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lagilmanProbe-fic! All right, I admit it, it's only a fragment. Because the damn thing's trying to turn into a novella that requires actual research and work. Damn you, woman, for getting me started... and I promise, there will be more coming.
“Salamanders aren’t people, Mickey. They’re…more complicated.”
She gave him Look #16. It was new, had only appeared last month, on the 12th. Around 10pm. It was a close cousin of #2 – “Do you think I’m an idiot?” and a definite sibling to #7 – “For a genius, Austin, you’re an idiot.” But it wasn’t either of those things. He suspected it was “Austin, don’t make me hurt you.” But he hadn’t gotten up the courage to ask his secretary/personal assistant/wiser half that. Yet. He’d ask. His curiosity wouldn’t let the mystery remain forever. Just long enough to savor it. She’d taught him that.
“I know that, Austin. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Hah. Evidence. But not conclusive. She said that when he drank the last bottle of guava juice and didn’t tell her in time to add it to the shopping list she used to order supplies in, too. And the look hadn’t been anywhere in the room, then. You had to be certain before you announced a new theory, and that took time. And close study.
“I’m only saying you should read the article.” Mickey knew better than to push the article at him, but it lay open on the counter between them, him trying to mix his morning juice, her flushed and pink-cheeked, her hair still frizzy from the dry summer fire season air outside.
“All right.” He might be the founder and sole genius of Serendip, but he often suspect that Mickey was the brains of the organization. She was certainly was the smarts in this room. He picked up the magazine, with its rather graphic glossy photo of a three-legged salamander, and started to read the ten point type.
Seemingly satisfied, she left the kitchen, and he heard the door that separated his living quarters form the official lab open and close. She had said something about organizing his workspace. From anyone else the idea would have terrified him, but Mickey had some way of organizing him that never seemed to move or disturb anything he was working on.
Forty five minutes later, Mickey opened the door and poked her head in, a little concerned because he hadn’t a) come wandering out to tell her why the article – and her idea – had wasted his time because he had already considered and discounted the information or b) come out to fuss with one of the half dozen or more experiments of whatchamacallits or mental puzzles he had going on all the time without saying word one to her about the article at all. He didn’t mean to be rude. He was just…Austin. And he was a lot better now about dealing with people. He’d even gone to a shareholder cocktail reception last month. For about ten minutes. But he hadn’t insulted anyone. And he’d even managed a little small talk with Mrs. G-. before he fled.
But Austin didn’t consider her ‘people.’ She was Mickey. She forgave him when he lapsed into what she called “old Austin” behaviors.
Okay, she admitted to herself. She didn’t really forgive him. But she understood him a lot better, now.
But the thing was, he hadn’t done any of those things. And she was starting to get worried. So she put aside the bank statement she was reconciling for him – genius, but he couldn’t manage a simple checking account, and the long-gone assistant who had set it up for him should have known better than to give him access to an ATM card – and went In Search Of.
“Austin?”
He was mixing something that looked noxious and was probably really healthy, since he was still in the kitchen and not the lab. Although she wouldn’t be the first one to drink it. She wouldn’t even be the second, knowing some of the things he’d downed without blinking.
“Brain cells.”
“What? It didn’t look that disgusting. And she would have noticed if he’d started storing brain tissue in the fridge, too. Right?
“Maybe not. Too specialized, too much interdependent chemistry. But if you could identify significant portions… strengthen the cell walls to reduce the loss of essential neurotransmitters, create a naturally occurring SSRI…”
“Austin? English?”
“Oh. What?”
He really was adorable sometimes Annoying, but adorable.
“What are you talking about?”
“Neural pathway reconstruction.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” She stared at him as though the answers would suddenly jump out of his head and start explaining what he was up to.
It didn’t work that way. It never did.
“Salamanders aren’t people, Mickey. They’re…more complicated.”
She gave him Look #16. It was new, had only appeared last month, on the 12th. Around 10pm. It was a close cousin of #2 – “Do you think I’m an idiot?” and a definite sibling to #7 – “For a genius, Austin, you’re an idiot.” But it wasn’t either of those things. He suspected it was “Austin, don’t make me hurt you.” But he hadn’t gotten up the courage to ask his secretary/personal assistant/wiser half that. Yet. He’d ask. His curiosity wouldn’t let the mystery remain forever. Just long enough to savor it. She’d taught him that.
“I know that, Austin. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Hah. Evidence. But not conclusive. She said that when he drank the last bottle of guava juice and didn’t tell her in time to add it to the shopping list she used to order supplies in, too. And the look hadn’t been anywhere in the room, then. You had to be certain before you announced a new theory, and that took time. And close study.
“I’m only saying you should read the article.” Mickey knew better than to push the article at him, but it lay open on the counter between them, him trying to mix his morning juice, her flushed and pink-cheeked, her hair still frizzy from the dry summer fire season air outside.
“All right.” He might be the founder and sole genius of Serendip, but he often suspect that Mickey was the brains of the organization. She was certainly was the smarts in this room. He picked up the magazine, with its rather graphic glossy photo of a three-legged salamander, and started to read the ten point type.
Seemingly satisfied, she left the kitchen, and he heard the door that separated his living quarters form the official lab open and close. She had said something about organizing his workspace. From anyone else the idea would have terrified him, but Mickey had some way of organizing him that never seemed to move or disturb anything he was working on.
Forty five minutes later, Mickey opened the door and poked her head in, a little concerned because he hadn’t a) come wandering out to tell her why the article – and her idea – had wasted his time because he had already considered and discounted the information or b) come out to fuss with one of the half dozen or more experiments of whatchamacallits or mental puzzles he had going on all the time without saying word one to her about the article at all. He didn’t mean to be rude. He was just…Austin. And he was a lot better now about dealing with people. He’d even gone to a shareholder cocktail reception last month. For about ten minutes. But he hadn’t insulted anyone. And he’d even managed a little small talk with Mrs. G-. before he fled.
But Austin didn’t consider her ‘people.’ She was Mickey. She forgave him when he lapsed into what she called “old Austin” behaviors.
Okay, she admitted to herself. She didn’t really forgive him. But she understood him a lot better, now.
But the thing was, he hadn’t done any of those things. And she was starting to get worried. So she put aside the bank statement she was reconciling for him – genius, but he couldn’t manage a simple checking account, and the long-gone assistant who had set it up for him should have known better than to give him access to an ATM card – and went In Search Of.
“Austin?”
He was mixing something that looked noxious and was probably really healthy, since he was still in the kitchen and not the lab. Although she wouldn’t be the first one to drink it. She wouldn’t even be the second, knowing some of the things he’d downed without blinking.
“Brain cells.”
“What? It didn’t look that disgusting. And she would have noticed if he’d started storing brain tissue in the fridge, too. Right?
“Maybe not. Too specialized, too much interdependent chemistry. But if you could identify significant portions… strengthen the cell walls to reduce the loss of essential neurotransmitters, create a naturally occurring SSRI…”
“Austin? English?”
“Oh. What?”
He really was adorable sometimes Annoying, but adorable.
“What are you talking about?”
“Neural pathway reconstruction.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” She stared at him as though the answers would suddenly jump out of his head and start explaining what he was up to.
It didn’t work that way. It never did.
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-05 06:59 pm (UTC)You say that like it's a bad thing.
I like it! More, please!
no subject
Date: 2004-06-05 08:12 pm (UTC)It's a bad thing when I have a YA novel that's due to my editor on 27 July that I only got the go-ahead on the outline last week...! If anyone has a background in biochem, feel free to volunteer your brain for picking, so I don't have to do quite so much research on this...