Moving carefully around the collection of unopened moving boxes in the little guest room, Mab gave her teeth a cursory brush and her face a splash of water, promising herself that she'd shower later. First, she needed medication, some food in her stomach, and a cup of coffee.
She shivered against the rough autumnal cold snap, pulling on a pair of thick socks with a bit of a stumble. The radiator in the corner groaned and knocked, complaining about the cold as well. Still adjusting to the massive change in living conditions, Mab missed the sunny breakfast nook in her mother's house, and the space-heater that lived under the table year-round. But Mab also missed more than just the house.
A nervous gray cat, still distrustful of the brownstone's new occupant, scuttled around the hallway corner as Mab opened the door, hissing and spitting in disapproval.
"Be that way," Mab grumbled. "I don't like you either."
Mab found her uncle poring over her treatment binder, flipping back through a series of post-it marked pages. "Good morning," she greeted softly, easing down into a seat at the kitchen island to catch her already shaky breath.
"Morning," her uncle mumbled. "Uh, I've got your medications set out right, I think…" he flipped through the pages again with one hand, pushing a cup of pills towards her. "I'm just trying to figure out what you can eat with them."
"Toast is usually safe," Mab suggested, accepting the hefty dosage of medications. She eyed the cup briefly, satisfied that the number and variety of colors looked correct.
David closed the binder with a grateful snap. "Toast I can do."
Mab took an offered glass of water to take her pills. "Are you meeting with the office soon?"
"I hope not, I don't have anything to show for the last month," her uncle admitted regretfully.
Mab tossed her head to swallow a few pills at once, making a sour face at the bitter taste of the last one. "I think they should give you some slack – you've been dealing with a lot this last week."
David grumbled in agreement, putting bread in the toaster to warm up. "Well, the next time you go into the office and see Mariah, you tell her that." He snapped his fingers in sudden realization, face brightening. "You know what?"
"What?" Mab obligingly asked with an amused smile.
"They should make you my live-in editor!" David exclaimed, pulling jams from the fridge to give her a selection for her toast.
Mab sniffed the open jam jar and scrunched her nose as she quickly replaced the lid. "Oh, believe me, it was suggested. But to need an editor, you need to submit more than one poem a month." She slid the jar off the edge of the counter and into the trash.
"It's worth a try at least," David argued, turning as the toaster dinged to get his attention. "Do you need anything while I'm out?"
"Yeah - let me write you a list." Mab nodded idly, pen scratching as she doodled in the corner of her paper to get the pen working. Like so many things in her uncle's house, even the pens spoke to a general feeling of deferred maintenance; a preoccupation with living in his own head, trying to push poetry out onto a page to exchange for goods and services. An artist who lived alone, who forgot that the world revolved around usefulness.
"What've you got there?" David asked, peering at the scribbles that had turned into words.
"Just scribbles," Mab mumbled, covering it with a hand.
David tugged the paper from underneath her hand, scanning the short phrase. "This is quite good – do you mind if I use it?"
Cracks in the walls
let in a foggy discontent
muddled by burdensome shadows
"Please," Mab waved a hand, blushing at the faint praise, "someone should get use of it."
Her uncle folded it with a hand and tucked the paper away. "What are you up to today? Some unpacking, maybe?"
"I've got the rest of that 'Quill and Hill' World War Two manuscript to get through." Mab ran a hand over her face. "I swear; it's ten percent typos." She turned the interrogation back on David with a raised brow. "Are you getting any writing done today?
"Well…" he avoided her gaze. "I'm going out today to… go talk… to some people."
"Uncle David," Mab pressed, "is everything okay?"
He sighed. "It's just with the funeral costs, and you moving in… I've just got to sort out a plan with the bank. It'll be okay; I promise. Just need to hang on until the estate settles."
Mab dropped her head. "I'm sorry."
"We've just got to get our feet under us again." David patted her hand comfortingly. "We'll both get by - your mother left very clear instructions." He coughed, eyeing the thick healthcare binder. "Very detailed."
"Brevity was not her strong suit." Mab smiled wistfully. "I miss her," her voice cracked. "I feel ridiculous - a fully-grown woman saying 'I miss my mom'."
David nodded slowly, his face twisting painfully. "I miss her too. They have their exits and their entrances just doesn't seem to cover it."
"I didn't think she'd go before me, you know? Not with…" Mab gestured to her whole body, "everything."
"Ok, that's enough of that; you're not dying yet. I mean, everybody on the planet is dying because that's how living works, but-"
"I get it," Mab stopped him, standing. "I'm gonna get to work upstairs. If you make coffee before you leave, let me know." She retreated from the increasingly emotional conversation. Mab and her uncle hadn't spent much time together as she'd grown, but when her mother's health started to deteriorate he became more of a fixture. It was very sensible, moving in with an older relative who could be responsible for her incredibly complex care, but that didn't mean it felt right.
Mab took her time getting up the stairs but she was still out of breath at the top. The skittish grey cat growled at her from a dark corner, which Mab ignored. She was half-tempted to hiss in reply, but decided that would be a little too petty.
It took a little digging around in the tight space of the spare room to find the right box with her manuscripts for review, and another grumbling search to find her laptop. She opened two windows - one with her editing notes document, the other to a live news feed. Trapped as she so usually was indoors, she liked to keep an eye on the outside world whenever she could.
"... backup quickly resolved afterwards. Fortunately there was enough space to transport the literal thousands of pounds of gear to the Port Authority, though training was significantly delayed. The Port Authority has not yet commented on the total impact on the city's disabled community. Back to you, Dan." Mab fished her reading glasses out of the drawer of her nightstand, glancing at the screen and the never-ending drama of New York City's outdated transit system.
"Thanks Chuck, we're taking you now to the East Side where, yes - you can see the newly operational Raft Transport Vehicles moving overhead. We reported earlier this week about the enhanced-initiated apartment fire in the upper west side, and now it looks like that person is finally being transported to the Raft."
The Blonde co-host laughed. "I'll sleep a lot better knowing they're out of the city."
"As if you'd be caught dead above 35th street," Mab murmured, turning her attention to the manuscript in her hand. She thumbed past the chapters she'd already reviewed, searching for a page not yet marked by her signature green pen.
"Ha ha, alright Susan; let's talk about the next big thing everyone is talking about - The Sokovia Accords, and what that means for the future of the Avengers; our heroes, or just another military operation?"
Paul tried to sneak past his steely-eyed supervisor after clocking in, but was spotted immediately. "Gregson! You're late!"
"Sorry," Paul mumbled, turning, "missed my train."
His supervisor stared at him a little too long, like he was thinking but the act was physically painful. "Did you get the session last week on the new lifts?"
"Well-" Paul mumbled, stalling.
His supervisor spotted another driver at the clock-in station, barking out, "Anders - don't let me catch you clocking in for that follow-up course! You should have made it on time when I told you the first time! I ain't paying for laziness!" He turned back. "You were saying?"
"Yeah," Paul mumbled, "I got it last week, like you said." He'd just have to hope the new lift system was easy enough to figure out. His family couldn't afford hours of paid work lost.
His supervisor grumbled, chewing on a cigar without lighting it. He often complained - loudly and frequently - that New York had gone to hell in a handbasket for not letting people smoke inside and around workplaces anymore. "Well, clock in and get to work! Riders aren't going to pick themselves up."
A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you for the favorites, follows, and (my favorite) the reviews!
-Dancy dance - I haaaaaate exposition
I've spent some time coming up with a really amazing plot for this story, hopefully something to make you stop and think. I'm neck-deep in research at this phase and it's already fleshed out this story so, so much. It doesn't add a lot to the plot, specifically, but it does help everything (and everyone) feel so much more real. I'm super-stoked for this story.
My first few chapters are going to be on the shorter end as we introduce our new characters, and then it should pick up from there.
I love my reviewers! Lunatic4eva, Sanguinary Tide, Flours, ArganRose, huffle-bibin, Zayren Heart, SunflowerRose, x-EarthAlchemist-x, nekokairi, and Evilhyperpixie13!
PLEASE REVIEW!
Tell me an Avengers fanfic trope you love, and a trope you hate! (Love: love interest figures out our hero is a hero before they planned to tell the love interest. Hate: describing any male's romantic/love actions as "can barely control himself" as if that shit is somehow romantic. GTFO.)