Fic: One of My Bad Days - Part 1
Feb. 21st, 2011 11:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alien_snipeTitle: One of My Bad Days – Part 1
Summary: After another of his 'episodes', Doctor Insano's feeling quite depressed. He has no idea how bad things are going to get.
Pairing: Linkara/Good!Insano
Rating: PG-13. Warning for mild teen bullying.
Disclaimer: The people in this story are not mine. Thank goodness for that. I can't even keep a houseplant alive. This is a fictional alternate universe to an online video series, and nothing is to be taken seriously.
A/N: Sequel to Welcome Home. Just in case any of you got sucked in by my overly-sappy epilogue and thought things were going to be all violets in springtime for Good!Insano. :D
“I wasn't trying to upset anybody. I wasn't.” He watched the buildings whirring by outside, taking in flashes of environmental print on signs and posters. “I was trying to help. Nothing wrong with that. I'm not an invalid, for Edison's sake, I can do a few things for myself here and there...”
He shifted in his seat and by chance met the eyes of the woman across the aisle. She jerked her head away hurriedly, rubbing the back of her neck as though she'd been caught in the middle of a stretch. But he'd seen the look in her eyes. The same fascinated revulsion a young biologist might show to a cordyceps fungus, or to a parasitic wasp.
“...oh.” He squirmed back, feeling the chill off of the window, quietly bringing his hand up to his mouth and biting down on his knuckle. He was suddenly, painfully aware of the presence of other people on the bus, and fancied he could feel their eyes drilling into him. All he could do was wrap an arm around himself and try not to think about how he looked. Or how he'd sounded. Or that he'd been treating them all to a running monologue of his thoughts for the past few minutes.
This had been a bad idea.
Insano shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. All he'd wanted to do was get out of the apartment for a bit. Cabin fever. Happened to everybody. Couldn't be helped. Especially after last night. Really, what was he supposed to do?
When he woke up, his splitting headache and dry, aching throat indicated the first problem. Dehydration. He wasn't a stranger to that feeling; late nights in the lab left him parched and ravenous in the morning far too often. Typically he had Spoony to check on him, fix him a light meal and a quart of ice water, and bitch at him for neglecting his health again. But ... no, those memories were best left alone. For now.
He staggered to his feet and noticed Linkara, sitting by himself at the breakfast nook, staring into space over a mug of something that had stopped steaming a while ago. The other man looked up sharply, and hurriedly replaced his hollow look with a bright, obnoxiously cheery smile. “Hey! Feel better?”
Oh.
Alright then.
Second problem.
Insano managed to smile back, pained though it was. “What did I do?” he asked, softly.
“Nothing, it's fine.” Too quick. Linkara looked down and away, not meeting his eyes.
“Just ... just tell me, please.”
“It doesn't mean anything,” Linkara said, quietly, firmly. “You just had a bad day.” He cleared his throat. “You were pushing yourself pretty hard yesterday morning, weren't you?”
Insano winced. “I was only looking through the classifieds. I'm still looking for work, you know. It's not wrong for me to want to help out with rent and things, is--”
Linkara's hands were on his shoulders too fast. “Whoa. Hey. It's fine, alright? It's ... I appreciate that. Sincerely.” Linkara was drawing him into a hug, and Insano permitted himself a small sigh of relief before Linkara spoke again. “...but maybe you should take it easy. Just for today.”
“Don't pretend nothing's wrong and then treat me like a damned china figure. I'm not simple. Damn it, I'm only trying to help!--”
Insano stopped short as something light skimmed the top of his head, ruffling his hair. A crumpled bit of paper. He turned around, not comprehending, and flinched back as he saw one of the teenage boys in the back holding up a cellular phone, pointed straight at him. The half-dozen kids around him laughed, and the girl next to him—a spritely thing in a hooded sweatshirt with purple zebra stripes—tugged at his jacket, seeming almost excited. “Oh my gawd. He's gonna get mad now.”
He felt his face flush with chagrin and he spun around, eyes fixed on the front of the bus. The snickering from the back only got louder, and another wad of paper tagged the back of his head.
“Hey, weirdo.” The lad with the camera phone, presumably. “Anybody hooooome?”
“Oh my gaaawd.” He heard a dull thud on fabric as Purple Stripes swatted the boy on the arm. “You're so meeeean.”
He whirled to face the kids as a surge of boiling-hot anger rose up in his chest. “Let me BE, you little brats! I'm having a bad day—AIE!!”
He knew, objectively, that it was just another wad of paper. Most teenage bullies weren't known for their wit or creativity. But all he saw was something white flying at his face, and he'd jerked back, screamed (oh, wasn't THAT masculine) and brought up his arms to shield his face before he could correct himself. Hoots and shrieks of laughter rang in his ears, which were burning all the hotter from shame.
Insano staggered up to the front of the bus, hiding his face in his long knit scarf and failing to tune out the jeers. He briefly took in the intersection name and a few landmarks as the driver pulled over to let him out, and ... he walked.
Forgetting what had happened on the bus was sadly impossible. Not that this was the first time people had teased him for being odd. How long had it taken him to realize that the 'Doctor Insano' that the papers of record were mocking on the editorial pages was supposed to be HIM? But there was a difference between being ridiculed for trying to advance the march of human knowledge and ... being a demented, shambling freak who couldn't stop talking to himself. Which was what he was. Right now. He bit his tongue and walked.
He walked for hours. He had time to himself now, at least; one quiet residential street turned into another as flurries of snow started to fall. It was almost peaceful. In the segment of his mind dedicated to situational awareness, he knew he was getting lost. Another part of him wanted to round the next corner, look back, and find out that he'd left himself behind. Wouldn't that be wonderful. Hit the reset button and start everything over.
He could hear the low muttering in his ears that let him know he was still talking to himself. Hardly even a need to listen; he knew the jist of it. He'd abandoned his loved ones—worse yet, his entire world—and there was no hope of ever going back and fixing things, because he was wholly incapable of functioning like a normal human being. The vain, impossible hope that everything would go back to normal someday was nothing more than a vapid little fantasy now. He missed his little boy. He missed Spoony. He even missed those mocking reporters who'd given him his moniker all those years ago, the ones who'd dismissed his inventions as a lunatic's ravings.
He focused on the low, steady crunch of his shoes in the thin, icy snow on the sidewalk, and tried to put the past out of mind. Damn, the wind had picked up; coat wasn't doing much to stop the chill, either. He lifted his head and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the plate glass window opposite. He paused to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and after a few seconds twisted his head in the opposite direction so he didn't have to look at the scar.
“Well, look at you.” His mouth twisted into a pained little smile as his own voice piped back up. “You're rather a long way from home, aren't you?”
He glanced back up at the window again and felt a shock of adrenaline course through him. He was looking at two reflections of himself. There was the shivering, thin wreck in the battered brown overcoat and long striped scarf, and just behind him ... the white coat. The gloves. The goggles. It was him. As he was. Before he'd been shattered into a hundred thousand pieces. Him as he was never going to be again, as real and vital in the reflection as the genuine article, with its flinches and twitches and that fucking SCAR...
That was that. They were all right. The kids on the bus were right, and the people who had laughed at his inventions, and the press and Linkara and everyone, they were all right, because he was insane. Terrifyingly, irreparably insane. The NERVE of him, trying to walk the streets like he was a regular person. He covered his eyes, feeling the dampness of his tears on his palms, hating his weakness and brokenness and madness. “Oh god,” he whimpered. “I am having a bad day...”
His voice murmured in his ear, low and dangerous. “Oh, believe me. It's about to get worse.”
He realized with terrible suddenness that the voice, and the accompanying giggle, didn't belong to him. Then he felt pressure at the back of his neck, and a sharp, sudden jolt of electricity, and then nothing.
Summary: After another of his 'episodes', Doctor Insano's feeling quite depressed. He has no idea how bad things are going to get.
Pairing: Linkara/Good!Insano
Rating: PG-13. Warning for mild teen bullying.
Disclaimer: The people in this story are not mine. Thank goodness for that. I can't even keep a houseplant alive. This is a fictional alternate universe to an online video series, and nothing is to be taken seriously.
A/N: Sequel to Welcome Home. Just in case any of you got sucked in by my overly-sappy epilogue and thought things were going to be all violets in springtime for Good!Insano. :D
“I wasn't trying to upset anybody. I wasn't.” He watched the buildings whirring by outside, taking in flashes of environmental print on signs and posters. “I was trying to help. Nothing wrong with that. I'm not an invalid, for Edison's sake, I can do a few things for myself here and there...”
He shifted in his seat and by chance met the eyes of the woman across the aisle. She jerked her head away hurriedly, rubbing the back of her neck as though she'd been caught in the middle of a stretch. But he'd seen the look in her eyes. The same fascinated revulsion a young biologist might show to a cordyceps fungus, or to a parasitic wasp.
“...oh.” He squirmed back, feeling the chill off of the window, quietly bringing his hand up to his mouth and biting down on his knuckle. He was suddenly, painfully aware of the presence of other people on the bus, and fancied he could feel their eyes drilling into him. All he could do was wrap an arm around himself and try not to think about how he looked. Or how he'd sounded. Or that he'd been treating them all to a running monologue of his thoughts for the past few minutes.
This had been a bad idea.
Insano shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. All he'd wanted to do was get out of the apartment for a bit. Cabin fever. Happened to everybody. Couldn't be helped. Especially after last night. Really, what was he supposed to do?
When he woke up, his splitting headache and dry, aching throat indicated the first problem. Dehydration. He wasn't a stranger to that feeling; late nights in the lab left him parched and ravenous in the morning far too often. Typically he had Spoony to check on him, fix him a light meal and a quart of ice water, and bitch at him for neglecting his health again. But ... no, those memories were best left alone. For now.
He staggered to his feet and noticed Linkara, sitting by himself at the breakfast nook, staring into space over a mug of something that had stopped steaming a while ago. The other man looked up sharply, and hurriedly replaced his hollow look with a bright, obnoxiously cheery smile. “Hey! Feel better?”
Oh.
Alright then.
Second problem.
Insano managed to smile back, pained though it was. “What did I do?” he asked, softly.
“Nothing, it's fine.” Too quick. Linkara looked down and away, not meeting his eyes.
“Just ... just tell me, please.”
“It doesn't mean anything,” Linkara said, quietly, firmly. “You just had a bad day.” He cleared his throat. “You were pushing yourself pretty hard yesterday morning, weren't you?”
Insano winced. “I was only looking through the classifieds. I'm still looking for work, you know. It's not wrong for me to want to help out with rent and things, is--”
Linkara's hands were on his shoulders too fast. “Whoa. Hey. It's fine, alright? It's ... I appreciate that. Sincerely.” Linkara was drawing him into a hug, and Insano permitted himself a small sigh of relief before Linkara spoke again. “...but maybe you should take it easy. Just for today.”
“Don't pretend nothing's wrong and then treat me like a damned china figure. I'm not simple. Damn it, I'm only trying to help!--”
Insano stopped short as something light skimmed the top of his head, ruffling his hair. A crumpled bit of paper. He turned around, not comprehending, and flinched back as he saw one of the teenage boys in the back holding up a cellular phone, pointed straight at him. The half-dozen kids around him laughed, and the girl next to him—a spritely thing in a hooded sweatshirt with purple zebra stripes—tugged at his jacket, seeming almost excited. “Oh my gawd. He's gonna get mad now.”
He felt his face flush with chagrin and he spun around, eyes fixed on the front of the bus. The snickering from the back only got louder, and another wad of paper tagged the back of his head.
“Hey, weirdo.” The lad with the camera phone, presumably. “Anybody hooooome?”
“Oh my gaaawd.” He heard a dull thud on fabric as Purple Stripes swatted the boy on the arm. “You're so meeeean.”
He whirled to face the kids as a surge of boiling-hot anger rose up in his chest. “Let me BE, you little brats! I'm having a bad day—AIE!!”
He knew, objectively, that it was just another wad of paper. Most teenage bullies weren't known for their wit or creativity. But all he saw was something white flying at his face, and he'd jerked back, screamed (oh, wasn't THAT masculine) and brought up his arms to shield his face before he could correct himself. Hoots and shrieks of laughter rang in his ears, which were burning all the hotter from shame.
Insano staggered up to the front of the bus, hiding his face in his long knit scarf and failing to tune out the jeers. He briefly took in the intersection name and a few landmarks as the driver pulled over to let him out, and ... he walked.
Forgetting what had happened on the bus was sadly impossible. Not that this was the first time people had teased him for being odd. How long had it taken him to realize that the 'Doctor Insano' that the papers of record were mocking on the editorial pages was supposed to be HIM? But there was a difference between being ridiculed for trying to advance the march of human knowledge and ... being a demented, shambling freak who couldn't stop talking to himself. Which was what he was. Right now. He bit his tongue and walked.
He walked for hours. He had time to himself now, at least; one quiet residential street turned into another as flurries of snow started to fall. It was almost peaceful. In the segment of his mind dedicated to situational awareness, he knew he was getting lost. Another part of him wanted to round the next corner, look back, and find out that he'd left himself behind. Wouldn't that be wonderful. Hit the reset button and start everything over.
He could hear the low muttering in his ears that let him know he was still talking to himself. Hardly even a need to listen; he knew the jist of it. He'd abandoned his loved ones—worse yet, his entire world—and there was no hope of ever going back and fixing things, because he was wholly incapable of functioning like a normal human being. The vain, impossible hope that everything would go back to normal someday was nothing more than a vapid little fantasy now. He missed his little boy. He missed Spoony. He even missed those mocking reporters who'd given him his moniker all those years ago, the ones who'd dismissed his inventions as a lunatic's ravings.
He focused on the low, steady crunch of his shoes in the thin, icy snow on the sidewalk, and tried to put the past out of mind. Damn, the wind had picked up; coat wasn't doing much to stop the chill, either. He lifted his head and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the plate glass window opposite. He paused to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and after a few seconds twisted his head in the opposite direction so he didn't have to look at the scar.
“Well, look at you.” His mouth twisted into a pained little smile as his own voice piped back up. “You're rather a long way from home, aren't you?”
He glanced back up at the window again and felt a shock of adrenaline course through him. He was looking at two reflections of himself. There was the shivering, thin wreck in the battered brown overcoat and long striped scarf, and just behind him ... the white coat. The gloves. The goggles. It was him. As he was. Before he'd been shattered into a hundred thousand pieces. Him as he was never going to be again, as real and vital in the reflection as the genuine article, with its flinches and twitches and that fucking SCAR...
That was that. They were all right. The kids on the bus were right, and the people who had laughed at his inventions, and the press and Linkara and everyone, they were all right, because he was insane. Terrifyingly, irreparably insane. The NERVE of him, trying to walk the streets like he was a regular person. He covered his eyes, feeling the dampness of his tears on his palms, hating his weakness and brokenness and madness. “Oh god,” he whimpered. “I am having a bad day...”
His voice murmured in his ear, low and dangerous. “Oh, believe me. It's about to get worse.”
He realized with terrible suddenness that the voice, and the accompanying giggle, didn't belong to him. Then he felt pressure at the back of his neck, and a sharp, sudden jolt of electricity, and then nothing.
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Date: 2011-02-24 02:02 am (UTC)