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The Hand Basket Doesn’t Make Round Trips
a Modern AU Temeraire-Exchange fic
On occasion, it occurred to Will Laurence that he may have done something unpardonable in a past life, and that it was his lot in this one to suffer for it. Prompting this line of thought was the continued series of banging noises on the other side of his wall, punctuated by the occasional compound obscenity, and unsettling rattle of metal hitting a tile floor.
Hell may indeed be engineering students, he contemplated, rolling over in bed and groaning in an unusual display of self-indulgence. The most eccentric to student housing was a man known only as Granby, and Granby was apparently a hard worker to a fault. Will wasn’t certain exactly what his neighbor’s project required, but it came with an ungodly amount of noise. The muffled ring of what may have been a socket wrench hitting the floor was what got him up out of bed. He didn’t want to be impolite, but he did want to get at least three hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Grumbling all the way, he wrestled the nearest clean shirt into some semblance of acceptability and knocked; the neighbor known only as Granby answered the door, looking incredibly sheepish and bleeding rather heavily from the nose.
“You’re Laurence, right? Sorry, I must be keeping you up. My advisor locked the shop on me and I’ve been forced to work here for the time being. I should be done soon, I’m just waiting for Barkley and Roland to come back with the WD-40; you’re welcome to come in if you like.” Granby offered, stepping aside as gracefully as possible with a hand still clamped firmly over half of his grease-smudged face.
Hardly one to turn down such an obvious attempt at making amends Will stepped inside. He was only mildly shocked to find an apartment similar to his own but strewn almost entirely with blueprints, tool boxes, half eaten sandwiches, notebooks, and piles of clothing that looked to be either laundry in dire need of washing, or two comatose floor-mates of theirs.
“I really don’t know what it was that I was expecting…” Will mused, his brows creasing as he puzzled out the setting and tried to lay it over the place he’d furnished during many sleepless hours.
Granby, now standing over the sink, a cold compress doing a sterling service in the place of a now clean hand just shrugged. He seemed easy going enough, if terminally untidy.
“A degree is a degree. This-“ he waved expansively across the room “is the means, with the diploma being the end. Harcourt, Little, we’ve got a guest.” He murmured, shuffling over to stir the two sleeping figures draped over an item of furniture that could only be called a couch by virtue of having uniformly upholstered cushions.
The pile of clothing called Harcourt yawned hugely, stretching out and mumbling something unintelligible, and possibly rude if Granby’s reaction was any indication. Harcourt, as it turned out, was the physiology major who lived downstairs, a mess of tangled flame-red hair peeking out from under a hood. She waved, or twitched a wrist in sleepy greeting as she attempted to slog her way back into the land of the living.
“You’re Laurence then, Roland wondered when you’d come slum it with the rest of us…” she said, still groggy she clearly didn’t have all of her faculties, as Will was certain she might not have been quite so direct otherwise.
Will’s reply was cut off by Little falling off of the couch as Harcourt shifted, landing directly at Granby’s feet. The impact set off yet another series of creative obscenities, Harcourt scrambling to help Little up while Granby hopped up and down, having had three toes connect with the foot of the couch. Will had about had enough of this strangeness, still only about as awake as the sweatshirt representing most of Harcourt, only without the benefit of rest.
“I really should be-“ Too late, he was again interrupted; the enormous figure of Barkley the zoology graduate student was now blocking the door. Roland, the third graduate student close behind him; she had several plastic bags in one hand, and a trolley carrying enough alcohol for a platoon being wheeled along with the other.
He knew the building he’d moved into mostly housed students when he wrote the check, but it wasn’t until now that he felt quite so incredibly out of place.
“Will, you’re here. Granby didn’t blow a hole in the wall, did he? Because we’ll have to go back to the hardware store if he did.” Roland said, passing the trolley off to him as she laid the bags out on what little counter space she could find.
“No, not quite. I’m sure it wasn’t for lack of effort.” That was rude, he knew it was, but late transfers into graduate programs were difficult enough to manage without having to completely acclimate himself to a new city and new people.
They didn’t seem to mean any harm, there just appeared to be a groove they’d all fallen into that he hadn’t been able to find just yet.
“I really am sorry. Maybe I could install sound panels on my side, spare you a little of the noise. “ Granby muttered, shooting a glare down at Little, who was chuckling at the declaration.
“It’s fine. I’ve slept through worse.” Will lied, even a house full of brothers hadn’t been quite so calamitous as the Loch Laggan Student Housing building he’d been placed in.
“Noble of you. Stay for a drink? We’re celebrating Granby’s successful thesis defense. Robotics in Medicine: Surgery, Recovery, and Physical Therapy.” Roland wondered, taking a beer out of one of the crates and offering it to a vexed and still very tired Will.
“Sure.” He shrugged, helping Roland pass the drinks around while Granby attempted to apply butterfly closures to the gash along the bridge of his nose.
Little hovered anxiously in the doorway, pointing out that Granby was bleeding onto the linoleum of the bathroom floor, toes bruised and oozing onto the bathmat. He waved away a beer, taking one for Granby to press against the mysteriously acquired maxillofacial injury, while Little himself attempted to splint the obviously fractured toes.
Harcourt cleared off some of the other articles of furniture, and caught the bottle of water tossed toward her by Barkley, sliding over on a large loveseat to make room for Roland. Barkley situated himself on the recently vacated couch, seemingly unbothered by the notion of returning occupants. Will found himself a spot on the other side of Roland, stiffly seating himself in a battered recliner, drink in hand.
“Little, is he dead?” Roland called, a sly grin on her work worn but decidedly captivating face. Harcourt giggled, and Barkley shook his head, privy to a secret Will himself hadn’t been let in on.
“Nearly. Laurence, do you have any bleach? Easiest way to break up a body.” Little asked from the half closed bathroom.
“What?” Perhaps staying for a drink wasn’t just a bad idea, but possibly a fatal one.
“Oh Christ, you really are absolutely humorless. Will, he’s kidding. You need to loosen up.” Roland soothed, a hand fondly patting him on the shoulder.
“Right…”
“Jane, go easy on him. We haven’t broken him in yet.” Harcourt murmured between sips of water.
“Yet. Will, we’re keeping you. I’ll go have keys to all of our apartments made. You’re too much fun to horrify for us to just let you go.” Roland informed him, smiling cheerily at him before getting up to help Little get Granby seated. Injury didn’t seem new to him.
“I don’t suppose I have a say?” Will wondered, cracking open his bottle and taking a swig to fortify himself against any reply.
“None at all. Welcome aboard. We’re happy to have you.”