Hey, guys! I just wanted to say wow I can’t believe people are actually reading this and, even more shocking, you actually like it! I’m having a blast writing this and the feedback I’ve been getting is super awesome. I hope you enjoy part 3!
With a groan Thomas throws the pen
on his desk and rubs his eyes, cursing Y/N and her ambitious, overworking, 110%
effort personality. The pressure she is putting on him combined with his other
classload is starting to get to him. The two had had a total of four meetings
after that first one, and each time she reminded him how much this project was
worth and the amount of effort he needed to put into it (he can recite her
inspiring (in her opinion) speech with her at this point). Doesn’t she know
that he already puts a lot of pressure on himself in his studies? He didn’t
become the second-ranked student in their class of 500 by smoking joints and
partying all weekend or playing hacky sack or whatever she thinks he does in
his spare time.
Her accidental admission of her
class ranking had surprised him. He always assumed that she was average, maybe
slightly above, that Hammy or one of the other HamilDorks helped her with her
homework. Perhaps Thomas could find it in him to respect her enough to accept
her suggestions and opinions about their project. She had definitely shown him
that she was worth her salt by correcting his misinterpretation of a statute
and quoting several laws and precedented cases from memory, which all helped
strengthen their defense. One of the HamilDorks is actually useful—surprise!
He groans again just as James walks
past his open door. His best friend/roommate lets out a chuckle and leans
against the doorframe.
Thomas throws another pen against
the wall over his desk, disappointed that it didn’t puncture a hole in the
“Let me guess,” James says. “The
little milkmaid from Kansas made another schedule for your case?”
For some odd reason, James’
condescending tone creates a little tickle of irritation in Thomas’ chest. His
mind conjures an image of Y/N pulling her hair into a ponytail as she leans
over her notes, her teeth working her rose-colored bottom lip as she
concentrates. “She’s from Nebraska, James.”
“Does it matter?” he scoffs. “I think
she needs to pull that stick out of her ass and relax. You’re top in the class.
You’ll get it done no problem.”
Thomas clenches his fist and
struggles to keep his voice even. “Perhaps you should focus on starting your
own project, James. You know Hercules Mulligan isn’t going to be much help.”
He doesn’t see James furrow his
eyebrows in thought, wondering why he is suddenly defending Y/N instead of
joining in on making fun of her.
“You’re right,” James mutters after
a pregnant pause. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with her tonight?”
In a panic, Thomas checks his
watch, realizing that he’s lost track of time. It’s already eight. “Oh, shit!”
he yells, hurriedly gathering his case papers and defense notes and shoving
them into his bag. James thoughtfully observes Thomas as he quickly grabs a
jacket and pulls on his shoes. His friend pauses in front of the mirror, runs a
hand over his shortly cropped beard, and swats at a few rogue curls.
Thomas pushes past his roommate and
jogs to the door, pulling it open hurriedly when his phone rings. He answers
it, standing in the doorway to their two-bedroom apartment. His eyebrows meet
in a frown as he listens to the person on the other end.
“What? The library is closed? Why?
… Water pipe maintenance? Sounds like a bunch of—sorry… Uh, I don’t know where
else to go. A lot of the local restaurants close at nine, so that would only
give us an hour of work… Yeah, I know we need to keep on schedule.”
James appears in Thomas’ peripheral
vision and clears his throat to grab Thomas’ attention. “I’m going to Aaron
Burr’s for the evening to study for the Theories of Civil Law exam tomorrow,”
Thomas nods, his face brightening
just enough for James to notice. “Okay, how about we work at my place? Madison
is gone for the evening so he won’t distract us… Perfect! Let me give you the
“This is where you live?” you ask,
following Jefferson into the living room. “This is so…normal.”
He laughs and motions for you to
sit on either of the mismatched couches
(one dark brown leather, the other a god-awful blue and green plaid—you choose
the leather). On the light wood coffee table are pens, pencils, and highlighters,
along with a variety of sweating unopened root beer and orange soda cans. The
perpendicular couches face a large flat screen TV mounted on the wall. Under
the TV is a long thin table with what looks like an XBOX, a Wii, and two ugly
red and black striped vases.
“What did you expect?” he asks,
smirking. “Designer décor? An open floor plan with hardwood floors? A bear skin
rug? A roaring fireplace and a wet bar? Four-car garage?”
You shrug. “I dunno. I heard you
lived in France for a couple of years, so maybe baguettes and wine? Miniature
Eiffel Tower sculptures?”
“Actually, these—” he gestures to
the two red and black vases under the TV— “did
come from France. What do you think?” he asks excitedly.
Should you tell him your real
opinion or lie through your teeth? He looks so innocently happy, like a kid who
made a picture frame made of macaroni noodles for their parent. You can’t
squash on that kind of pure, unadulterated pride.
“They’re very nice,” you say
“You hate them.” He shrugs. “You’re
from Nebraska. What do you know about taste?”
Instead of yelling at him for
insulting you and your home state like you would have a week ago, you laugh.
Your amiability shocks both of you, and your laughter quickly dies on your
lips. Awkward silence. He shoves one hand into his jeans pockets and rubs the
back of his neck with the other. You smooth your skirt and lick your lips,
looking anywhere but at him or his red French vases.
“So…” Jefferson finally breaks the
silence. “I think we have everything we need here. Help yourself to a soda.
Unless you want something else to drink?”
You shake your head. “Oh, no
thanks. This is fine.”
“Okay. Let’s get to work.” He takes
a seat on the other couch and spreads out his defense notes.
The two of you alternately bounce
ideas off each other and work in silence for the next hour. You discovered that
sitting on the carpeted floor and using the coffee table as a desk is more
comfortable than leaning over it while sitting on the couch around the twenty
minute mark. He realized that chugging two root beers and one orange soda leads
to a lot of bathroom breaks halfway through the orange soda. You both found out
that listening to a classical study mix on Pandora through his TV increased
productivity after he yelled at you for humming an obnoxious popular hip-hop
song you’d listened to on the way over.
“Do you have any more pieces of
paper?” you ask after an hour of note-taking and paging through your textbooks.
He looks over the table as if he
expects it to be there, frowning when he doesn’t see any. “I thought I brought
“All I see are pens and
“I have some paper in my room.” He
pulls his long legs out from under the coffee table and stands, groaning as he
stretches his muscles. “Ahhh, man, you should really get up and stretch. We’ve
been sitting too long.”
He disappears down the hall toward
his and Madison’s rooms as you push yourself to your feet, echoing his groans. You
start walking, slowly, across the living room floor, stepping over books and
your backpack and your shoes, when you hear a crash and Jefferson’s strangled
yelp. It sounded like a rainstorm.
Curious and concerned, you follow
the sound of his cursing down the hall and into the bedroom on the left. You
clap a hand over your mouth as you try to stop the laughter at the scene in his
room. Jefferson glares at you, lying prostrate on the floor, partially buried
under an avalanche of hundreds of boxes of mac ‘n’ cheese. His closet door
reveals another hundred identical boxes stacked on high shelves.
“What on earth…” You shake your
head, your shoulders shaking as you try to hold in your laughter. “I have so
He curses again and sits up,
pushing macaroni boxes off of him. “I can’t believe my precious betrayed me..”
he murmurs breathlessly.
“Okay, first question. Why do you
have so much boxed mac ‘n’ cheese? This is really unhealthy.”
“Um, excuse you?” Jefferson leaps
to his feet, indignant, and begins pacing back and forth in front of you. He reminds
you of Washington when he gets really passionate during a lecture.
“Macaroni and cheese is the food of
the gods. This is the perfect food for any occasion—birthday, Christmas,
christenings, job interviews, bad days, good days, you name it! It should be
everyone’s comfort food. It’s cheesy goodness with soft pasta, carbs and dairy, so it’s totally healthy. It’s easy to make—takes less than
fifteen minutes. Plus, I memorized the directions so I don’t even have to look
at the box. Are you impressed yet?”
“You are insane.” You look over the
boxes in disbelief. “How much did this all cost?”
“I buy it in bulk, so less than you
think.” His smile widens as he nods eagerly.
“Why was it in your closet?”
“Not enough room in the kitchen
cupboards. Madison hates it anyway, so he told me to keep it out of his sight.
I have another box of boxes under my bed, too.”
You suddenly realize that you are
standing in his bedroom. You take in the décor, the grey-and-white-striped
comforter on the bed, the magenta throw pillow, the Eiffel Tower poster hung
over his side table, the bookshelf full of books (lots about France and one
curiously titled The Miracle of Macaroni
and Cheese: Variations of the Best Comfort Food), the desk in the corner
strewn with textbooks, papers, and writing utensils. Above his desk handwritten
notes, printed quotes, and pictures have been taped or tacked to the wall.
“That’s my Wall of Inspiration,” he
says, and you realize he’s been watching you as you look around his room. You
take a step closer and read quotes about success and hard work from Gandhi,
Martin Luther King, Jr., and Steve Jobs before finding one printed on magenta
paper in a large, fancy script:
can stop the man with the right mental attitude from achieving his goal;
nothing on earth can help the man with the wrong mental attitude.
really true, you think, wondering who wrote it. You read the author’s name
in smaller print under the quote:
“Ha! You quoted yourself on your
Wall of Inspiration? That’s a lot of ego, Jefferson.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I am big
enough to admit that I am often inspired by myself.”
You shake your head at him
reproachfully but you can’t knock the satisfied smirk off his face. His
inflated sense of self makes you want to slap him but you also kind of admire
him for it. He believes in himself and his abilities. He is comfortable in his
own skin and doesn’t care about what other people think about him, which is
evident by the magenta T-shirt with the words Qu’est-ce que j’ai raté?
You find yourself secretly wishing that you had half the confidence he had.
Beside his quote on the Wall of
Inspiration is a picture of Jefferson and a pretty girl with long curly hair
and sunkissed skin. She is smiling at the camera, her nose crinkling cutely as
Jefferson kisses her cheek. His girlfriend,
you realize. You feel the smile on your face fade.
“That’s a cute picture,” you say,
trying to act normal. “Who is she?”
His eyebrows move closer together
as he follows your finger to the picture. “Oh, that’s Martha,” he says tersely,
as if that answers your question. Technically it does, but it also produces
more questions. Is she his girlfriend?
Are they broken up? Why is she still on the wall? Is she around? Why haven’t
you seen her around?
Wait, it’s none of your business,
why do you care? It’s not like you like
Jefferson. He’s an insufferable, overconfident jerk who wears too much magenta
and has insulted you too many times for you to ever like him as anything more
than a classmate. That’s what you two are—classmates and partners on a school
project. That’s it. There’s no way you could ever be attracted to him.
Almost as though he had heard your
inner monologue, Jefferson bends down to begin picking up the boxes of mac ‘n’
cheese strewn across his floor. His jeans tighten around his ass, giving you a
front-row view of how round and—for lack of a better word—perfect it is. You
can see the muscles in his back as his magenta shirt stretches with his reach.
How had you never noticed how fit he was? It was as if someone had given you
glasses that suddenly cleared up your vision so you could notice small details
that you hadn’t before. Like the swell of his biceps as he lifts a big cardboard
box full of boxes of mac ‘n’ cheese back onto the top shelf of his closet.
You’ve always been an arm girl, you admit to yourself as you admire his toned
He glances over his shoulder at you
and smirks as if he can read your thoughts. You shake your head hard, clearing
“We should probably get back to
work,” Jefferson says, holding out a blank yellow legal pad.
You nod dumbly and take the pad
from him, cursing your face as it betrays you with a deep blush. The blood makes
your face hot and pounds in your ears as you follow him back to the living
room. You fan yourself with the pad when he isn’t looking. Now you can’t help
but watch his muscles as he sits back down, his back against the plaid couch
and his legs stretched out in front of him.
I was tagged by @vulcanette to do the Five Things tag meme, so here goes :)
Five things you can find on my blog:
So much Supernatural it’s actually unreal.
A lot of political stuff, particularly American politics (I’m not American. Why I am doing this. Help.)
Clint Barton aka my agender disaster child
My art, of varying quality
My poetry (see above)
Five things you can find in my room:
Enough plushies to form a small nation
So many pens, I swear they’re actually multiplying. I do not remember buying seventeen black pens but there they are.
A ton of scented candles. Seriously. I love scented candles.
Various small decorative things, none of which match (examples include: two ceramic fairies, a model sailing ship, a wooden polar bear, a small commemorative quaich, a fuck-ton of pretty rocks and a Lego Eiffel Tower)
Fandom posters. Seriously. My walls are covered in them. They’re neatly organised by fandom, because I have too much energy at 2am
Five things I’ve always wanted to do:
Learn Scottish Gaelic
Roadtrip around France
Go climbing in the Cairngorms
Write a novel
Five things that make me happy:
Long, hot showers
Rereading my favourite books or fics
Shutting my door, turning my favourite songs (everything by Area 11) up loud and singing along
Organising shit. I get a kick out of making places clean and tidy
Being halfway up a rockface, adrenaline pumping, looking down and trusting the kit I’ve put in because nothing else is gonna hold me if I fall
Five things on my to do list:
Study (I have exams coming up), but I don’t want to :/ Half the shit I’m studying I couldn’t give two shits about, I only took it bc I had to fill out my timetable
Tidy up my room because it is a disaster zone right now
Finish writing my ‘Things You Said’ series on AO3
Cut the new insoles for my shoes to the right size so that I can actually put them in
Fill out my journal for the last couple of days
Five things you may not know about me:
I’m Scottish. Or, to be more accurate, Glaswegian - born and raised :)
I love rock climbing, and most weeks I’ll be either training at an indoor wall or out at a crag
I really like photography (particularly landscape photographs) though I don’t get many good opportunities to take photographs
I play a fair bit of Minecraft, and used to be a huge fan of the Yogscast (I still am a fan, but a much less devoted one now