You’re nervous.
Like the gross sweaty palms, upset stomach, can’t stop moving back and forth even though the constant click-clacking of your high heels in the echoey halls is probably going to slowly drive you insane you insane kind of nervous. It makes sense, though; it’s been four years since the accident that completely changed your life and three years since the last time you even so much as thought about the possibility of completing your thesis, much less stepped foot inside of a school.
Now here you are, pacing the halls of the Tozzer Anthropology Building like some sort of lunatic. You stop long enough to throw back what’s left of the giant latte you’ve been working on, then chuck it absently into a trash can nearly ten feet away.
Life had a funny way of changing in the blink of an eye. It was a lesson you learned a long time ago, but everything that’s happened recently has really driven the point home in a way you suddenly appreciate more than you did before. You laugh softly at the thought, shaking your head as you finally sink down into an arm chair outside of Professor Harkness’s office and sigh heavily.
Things were different now; a month ago, you were married and basically doing whatever the hell you wanted, whenever you wanted. Now, you’re single, probably a little insane thanks to the voice that’s taken up residence inside your head, and just trying to do something, anything, to make you feel like you’re actually accomplishing something more than just being a fucking lump living off your savings and monthly retirement checks.
It feels like everything is moving at light speed and it's making you fucking dizzy.
Even today, you’d just expected a sit down with the anthropology department chair. That was all you’d wanted, to discuss your thesis, and any of the necessary steps that it would take to get started again. But the old man had been so impressed by your academic achievements and your background, by the research you’d already put in, that he’d made a call with you sitting right in his office and arranged a meeting for you that same day with another faculty member specializing in linguistics, language and semiotics.
And you immediately felt like you’re going to vomit.
So you raced from the Peabody Museum to get here, like you were on some sort of time crunch, even though you had nearly an hour before this guy’s class was even going to end. Which of course, is why you wandered off to find coffee and had ample time to get inside of your own head and have an in depth argument with yourself about why this was a good idea, and why you very definitely shouldn’t abandon ship and just go trot off to Costa Rica.
You’re not sure why the voice in your head is so fond of tropical places, but you think it might have something to do with bikinis, drinks with umbrellas in them and the prospect of being able to knock over a drug cartel and steal their guns.
God, you hate being Deadpool sometimes.
No you don’t. Don’t lie to yourself. It’s going to give you wrinkles.
“Would you please pipe down?”
It’s a polite request that’s met with a curious look from the astonishingly young professor that’s approaching you. All you want to do right now is punch yourself in the face, because now this guy knows that you’re a fucking nut job.
But since that's not really an option, especially considering it'd only wind up making you look even weirder than you already do, you just dog ear that for later and swallow down the urge to ralph. Then you take a deep breath, stand up and laugh off the embarrassment, despite the fact that you can tell you’re flushed and flummoxed and you’re pretty damn certain you’re not hiding it very well. Still, you stand and take the hand that’s offered to you, giving it a firm shake and a bright smile as he introduces himself.
You don’t try and make up a story or an excuse about it, because you know that the second you open your mouth, it’s just going to be word vomit that comes out and you’re already not off to the greatest start. Instead, you grab your bag and just follow him into the office like some fucking lost puppy and try not to look too stupid as you take a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk from him.
Everything that happens next seems like a blur, because that’s just how this day has been. It’s how this whole damn month has been, really. (Once upon a time, you might’ve tried to blame it all on the head injury, but you know better now. Thanks, superpowers.)
He asks you about your background, about your schooling, your research and then, finally, about what’s kept you away from it all for so long. It’s a question you’ve already answered once today. Hell, you had rehearsed it for like an hour, both in the shower and then again in front of your foggy bathroom mirror this morning and it still fucks you up. It’s not really something you enjoy talking about, much less with someone who’s not only a complete stranger, but could very well make or break this opportunity for you. It’s just a part of your life you’d very much like to keep in the past. So you try to be quick, brush past it as best you can while still proving enough information to placate him.
A rush of relief washes over you when he seems to accept your explanation and moves on to talking about the next steps.
Nearly forty-five minutes passes before you’re finally saying goodbye and shaking hands again. He tells you he’s impressed and that he’ll be in touch. You hope it’s a good sign. It had better be a good sign.
Surprisingly, you feel better than you did an hour ago, relieved, accomplished, and a little bit cocky, if you’re being honest. (Because really, you were pretty sure you were going to pass out and die as soon as this was over.) You were planning on teleporting home, because of the whole needing to die thing, but nstead, you order an Uber and make plans for celebratory drinks… ‘Cause goddamnit, you deserve it.
Like the gross sweaty palms, upset stomach, can’t stop moving back and forth even though the constant click-clacking of your high heels in the echoey halls is probably going to slowly drive you insane you insane kind of nervous. It makes sense, though; it’s been four years since the accident that completely changed your life and three years since the last time you even so much as thought about the possibility of completing your thesis, much less stepped foot inside of a school.
Now here you are, pacing the halls of the Tozzer Anthropology Building like some sort of lunatic. You stop long enough to throw back what’s left of the giant latte you’ve been working on, then chuck it absently into a trash can nearly ten feet away.
Life had a funny way of changing in the blink of an eye. It was a lesson you learned a long time ago, but everything that’s happened recently has really driven the point home in a way you suddenly appreciate more than you did before. You laugh softly at the thought, shaking your head as you finally sink down into an arm chair outside of Professor Harkness’s office and sigh heavily.
Things were different now; a month ago, you were married and basically doing whatever the hell you wanted, whenever you wanted. Now, you’re single, probably a little insane thanks to the voice that’s taken up residence inside your head, and just trying to do something, anything, to make you feel like you’re actually accomplishing something more than just being a fucking lump living off your savings and monthly retirement checks.
It feels like everything is moving at light speed and it's making you fucking dizzy.
Even today, you’d just expected a sit down with the anthropology department chair. That was all you’d wanted, to discuss your thesis, and any of the necessary steps that it would take to get started again. But the old man had been so impressed by your academic achievements and your background, by the research you’d already put in, that he’d made a call with you sitting right in his office and arranged a meeting for you that same day with another faculty member specializing in linguistics, language and semiotics.
And you immediately felt like you’re going to vomit.
So you raced from the Peabody Museum to get here, like you were on some sort of time crunch, even though you had nearly an hour before this guy’s class was even going to end. Which of course, is why you wandered off to find coffee and had ample time to get inside of your own head and have an in depth argument with yourself about why this was a good idea, and why you very definitely shouldn’t abandon ship and just go trot off to Costa Rica.
You’re not sure why the voice in your head is so fond of tropical places, but you think it might have something to do with bikinis, drinks with umbrellas in them and the prospect of being able to knock over a drug cartel and steal their guns.
God, you hate being Deadpool sometimes.
No you don’t. Don’t lie to yourself. It’s going to give you wrinkles.
“Would you please pipe down?”
It’s a polite request that’s met with a curious look from the astonishingly young professor that’s approaching you. All you want to do right now is punch yourself in the face, because now this guy knows that you’re a fucking nut job.
But since that's not really an option, especially considering it'd only wind up making you look even weirder than you already do, you just dog ear that for later and swallow down the urge to ralph. Then you take a deep breath, stand up and laugh off the embarrassment, despite the fact that you can tell you’re flushed and flummoxed and you’re pretty damn certain you’re not hiding it very well. Still, you stand and take the hand that’s offered to you, giving it a firm shake and a bright smile as he introduces himself.
You don’t try and make up a story or an excuse about it, because you know that the second you open your mouth, it’s just going to be word vomit that comes out and you’re already not off to the greatest start. Instead, you grab your bag and just follow him into the office like some fucking lost puppy and try not to look too stupid as you take a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk from him.
Everything that happens next seems like a blur, because that’s just how this day has been. It’s how this whole damn month has been, really. (Once upon a time, you might’ve tried to blame it all on the head injury, but you know better now. Thanks, superpowers.)
He asks you about your background, about your schooling, your research and then, finally, about what’s kept you away from it all for so long. It’s a question you’ve already answered once today. Hell, you had rehearsed it for like an hour, both in the shower and then again in front of your foggy bathroom mirror this morning and it still fucks you up. It’s not really something you enjoy talking about, much less with someone who’s not only a complete stranger, but could very well make or break this opportunity for you. It’s just a part of your life you’d very much like to keep in the past. So you try to be quick, brush past it as best you can while still proving enough information to placate him.
A rush of relief washes over you when he seems to accept your explanation and moves on to talking about the next steps.
Nearly forty-five minutes passes before you’re finally saying goodbye and shaking hands again. He tells you he’s impressed and that he’ll be in touch. You hope it’s a good sign. It had better be a good sign.
Surprisingly, you feel better than you did an hour ago, relieved, accomplished, and a little bit cocky, if you’re being honest. (Because really, you were pretty sure you were going to pass out and die as soon as this was over.) You were planning on teleporting home, because of the whole needing to die thing, but nstead, you order an Uber and make plans for celebratory drinks… ‘Cause goddamnit, you deserve it.