Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SLOANE

They all had mixed feelings about getting a new Natural. They were such a tight-knit group that someone else joining them felt like it was disruptive.

They didn’t know much. Her name was Aly. She was 17. Briggs didn’t tell them her ability.

But secretly– Sloane was excited. More than she was when Cassie came. It was unusual. An anomaly.

Also, Sloane felt lonely. Dean had Cassie. Everyone saw it.

And Lia had Michael. She wouldn’t admit it, but everyone saw it.

So that left Sloane with no one. In a way, she was an anomaly. She knew the others loved her. But she also knew that sometimes, they got bored with her constant facts and numerical equations. She wanted someone who would sit with her for hours and listen to her.

It wasn’t likely.

But she couldn’t help, but hope, for once.

ALY

Aly didn’t know how to feel about being a Natural. Sure, she was glad to get away from that tiny house and her abusive father.

She was scared.

But all she wanted was out of that house, and this was her only way.

So, the next morning, as the sun rises and the air is damp with morning mist, she stands on her porch. Bags at her feet, dumped there one by one as she snuck through the house and past her father, who was laying on the couch, passed out, empty beer bottles surrounding him.

She saved up her money for this. Bought herself a nice pair of dark wash, baggy, low rise jeans, and a maroon tank top. It was what the $75 she made from catsitting for her neighbor could get her, and the last thing she would do is complain.

A sleek, black SUV pulls up. A man in a full black suit with a pair of black aviators covering his eyes steps out from the driver’s side of the car and strolls up to the porch.

“Special Agent Tanner Briggs.” He says, and holds a hand out. “I’ll be one of the agents managing you and the other Naturals.”

Aly shakes his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” She doesn’t bother with introductions. She’s sure they’ve already read her full file and know more than she does about herself.

Briggs picks up one of her bags without a word, clicking something on the car keys that are jingling in his hand. The car makes a small clicking sound, and the trunk raises automatically. He tosses the bag in.

They load the rest of her bags into the trunk, but as he reaches for the last bag, her electric guitar, her hand flies out to grab his wrist. “Don’t touch that.”

He looks up with a raised eyebrow, but moves his hand. “Alright. I’ll let you handle it. Hop in the car. It’s about a three hour drive.”

Aly spends the whole car ride looking out the window and anxiously glancing back at her guitar, which is currently laying on the backseats. It’s one of the few things she owns that has value. She inherited it from her mother, who died when she was only 2 years old. It took weeks of begging, sneaking down to the moldy basement, and a few screaming arguments that ended in Aly being covered in bruises and cuts for her father to finally give it to her. 

After he did, she’d sneak out of the house when her father passed out on the couch to the park nearby, and use the old phone she found in her mother’s old nightstand to watch YouTube videos and use apps to learn how to play.

She saved for months to buy an amplifier, and after that, she would sit on an old, moldy bench in the park and play. Sometimes, she got an audience. Little kids and their parents who would stand and watch, sometimes grandpas or dads who loved rock music, and often, this one teenager who took walks through the park almost daily, and would request the same song every time.

Aly never complained. It was a hard song, and it helped it get practice.

Briggs suddenly speaks, “You know, you’re going to be very helpful with the Naturals. You’ve got an amazing skill.”

She knows that. She never meant for it to be developed, but it was. She had to learn. Her ability to reconstruct scenes and immediately figure out what happened is uncanny. But it was useful. She could walk back into the living room at home, look at what was off. A shifted end table or a knocked down lamp would tell her that her father wasn’t in a good mood. She could practically see his motions– the way he was sitting on the couch, watching a sports game. The other team scores. He stands, throws his hands up, maybe even tosses the beer bottle he was drinking from. He kicks the end table, knocks over the lamp.

She could tell when he looked for money in his room. He was precise at putting things back– she could admit that. But she saw when the piggy bank resting on her dresser was at a slightly different angle from before.

Her ability to figure out what happened by one small detail was uncanny. But it helped.

Before she realizes, Briggs is pulling the car into the driveway of a house that’s almost three times the size of hers. There’s another identical car parked in the driveway, and through the back gate, she spots a pool.

A fucking pool.

She didn’t know what she was expecting. This was an FBI owned house, anyway.

“Aly, you can head into the house and meet the others. I’ll bring in your bags.” Briggs says, fingers drumming out a beat she recognizes as a popular Arctic Monkeys song on the steering wheel. She nods, hops out of the car and grabs her guitar out of the backseat, slinging one strap onto her back.

Despite being a confident person, nerves wrack through her as she approaches the front door of the house. 

She turns the tarnished, gold knob, and the door pushes in, creaking quietly. She steps in, shuts it behind her, and looks around.

There’s a small mat that she stands on, and shoes scattered across the space, haphazardly tossed there. 

There’s voices coming from the living room. A loud laugh, then, someone screaming. Not in horror, hopefully.

Aly makes her way towards the voices, looking around the house as she does so. She passes a large kitchen, and spots a bright-blue post-it note on the coffee machine that says “DO NOT GIVE TO SLOANE!!!”

She finds the source of the voices, walking into a large living room where there’s 5 kids, about her age, sitting and laughing over something. 

They go silent, one by one. She glances around. A brown-haired boy, who’s grinning and looking her up and down. A girl with short, black hair next to him, who hits him with the back of her palm. On another couch, there’s a red-head with her hair tied back in a braid, who’s sitting too close to a curly blonde-haired boy to just be friends.

And, curled up in an arm chair, tablet resting on her legs, is a gorgeous blonde. Blue eyes, freckles scattering her face. She’s wearing light wash overalls and a butter yellow tube top that looks so good on her.

Aly feels heat rush to her cheeks. She’s blushing. She’s never blushed over a random girl she just met.

But there’s something about her, the way she’s biting the inside of her lip and looking down at something on the tablet in her lap, then glancing over to a notebook resting on the arm of the chair that just makes Aly feel too much.

There’s a laugh huffed from the brown-haired boy, who stands. “The new girl’s already got a crush.” He teases. 

Aly pins him with a glare that makes his grin falter slightly.

And the blonde? She looks up. Eyes scan over Aly, lingering on the jeans sitting low on her hips and the guitar case on her back, then quickly looks back down at her tablet.

But Aly sees the way her ears are pink and she’s clutching the tablet just a little tighter.

The red-head stands up and approaches Aly with a smile. “Aly, right? I’m Cassie. It’s nice to meet you.” She holds out a hand. Aly eyes it warily, but reluctantly takes it. “And that’s Dean.” She points back at the blonde boy who was next to her. She lowers her voice and whispers, “He takes a little time to warm up to new people. Trust me, it’s nothing against you.”

Aly nods. 

The brown-haired one tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’m Michael. I’m the best of all of us, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t. But thanks for letting me know.” Aly says.

“So, guitar?” The black-haired one chimes up. “That’s cool.”

“Thanks.” 

“I’m Lia.” She gestures to the blonde who’s still looking at her tablet. “And that’s Sloane. She’s a little too busy with her statistics right now, but she’ll talk to you. You’re rooming with her, too.”

Well, crap. Aly thinks.

"I'm Aly. Nice to meet you all."

SLOANE

It was easy to cancel out the loud noises of the others after years of doing it.

Eventually, after looking at her tablet and the statistics scribbled there for long enough, everything faded into background noise.

But today? She couldn’t do that.

There was something about this new Natural joining that stopped her from focusing. 

She heard the creak of the front door opening before anyone else. The quiet padding through the house was different from anyone else’s footsteps.

This was someone new.

She heard the way they stalled around the kitchen, probably reading the post-it Lia left on the coffee machine.

When they walked into the room, everyone went quiet. She felt their eyes on her.

She glanced up briefly, and, oh god, it was a bad decision.

She was gorgeous.

Shoulder length, messy, brown hair that had layers and curtain bangs hanging into her face. Eyeliner on her water line that made green eyes stand out, along with long lashes framing them. 

And her outfit. A slightly loose, dark red tanktop, and a pair of baggy jeans that hung low on her hips and revealed some of her toned, tan stomach. A guitar case slung over her back.

Sloane looked back down before anyone caught her staring. But she felt the girl looking at her. 

She also felt the blood in her cheeks.

And of course, this was the girl she had to share her room with.

Chapter Text

ALY

After the introductions, it was interrogation. She sat on the couch, and after one beat of silence, she was hit with a: “So, what can you do?” From Michael. “Like, for the Naturals.”

“I can reconstruct rooms and murder scenes after it occurs and figure out exactly where people moved and what happened.”

Michael whistles lowly. Lia arches a brow, Dean and Cassie just look impressed, and Sloane, still on her tablet, has perked up slightly.

“Impressive.” Cassie quips, Dean nodding in agreement.

“So, uhh, what can you guys do?” Aly asks, subconsciously picking at the paint at her finger nails.

“You’re intimidated. Slightly nervous, but also excited. Flustered… and attracted.” Michael says, raising an eyebrow. “I think we all know who.”

“Well, that answers my question. Emotion reader?” Aly questions. Michael nods.

Cassie speaks up, “Dean and I are profilers, Lia’s our lie detector, and… Sloane’s our resident genius. She’s always spitting out statistics.”

An image pops into Aly’s head of her laying with Sloane in her arms, listening to her blurting out random facts for hours on end, just to hear her voice. It’s random and completely inappropriate to imagine doing this, especially with someone she just met, but she can’t help it.

“So, guitar?” Lia asks. “Acoustic or electric?”

“Electric.” Aly answers, sliding the case off of her back. “I started playing when I was 8. Found it in the attic. It used to be my mom’s.”

“So, you’re good?” Michael asks.

“I’d like to think so.” Aly responds.

“Can you play for us?”

“If you want.”

Lia leans back in her chair, elbowing Michael when he grins at Aly and waggles his eyebrows.

She places her case on her lap, unzips it and flips it open to reveal the deep turquoise guitar. “I have to grab my amplifier from one of my duffles. I’ll be right back.” She stands from the couch, turning around to place her guitar on it, and heads back to the front door, zipping open her large duffle and pulling out her amp. She returns to the living room with it, settling back onto the couch and putting it on the floor by her feet.

“Fancy.” Michael comments as Aly pulls her guitar, along with a pick, out of the case.

“The average electric guitar string vibrates at 329.63 times per second when you play an open high E. That’s faster than a hummingbird’s wings, but slower than your heart rate after three energy drinks.” A sweet voice chimes in that instantly makes Aly’s heart jump. She looks over to find Sloane finally looking up from her tablet, her eyes wide with fascination as she watches Aly with her guitar.

“I… did not know that.” Aly says, raising an eyebrow. Sloane’s cheeks tinge with pink.

She plugs in the guitar into the amp, tuning it quickly before strumming it once, listening to the sound of it echoing through the room, making sure everything feels and sounds right.

She begins the opening notes of “R U Mine?” by Arctic Monkeys, calmness flooding her body. She lightly taps her foot on the floor to the beat.

There’s soft humming from next to her, and she realizes it’s from Sloane. She almost stumbles over her next note as she hears it, her stomach doing a small flip.

She’s so, unbelievably, fucked.

SLOANE

Sloane was beyond impressed by Aly’s performance in the living room earlier. Not only did she play one of Sloane’s favorite songs, she played it so well, adding some of her own spin to it that Sloane felt as if she was falling in love. If that was even possible.

But now, it was the time she had been dreading, which was taking Aly up to her room. Their room, now. Sloane questioned how she would sleep when she knew the gorgeous girl was on the other side of the room.

Sloane had already cleared out half of the closet, the dresser, and the rest of the room for Aly. She didn’t like sharing her space. But somehow, even though she could tell Aly was going to be messy, she didn’t mind.

They all helped Aly lug up her bags to the room, dumping them on her bed and on the floor around it. 

The others clear out, Cassie and Lia heading downstairs to watch some new romance movie, while Dean and Michael head to their room, probably to lie in bed on their phones. That left Aly alone with Sloane, whose heart was now racing.

“So, uhh, do you need help unpacking, Aly?” Sloane asks. 

Aly’s head snaps towards hers, cheeks red and eyes wide.

Sloane tilts her head. “Your heartbeat just sped up by 12% when I said your name.”

“How do you know that?”

Sloane shrugs. “I know things.”

Aly unzips a duffel sitting on her bed, pulling out a set of sheets and a large navy blue comforter. “Do you always blurt out random facts?”

Sloane nods. “Yeah. Keeps me focused.”
“Interesting. Would you mind helping me make my bed?”

“Sure.” Aly clears the rest of the bags off of her bed as Sloane carefully steps over them to make her way to the bed.

“Statistically, you spend about 26 years of your life in bed, which is roughly 228,000 hours. That’s 32.9% of your entire life just lying there.” Sloane quips, reaching for the other end of the fitted sheet and pulling it over the edges of the mattress as Aly does the same on the other end.

Aly snorts softly, her lips turning up at the edges. “Now I feel like I’m wasting my time.”

“Everyone feels that way. Humans spend about 6.5 years of their lives scrolling on their phones. That’s roughly 56,940 hours.”

“And that’s about what percentage?” 

“8.2%.”

“Hmm. What about eating?” 

Sloane’s heart flipped at Aly’s continued interest in her facts.

“About 43,800 hours, if you eat 3 meals a day, each about 30 minutes long. That’s 5 years, or about 5.6% of your life.”

“So I spend almost half of my life eating, sleeping, and on my phone?”

“Yup.”

“Wow. I definitely feel useless now.”

“Don’t. There are people who spend almost three fourths of their life doing that. You’re fine.”

Aly’s smile widens. “Good to hear that.”

Sloane helps her spread out the comforter, then helps her get the pillows into their cases.

Afterwards, Sloane meticulously organizes Aly’s clothes into the closet and the dresser, by color and size, just to match Sloane’s sections.

Aly hangs up music posters over the walls covering her bed, along with pictures of a baby that looks like Aly with a woman who looks about 30 years old. They span from a newborn to about 2 years old, but don’t go beyond that. Sloane also notices that there are no photos with a father, or any other relatives.

Aly glances over, noticing the way Sloane stares at the photos. The room gets quiet. Tense.

“Statistically, about 12% of children in the U.S. grow up without knowing one or both parents. And, uh… it looks like you fall in that group. Numbers don’t tell the whole story, obviously, but they’re good at noticing patterns.”

Aly sighs. “Yeah. My mother died when I was 2.”

“And your father?” Sloane asks.

Aly’s expression hardens. She’s guarded. Walls put up. “Don’t like talking about him.”

“That’s alright.”

“I’m going to get ready for bed now.” Aly says. She’s cold now.  

Sloane nods.

Aly grabs a few clothes from the dresser, and slips off into the bathroom that’s connected to their room. She returns a few minutes later in an oversized band t-shirt and pajama shorts. She throws her clothes from the day into the hamper that’s sitting in the corner of the room.

Sloane can’t handle the silence anymore. “Statistically, about 68% of people emotionally withdraw when confronted with a topic that hurts them. The other 32% pretend not to care.”

“You really do know everything, don’t you?”

“It’s impossible to know everything. I try to know as much as I can.”

Aly nods. Sloane slips off into the bathroom and returns after washing her face, brushing her teeth, and changing into a light blue, short-sleeved pajama set. Aly looks up in bed from where she’s reading a book, her cheeks flaring pink and she takes in Sloane’s bare legs.

The tension is unbearable.

Sloane tries to break it. “About 65% of people can’t hide it when they’re flustered. You’re in that percentile. Not judging. Math just observes.”

And it gets worse.

Chapter Text

ALY

Aly couldn’t sleep. She was used to it. But this was different from the restless nights at her old home, that were spent worrying if her father would come back and beat her.

Now, it was because she couldn’t stop thinking about the blonde on the other side of the room.

She knew practically nothing about Sloane. All she knew was that she had statistics about everything, loved math and patterns, had a photographic memory, and secretly enjoyed listening to classic rock.

It was more than she thought.

Aly is up early. 6 AM.

Sloane’s already up, tablet in lap, scribbling down numbers. She’s wearing a pair of glasses that makes Aly’s heart flutter. Sloane looks over at her.

“You’re up early.” She says, tilting her head in a quizzical way.

“I always wake up early.” Aly replies, running her fingers through her hair, getting them stuck on a big knot at the end.

“Morning people blink 17% more between the times of 7 a.m and 9 a.m.”

“Interesting.” Aly says.

“It is.”

“How long have you been up?” Aly asks.

“An hour.”

“You always get up that early?”

Sloane nods. “It’s the best time for studying.”

“Didn’t know that.”

Sloane laughs softly. Aly almost passes out at the sound. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

Sloane shrugs, a smile pulling at her lips. “Take it as you will.”

Aly tosses the covers off of her legs and hops out of bed, heading over to the dresser to brush her hair. As she’s doing so, she yawns, meets Sloane’s eyes in the mirror, and asks, “Do you want any coffee?”

Sloane’s eyes practically light up. “Yes. Absolutely.” She’s almost bouncing in her seat.

Aly laughs and sets her hairbrush down. “I’ll be back. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black. With two scoops of sugar.”

Aly pauses. “You drink coffee like a 50 year old man.” 

“It’s how I like it.”

Aly slips out of the door and downstairs to the kitchen. She finds a man, about 60, standing there with a coffee cup in hand. His eyes widen as he sees Aly, and sets it down.

“You’re Aly?” He asks.

She nods. “Yes, sir. And you’re…”

“Judd Hawkins. Just call me Judd.”

“Alright. I’m here to get coffee.”

“Go right ahead.” He steps aside so Aly can get to the coffee maker. “The mugs are in the cabinet above. And, uhh, you’re not giving any to Sloane, right?”

Aly turns back with a questioning look. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Whatever you do, you can’t give her coffee.”

“Why? Does something bad happen?”

“She turns into a fact machine. Hours on end, she spits out statistic after statistic. The only way to get it to stop is to wait for it to be over, or duct tape her mouth.”

Aly nods slowly. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t have any.”

She ends up only making one cup for herself, adding milk and sugar. She heads back up to her room, coffee in hand. Sloane perks up as she walks in, but her face falls as she realizes Aly’s only holding one cup.

“Where’s mine?” Sloane asks.

Aly winces at her disappointed expression. “Judd forbid me from giving you any.”

Sloane groans. “You were my only hope.”

“I’m sorry. But, I didn’t exactly like the sound of what he said would happen.”

Sloane flops back against her pillows and stares at the ceiling.

“Cheer up. I’ll make breakfast?”

Sloane sits up. “There’s pancake mix in the pantry.”

“I can do that. But you have to keep me company, because no one else is awake.”

“Deal.”

SLOANE

Sloane was sitting at the counter, watching Aly work at the stove. And Sloane couldn’t help it– but she was staring at Aly’s ass.

She snaps out of it when Aly asks: “So, do you have any pancake facts?”

“There are about 135 different types of pancakes.” Sloane answers.

“I didn’t think there were that many.”

“No one does.”

They were interrupted by four pairs of footsteps coming down the stairs, Michael yelling about smelling food. They appear in the kitchen, all bleary-eyed, and spot Aly making food.

“You’re making pancakes?” Michael asks, already reaching for one that’s sitting on a plate and cooling. Aly bats his hand away.

“Yes. And you have to wait.”

“Boo.” Michael groans and plops down beside Sloane at the counter. “Let me guess, you too have been up since before the sun rose?”

“I have. Aly woke up about an hour after me.” Sloane replies, absentmindedly playing with the tie of her pajama shorts.

“And I almost gave her coffee by accident.” Aly says, grinning.

Cassie’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t.”

“I did. I told her I was going to get myself some, and she got unusually excited. I came down and found Judd here, who stopped me from getting her any.”

“Thank god for Judd.” Dean comments, going into the living room and taking a seat on the couch. Cassie follows.

“Did you know about 36% percent of the world’s population drink coffee every morning?”

“I did not.” Aly replies.

Lia leans up against the counter. “Any chance you made some with chocolate chips?” She eyes the pancakes.

“I did. And a few with strawberries, for Sloane.”

Lia snorts. “You two are practically best friends already.”

“So, Aly,” Michael starts. “You ready to be a Natural?”