is anyone like that when it comes to friendship?? FRIENDSHIP IS SO HARD FOR ME… I’m trying to get better but I really have just come to accept I’ll...
erinkyan replied to your post:I just realized that all my current dream projects…
I dunno dude you are a pro colouring book person you...
santa saw you reading all that gay porn
so does he want recs, or…?
She remembers Thymol Blue in science class and the strangeness of it, because between the acid and the alkali neither colour of the indicator was blue at all. They had to move to a higher pH, she learned. Whether a measure was acid or alkali was, despite the supposedly objective nature of science, a matter of position and perspective. And while everyone fretted about acids and their properties the truth was that alkalis were just as dangerous at some concentrations and acids were perfectly harmless at others.
Red at one end and blue at the other and how strange the third primary colour filled up the middle. Fitz explained it to her, explained it to her many times. The bonds changing and the atoms being excited by light and bumping up and dropping down onto difference frequencies, emitting different kinds of light with the different shapes the pH gave them. And she knew that, knew the physics of colours and how to balance the chemical equations, and Fitz never seemed to understand that he wasn’t answering her question because she was asking something very different.
Life wasn’t about reds and blues, wasn’t about the extremes. So much of life was the middle ground, was a little bit of both and a lot of neither and all a matter of perspective. But she always remembered that giant jar at the front of the class, the colour of cheap wine and thin honey and boys peeing on the back of the toilet block. Always remembered that a few drops of this or that changed the tilt of things completely and allowed a different colour to blossom and bloom. It was why she joined SHIELD, in the end. Jemma knew that she was a middle ground of cheap flowers and thin sunlight, but being between two extremes only meant that she was an equal distance between two extremes.
And when her inner probes finally detected the shift, when she finally tumbled one way or the other, she wanted at least to be able to tumble away from people who understood what it meant to be bathed in the uneasy and inconsistent colour of neutrality.
While Phil often compliments Will’s taste and style, he never wears the things that Will buys him. The satin tie in cacti shades that shine just right to remind the world that Phil’s eyes are blue. The cotton boxer briefs in forest colour because Phil’s skin is warm and pink and the cool side of the spectrum only compliments the hotness of his build. The sunglasses with the tinted lenses that were neither black nor blue nor brown, a pair of ordinary aviators from a distance but just like Phil a little uncommon when observed up close.
For all that Phil enjoyed Will’s hands on him in their downtime, he gently sweetly persistently refused to carry Will’s fingerprints with him to work. He engaged a different colour palette that familiar and common and tangled up with complicated histories. And Will kept trying and Phil kept denying and over time their shared space took on a snarled, envious texture of possessiveness.
It’s not the most romantic thing to tumble past Phil’s lips, but Clint was curled against his chest and poking Phil’s tummy as it rumbled. Hours lazing in bed together and the sunlight hitting Clint’s hair just right and when Phil closes his eyes and breathes him in it’s the smell of highways in Iowa during the fading sunlight of early October, the slide of their mouths together is slick like butter melting over a hot, grilled cob and Clint is warm and fresh and firm against him.
Not the most romantic comparison, but apt somehow nevertheless.
The tips of Phil’s ears when Nick sent him to go and collect the Captain (and he’d been pretending for days that he was going to send Romanov, had wondered that whole time if Phil believed he’d be that cruel or was just playing along).
The colour of his mug when Phil brought him coffee maybe an hour before things went to hell.
The hack alert message spreading across screens on the bridge, and it wasn’t unexpected but it was still unappreciated (Stark, they both agreed, was only lightly less trouble than he was worth).
The emergency lighting in the hall after one section of the ship shorted out. The stain spreading across Phil’s shirt (and Nick had been wondering how hard it would be to shift, thinking idly about how picky Phil could be with his clothes, even as the medics called it).
The glossy shine of Phil’s car days later, so beautifully and tenderly cleaned that even dust didn’t settle on her.
The taste of the words in his mouth as he talked to the car the way Phil would have, apologised to her, because now there was no one else who would indulge the crack in his voice.
They’re both decked out in brights, Steve’s primary tones and Bruce’s secondary shades. Serious superheroes with the colour palette that suggests bright spring days, muted by Bruce’s dry, cutting humour and the stern downturn of Steve’s mouth. Shadows stretching from their feet and curling back across their faces, and for everything that they are in the spotlight there’s something more complete about the invisible way they find one another in the darkness.
The colours of Phil’s ties change, slowly at first and thoroughly, completely, like a wave rippling in from the ocean and then crashing onto the shore. The greys being built up with substance. The berries bleeding out some of their conflict as bloodstains coaxed out in the wash. A purer, neater optimism left behind that never quite matches the way Steve’s eye light up.
The grape bubble gum taste of Clint’s mouth, the stray sock half lost between the cushions of the couch, the bands of colour breaking up the respectable grey of Phil’s tie, the love-bitten bruise forming perhaps a little too high for his shirt collar to hide, the cheap plastic keyfob that Clint had nervously handed over and Phil had been quietly thrilled to accept.
The cold winter chill on the edges of their jackets, the clear sky reflecting of a clean windshield. The flash flash flash of a light in a dark lane, both terrifying and comforting because it means that something has gone wrong but also that it will be put to rights. It’s the taste of hospital air once a mouth has been rinsed of blood. It’s falling asleep on the couch, fingers entwined, the humming glow of the television when the DVD has ended.
“I used to have a workshop for this,” Phil said apologetically. He was sitting at his desk in a worn t-shirt, a lopsided Santa had and the beginnings of a beard. Everyone else was bunched up just inside the doorway because every available surface was covered in… things. At first Skye had assumed they were toys, and given the dim lighting in the office that might be true of some of them. But ‘trinkets’ might be a better word. Baubles. Strange, cute, twisted things. Made with wood and wire and yarn. She could see some science-y things in there, the plastic pipette tips that Simmons went through by the box. Paper clips, bullet cases. They were strange to look at, but undeniably pretty. They glowed a little, giving the room a soft blue light.
“Decided to go mobile?” Simmons inquired, sounding a little giddy.
“Lease ended,” Phil replied, his hands busy making another little thing. He’d only glanced up briefly when they had busted in and, apparently realising that the game was up, had just rolled with the intrusion and kept working while they talked. “I actually expected us to be shut down before now,” he continued. “Thought I might have been given a dull little office out in Wyoming to clutter up.”
“What are you going to do with all of them?” Ward asked. His voice was soft and he sounded strangely distracted.
“Deliver them,” Phil said simply. He glanced up, making a point to catch May’s eye, and smiled. “That’s why I brought Lola.”
Phil, usually not one to fidget, lifted a hand and scratched along his jawline, the tips of his fingers lost in the salt and pepper beard that he apparently sprouted every December. He looked a little sheepish when he realised that Skye was observing him.
"It itches," he explained.
Skye fought to keep a smile down, and instead turned to look at the pile of small, wrapped presents that was accumulating in the middle of the rec area as the rest of the team wrapped and ribboned.
"My legs get the same way," she said. "I let them grow out in winter." Phil shoved his hands into his suit pockets (still grey - he’d been shutting down any and all conversations about red suits) and exuded an air of quiet awkwardness. "TMI?" she asked. "We’re not allowed to bond over body hair?"
Phil glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye, a smile smile just visible through the beard. “Just wondering what you’ll think of the waxing strips in your stocking,” he joked. She assumed he was joking. It was always a little hard to tell, and the beard-in-progress wasn’t helping.
"I think I’ll appreciate them a lot more if they turn into a 3DS."