big check we need to run.” Babe feels invisible strings urging their eyes to roll and fights them, seizing the pair of  gloves and bustling towards the nearest elevator. Once upon a time, Babe would take any excuse to waltz down the seventeen flights of stairs to dilly dally. But that was before their thoughts became consumed with dying of heat stroke between concrete walls and cotton layers.

Babe finds solace in the empty elevator, and decides to savor the feeling of bare hands in every way imaginable by cracking their knuckles, reaching them up to the fluorescent lights of the lift and drenching their skin in the gleam. In seconds, they become clenched fists, clammy and unresponsive at the sound of quickly approaching steps and voice growing in volume. 

“Look, I know I left the stove on. I’m sorry, buddy. It was just a little flare up...” In a panic, Babe reaches forward to jab the button to close the doors, and halts at the sight of their hand, covered in more scribbles than before. They reduce themself into the corner, hastily cloaking their hands with the gloves. Amidst putting on the second one, the voice introduces its body in the picture as it squeezes through the elevator doors right before they shut. His phone is situated between his ear and shoulder, as he shuffles through the large stack of paperwork between his hands. 

His hands…

Look just like…

“Bye buddy, love you!” His blonde hair swis against his forehead as he cranes his neck down to end the call. “He’s really trying to turn me into that guy who’s being super loud on their phone in the elevator.” While pocketing his phone, Babe’s eyes follow his hands, scribbled in black. He retrieves a pen from behind his ear, uncaps it with his mouth and lets the ballpoint make contact with his skin before he begins writing. Babe feels the familiar tickle, but is too in shock to respond. Halfway through his latest entry, he shakes the pen violently with a grunt. “Damn, this thing’s getting low on ink.” 

Through his peripheral vision, the blonde peeks over at the second set of hands in the elevator, and notices some writing peeking out from the half-worn glove overtaking Babe’s left hand. “Another avid notetaker, I see. My friends can’t stand it when I write on my skin. They say it's a one way trip to ink poisoning. But it’s saving the trees, right?” Again, the nervous chuckle floats through the space, and then awkward silence. Babe’s lips remain parted in awe, too caught up in the current revelation to grab hold of anything as the elevator’s motor stutters and comes to a sudden halt. Before they could tumble to the floor, his coated hands caught them amidst their teetering. Blue eyes pooling with an intimidating level of concern, stare them down. 

“Aw man, I think the elevator got stuck. Hey, are you alright?” The eyes flicker down, and the man appears to harbor the same revelation as Babe when he further inspects the writing on their hand. At least, they thought…

“No way! You like Star Trek too?”