We wrote this in GDocs like a bunch of nerdssssss
Shibrogane
Night shifts brought the more interesting cases, to be honest. He’d never had to surgically remove a d***o from someone’s a** before, but, well, every day brought new experiences and it was certainly a story to tell to Kaatje or Finn sometime. The night shift also meant he got home just in time to meet the mailman. They didn’t have too many residents right now, so he didn’t make the poor man do the sorting. It only ever took a minute, anyway: Arkady’s paycheck, some giant envelope for Finn, and… a giant envelope for him.
He tucked everyone’s mail into the appropriate boxes and, with no small about of trepidation, crossed the hall to his apartment. He could sleep later, he thought, settling at the breakfast bar with the pen-knife he kept there for opening letters. Right now, Nick was a bit more interested in the contents of the manila envelope. He shook the contents out of his envelope, and picked up the most official-looking piece of paper.
“What the ********,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’d applied to this study track on a whim, really, at the suggestion of one of his supervisors. Surely there would be a Social Security no-match error to stop it--but no. Whatever Anabel had done to force his name change through had certainly made that transition as seamless as it could be.
He leaned back in the chair, still smiling.
He tucked everyone’s mail into the appropriate boxes and, with no small about of trepidation, crossed the hall to his apartment. He could sleep later, he thought, settling at the breakfast bar with the pen-knife he kept there for opening letters. Right now, Nick was a bit more interested in the contents of the manila envelope. He shook the contents out of his envelope, and picked up the most official-looking piece of paper.
“What the ********,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’d applied to this study track on a whim, really, at the suggestion of one of his supervisors. Surely there would be a Social Security no-match error to stop it--but no. Whatever Anabel had done to force his name change through had certainly made that transition as seamless as it could be.
He leaned back in the chair, still smiling.
Tallulah was holed up in her little make-shift office in the spare bedroom when Nick came in, and other than calling out “hey,” when she heard the door open, she didn’t do much in the way of greeting; she’d found her study groove. She was properly roused a few moments later, when she heard him curse, and got up from her oversized armchair to go investigate.
“Hon?” she asked, poking her head around the door. He was over at the breakfast bar, and she joined him, peeking over his shoulder at the rather official-looking paperwork. Nick looked, she thought, like the cat that had gotten the canary. “What is it?” Tallulah asked. “Good news?”
She recognized the school crest on the top of the letter in Nick’s hands, and she pursed her lips. A lifetime ago, she’d applied to and been accepted to that school, then decided she couldn’t leave her duties as a senshi - what were they doing sending Nick mail?
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“Great news,” he said. “My supervisor suggested that I apply to this--it’s a professional development course focusing on--well, it’s. It’s sort of like a…” He took a deep breath and leaned around to wrap an arm around her waist. It was sort of a big thing for him, and only now was it occurring to him that he probably should’ve discussed it with Tallulah. “There’s some new surgical tools and techniques. Dartmouth’s the only school that has the technology, right now, to teach how to use them. I didn’t think I’d get it--that’s why I didn’t bring it up.”
But of course, there was the war. And Tallulah’s schooling. Of course he couldn’t go. His smile faded, and he ran his thumbs over the grain of the paper. Official, heavy stock, a pale eggshell rather than white. The ink was just a shade lighter than black, edging towards brown. Classy as ********. Of course, an Ivy would be. “I suppose I should write my thanks, but no thanks, letter,” he said. “There’s too much going on here for us to go, isn’t there?”
But of course, there was the war. And Tallulah’s schooling. Of course he couldn’t go. His smile faded, and he ran his thumbs over the grain of the paper. Official, heavy stock, a pale eggshell rather than white. The ink was just a shade lighter than black, edging towards brown. Classy as ********. Of course, an Ivy would be. “I suppose I should write my thanks, but no thanks, letter,” he said. “There’s too much going on here for us to go, isn’t there?”
Tallulah tried her best to hide her disappointment, both at the fact that he’d never discussed this with her before and because there was probably literally no way to make this work. They had duties here, and responsibilities… “Yeah,” she agreed, a bit sadly, because it was a pity - Nick was a brilliant doctor, but the chances of this opportunity coming up again were extremely slim.
Which made her want to think twice about it. Tallulah leaned against the counter and wracked her brain, looking for ways that she could justify the move. Their encounter with Melanite a few months previously had said pretty much all that had to be said about Oenone’s state of mental health. He could present himself as rock-steady as he wanted to, but there were still underlying issues that she bet were best dealt with by getting some space from the whole issue. And it wasn’t like she was particularly attached to Destiny City University. There were no classes she was taking this semester that she couldn’t learn just as well by switching to online enrollment.
“Actually, I take that back,” she said. “I think we definitely could make it work. How long would it be for?”
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Nick tried to justify his silence on the issue in his head--he thought there would be a no-match letter, he thought he’d have an opportunity to just let it drop, he was sure there were better doctors, he didn’t want to not submit it, because there had always been a chance--but there was really nothing to say. He wouldn’t be doing this practicum. That was all there was to it. It was a nice dream for the whole five minutes it had lasted, but it wasn’t going to happen. He read the letter one more time, skimming the tasteful serif font. His mother would be over the moon if she could know about this…
“Three months,” he said. “Early October until late December.” He looked down at the letter again and up to her, daring to hope. “But your classes? The war?” He didn’t want to give this up for senshi duties, he thought, stomach rolling uneasily. Tallulah thought it was important, though. And there were certainly duties to be met as a senshi. He hadn’t even visited his homeworld yet. It felt sacrilegious to be even considering leaving, when so much was going on.
He said, “I don’t want to uproot you for this if you don’t want to go.”
Tallulah shrugged, forcing more casualness into her movements than she perhaps actually felt. “There’s nothing I can’t switch to online enrollment,” she said. She would have loved to apply for a semester away and take classes at Dartmouth, but it was already far too late into the semester for that. She would have needed to know in the spring, and found a program, and… best to not worry about what couldn’t be. She could at least try to get a library pass or something.
“I’ve left the war before,” she said, not proud to be able to make the claim - but right now it might be exactly what Nick needed to hear. “And somehow, when I came back, the situation hadn’t changed at all.” Things had felt like they’d been progressing lately, and yet, in the grand scheme of things, weren’t these the same pointless battles she’d been fighting in her teens that neither advanced the cause of order nor sent it spiralling back?
Besides, she thought he’d take that a lot better than I think you have an anxiety disorder and need to take some time off for yourself. “It’s an opportunity,” she said, shooting him a smile to show just how completely okay with this she was. “We have to take opportunities and live for ourselves. Destiny City will survive three months without us.”
