Chapter Text
I'm done with men.
I toss my phone to bounce onto the passenger seat, not bothering to check if it was hung up. I take a deep, strained breath, my fingers grinding tightly around the steering wheel. My anger subsides into the relief of being freed from the conversation. It had gone swimmingly, as most phone calls with Richard have been going lately.
“Now Michael,” Richard's words oozed over the phone, “one does not simply cancel on Ophelia Bennet’s dinner party invitation the morning of.”
“I haven't seen you in three weeks, and I'm not gonna see you for another two unless you let me drive you to the airport tomorrow,” I accused. “Can you at least see if I'm allowed to come?”
“The dishes are portioned for the amount of people coming to the party,” he explained, as if to a child. “I couldn't force her to buy groceries again when she's already in the midst of cooking. It's an all-day affair for the poor girl, you know.”
“I don't have to eat,” I countered flatly. “Or I could make something to bring to the party.”
“Oh Michael,” Richard gasped at my ludicrous suggestion, “I don't want you to fret over making something that reaches the quality of Ophelia’s dishes. Or to burden Ophelia with rearranging her course playlist to accommodate whatever wildcard taste palate your contribution would introduce.”
“It's fucking food.”
“Michael, you're being obstinate. I'm trying to reason with you,” he condescended.
“Is Emmet gonna be there?” I asked.
A pause, then, “I don't see how that's relevant.”
“Right, you're a dick. Bye.”
My phone bumps against Richard's six-month anniversary present, a hard-cover collection of French poems, destined to be read by no one. Instead it is for, like all things with Richard, appearances. I was initially entranced by the glamorous, high stakes world of suburban power gays. Where a $30 bottle of wine was considered a paltry party gift, an eyebrow raise tantamount to a declaration of war, and the bathroom was only ever used to snort coke. It was all so wonderfully bitchy, and in six months I met more “people whom everyone knows” in my entire life. My contribution was being introduced as DOCTOR Michael Just.
But gradually, the party invitations were replaced by stories that were regaled to me. Everyone at Dimitri’s pool party jumped in the water fully clothed after Dimitri's mother fell in by accident. One of the gogo boys at Keith's birthday was in the latest season of American Idol. Emmet got a read in that literally left Kathie Hermann unable to retort AT ALL. Emmet is just SO funny, I HAVE to meet him. Emmet, Emmet, Emmet.
To be honest, I'm glad to be rid of it. As luxurious as it felt, it was also exhausting contending with the small talk of socialites. Unfortunately no, I haven't yet seen the latest Michel Haneke film, but I am planning to. I haven't been to Bangkok, no, but I've always wanted to visit. Ah yes, I'm Richard's current boyfriend, but it's always nice to meet another one of his exes. Pleased to meet you.
I take a deep breath, easing myself down, thinking it will be good to be able to finally focus on work without any distractions. Work makes sense. It isn't built upon a foundation of social standing, of empty niceties and gossip as soon as one was out of earshot. Work is data, experiments, research and graphs. It's digestible and, with any luck, this month should finally be yielding some satisfying results.
So imagine my pleasure when I pull into the parking lot of Renewal Labs and spot a construction company parked right outside my office window. Normally, the exterior of Renewal Labs is a three story complex covered in mirrored windows that somehow manages to stay blue no matter what weather it reflects. Now the building is complemented with bright yellow Caterpillar vehicles and a wide white portable office structure. I rest my head upon the steering wheel, sighing deeply before abruptly grabbing my computer bag and absent-mindedly stuffing the stupid poetry book inside.
“Ainsley, what the hell is that?” I ask, storming in through our automatic sliding glass doors.
“Good morning, Dr. Just!” Ainsley pokes his head over his front desk as I approach. “Construction started over the weekend. We're expanding the west wing!”
“Good to see Aaron Sorkin getting work,” I mutter, laying my computer bag on the slate counter.
“What?”
“Nothing. So they're doing construction right outside my office?” I demand, digging through my bag for my ID card.
I hand it to Ainsley who swipes it through a reader as he counters, “Yeah, but it's only going to be for a few months.”
“My research THIS month is at a critical point. I don't need them causing any disruptions,” I explain.
“I don't think they'll make too much noise. I mean, I barely hear them from here.”
I scowl skeptically at Ainsley as he returns my card with a cheerful smile. “Besides,” he continues, “aren't you being a little elitist, Dr. Just? They're here to do their job, same as you. I bet if you focus on your research you won't even notice they're there.”
My scowl deepens, but the last thing I want is reminding myself of Richard, so I grab my bag and take off down the hallway.
It's nice having my own lab, after having worked for so long proving the worth of my research. I will admit “ending world hunger” is a pretty strong selling point. I mean, yes, the world does produce enough food to feed everyone on the planet, but unfortunately the systems of distribution don't always get food to the people who need it. So until those systems become more efficient, we might as well make the food that does reach them more efficient. Which is where my research comes in.
I present my ID card before a scanner and wait for the heavy metal door to automatically slide open with a theatrical hiss. I can't really complain about my accommodations and privacy here, although the blue chrome finish on nearly every surface seems designed by someone who watched too much Dexter's Lab growing up. I stroll over to my computer desk, pleased that my highly secure, highly confidential research laptop has in fact been left here unlocked overnight.
I place my previously-thought-occupied computer bag on the desk and minimize several Excel windows from my screen about 12 hours later than I should have. Plopping myself on the stool, I rub the back of my neck and groan. Well, at least whatever janitor that cleaned this place wouldn't be able to understand anything from those files except jumbles of numbers. Really only I can make sense of them, and after manually ignoring whatever emails came in since yesterday, I turn my attention to what those numbers pertain to.
My miniature greenhouse always grants a soft yellow glow to the lab in the mornings, polka-dotted with dew casually gliding down the window panes. My probably-healthy habit of not eating the entire day is always challenged by the contents inside: an assortment of apples, bananas, pears, grapes, strawberries, and raspberries. Fruits that had been ripe for days, and if this batch is the one, will stay ripe for years.
Richard and his dinner club probably think that their cooking is in some way saving the world, but these are the foods that are actually going to do it. Incredibly potent super fruit, hyper-concentrated with persistently replenishing nutrients that will outpace human digestion for days. Although, to give credit to the dinner club, their food is edible whereas mine isn't. Yet.
My eyes dart to another email popping up on my computer. Daniel Ivers, my doting benefactor, and the reason that I have this lab. Another thing that I can't complain about although I would like to. This email is another entry to the hundreds just like it, a cloying “Heyyyyyy how is everything? Just wanted to see how your progress is going and if there were any updates you wanted to share. Would love to see them if you do! Have a great day thaaaaaaaaanks! :)”
I sigh and rub my temples. I'll have to send yet another email explaining to Daniel that genetic engineering takes time and that it might be awhile before I have anything to report. I click send and groan. In Daniel's defense, I am going to have to come up with SOMETHING before even someone as patient as Daniel thinks I'm just wasting his money.
I swivel around in my chair towards the greenhouse and slide on some gloves. This batch is different, I can feel it. I grab my scalpel and a petri dish and step inside the steamy garden. I crouch next to the pear and twirl it gently around on its stem, examining it closely. Whatever scar it should have from the sample taken yesterday appears to have completely disappeared. My heart skips a beat as I carefully cut off small slivers from the pear, the apple, and the strawberry, all of which are showing amazing regenerative behavior.
I hurry over to the table with my microscope, excitedly fishing out some papers and a pen. I slide the petri dish with the pear under and begin taking notes. I have gotten so used to the process that I can scrawl entire pages of notes without taking my eyes from the lens. The cells underneath are highly active and unusual. There's the nutrients that I expected to be there but there's also something else. What is that...?
I'm so engrossed in my note taking that I'm caught off guard when the pages slide off between the table and the wall. I finally take my eyes from the microscope and stretch my back. Looking up at the clock, I realize my stiffness is probably due to the fact that I have been hunched over and taking notes all the way to noon. I peer over the table and into the small crevice between it and the wall, spying my papers at the bottom. I curse under my breath, knowing I'll need all those to enter into excel files towards the end of the day. The problem is that the blue chrome finish on everything in this lab makes the tables so goddamn heavy and my extremely healthy diet of eating nothing all day affords me a lithe figure, but not necessarily a strong one.
I'm mounted completely on the table, trying to slide my arm between the table and the wall when I hear, “Uh, hello?” I jump up off the table, bumping my head against the drawers above and scratching my elbow against the corner of the table. I whip my head around towards the source of the voice and see dancing.
A big beast of a man stands in the middle of my laboratory, hands on his hips and stepping from side to side like a Charlie Brown character. He wears a bright yellow construction helmet, with a lightly shaved black beard framing his thick round head. His neck, thicker than his head, leads and expands into broad shoulders wearing a neon yellow construction vest and a white t-shirt. His hands on his hips accentuates his bowling ball sized biceps, along with a slight bulge protruding around his gut. His light blue jeans constrained thick tree trunk thighs and calves leading down to big heavy tan Timberlands tap-dancing on my lab’s floor.
After taking in the bizarre sight of the sheer size of this man in his one-person waltz, I ask, “Can I help you?”
In a strained, panicked voice, the man says, “Is there a bathroom I can use in here? Everything outside is taken.”
My face scrunches into a scowl and I mentally curse Ainsley. Won't even notice they're there, my ass. It had taken them less than a day to barge right in here. Still, the desperation in the man's voice forces me to take pity on him. I shake my head and sigh, “Yes, but I have to escort you.”
“Kay, great,” he sighs in relief, and stomps over to me. The sight of such a large man stampeding towards me causes me to slightly recoil against the table nervously, but the man stops right before me, looking down on me expectantly.
I take a second to unclench my body and stutter, “L-let me get my badge.”
I lead him out of my lab and the big brute follows me almost on my heels. I avoid the gazes of my coworkers as we walk down the hallway, imagining the absurd sight of my small frame being dutifully followed by a giant almost three times my size.
“Here,” I gesture towards a door and the man rushes past me before I finish the word.
“You're a lifesaver,” he breathes as the door closes. I idle beside the door, observing nothing in particular and grinning painfully at my coworkers strolling by. Eventually, a flush is followed by a too-brief sprinkling of the sink and the door opens. The big man steps out and stretches his arms up. “Hooey! Talk about a photo finish!” I look at his exposed underarms and the dark stains of his sweaty armpits. He lowers his arms back down and I flit my eyes away towards the bathroom door. “Thanks a lot, man. I really owe ya one.”
“Are you done?” I ask tersely.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” he stammers, caught off guard but my curtness. “I can go out the way I came?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, loathing the fact that my lab has a door that leads directly outside. “Follow me.” I spin around and head back towards my lab. The man’s long legs result in awkward strides compared to my shorter ones, and I notice him struggling to decide if he should walk behind me or beside me. “Here we are,” I say, scanning both of us into the lab.
The man steps inside, taking off his helmet and looking around in awe as though he hadn't just been in this room. “This is some place you got here, Doc.”
“Thanks.”
He looks towards me and smiles sheepishly. His short dark brown crew-cut hair has been flattened somewhat by his helmet and sweat. “What were you doing before I got here?” he asks, tilting his head towards the desk with the microscope and the scattered papers.
“Oh, I was just, uh, grabbing my notes,” I explain, embarrassed. I walk past him towards the table, picking some papers up from the floor and setting them aside before climbing back on the table. “I had dropped some behind the table...” I grunt, reaching down into the gap again.
Suddenly, I feel myself and the table being lifted up and swerved away from the wall. The man had grabbed the end of the table and is now gently pivoting it and by extension me. He sets it down with a light grunt and crouches down behind the table. He stands back up and hands me the rest of my notes. “Here,” he says cheerfully, looking down on me with dark brown eyes.
I slowly climb off the table and accept the papers, mumbling, “Thanks.”
“Little guy like you probably wasn't gonna be lifting this anytime soon,” he explains, grabbing the desk and pivoting it back to its original position. He sets it down and continues, “Besides, I like lifting things.” He accentuates his statement by patting one of his boulder biceps with his hand and gives it a light flex, popping the large muscle up a bit.
My heart skips a beat but I don't say anything. The man continues smiling down at me for a moment before he looks around again and asks, “What is this place?”
I shake my head and step around him, carrying my notes to my laptop on the other desk. “This is my lab, where I do my research. My work,” I explain stiffly.
The man follows me to my desk, saying, “I just started here today, so I don't know anything about all this. I should have remembered not to drink so much water before starting work since a lot of construction guys like to waste time in the bathrooms. I, uh, guess I'm doing that too, though. Oops.” I keep my back to him while he talks, pretending to be doing some very interesting work on my laptop. “What's in the garden?”
I whip my head around to shoot him a scowl of annoyance, not taking kindly to my greenhouse being referred to as a mere “garden.” But I look at his cheery bearded face, and it seems genuine. It's a weird change of pace from my recent social circle, where every comment was either snide or sardonic.
“That greenhouse is my research. I'm growing superfoods.”
“Oh like spinach?” he asks, excited.
“No.”
“Then like avocados and sweet potatoes.”
“No.”
“Oh then like quinoa and wheatgrass and chicken breast,” he offers eagerly.
“No, no, no,” I object, a laugh escaping me. “I mean like literally super-powered food. I'm genetically engineering super fruits.”
“Holy cow, that's awesome! Can I try some?” he asks.
“No, right now they're probably not safe to eat,” I explain.
“Oh, well then, let me know when they are. I always say you gotta eat big to be big!” he declares proudly, flexing his bicep again.
I raise my eyebrow at his corniness, but his sheer earnestness shrugs it off easily. “Speaking of eating, what are you doing growing superfoods and looking like this? You're skin and bones, Doc! How tall are you?” A big meaty paw lands heavily on my shoulder. His thick thumb and forefinger gently pinch my non-existent trap and on reaction I shrink away from his touch. His smile disappears into concern and he apologizes, “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean....”
I look at his brow furrowed into genuine fear of having offended me. I decide to throw him a bone and reach my hand up towards him, “Doctor Just. Michael Just.” I add, “5’9.”
“Only one name, huh?” the man comments, confused. Then his smile returns and his huge hand envelops my own. “I'm John. John Dover. And I'm just 6’4.”
“Nice to meet you, John,” I say tersely.
“Call me JD.” I mentally resolve to not do that when John snickers and says, “You should meet my brother. He's still pissed at my parents for naming him Ben.”
I blink at his proud smile and say nothing.
Slowly his confident smile crumbles into insecurity. “Like... bend... over- I don't have a brother named Ben. I mean, I have a brother but his name's not Ben,” he explains nervously. “Um, anyway... what's that?” he asks more out of desperation than curiosity.
I look down his finger towards the book of French poetry peeking out of my bag. “Oh it's just a book of French poems.” Suddenly a devious idea comes to mind. “You want it?” I ask, taking the book out of my bag and handing it to him.
“Oh, really? Are you sure?” John takes the book in his big hands and examines the cover. “Thank you so much,” he says gratefully, but his eyes widen in panic as he realizes the utter uselessness my gift presents to him.
My own small revenge against Richard: taking a gift for the cultured, dignified, vain socialite and giving it to this big clueless straight guy construction worker.
Suddenly a lumbering mass of muscle collides into and surrounds me as John bends down to pull me into a hug. My cheek brushes against his short bristly facial hair and his huge free hand brushes down my back, sending chills up my spine. The hug is brief, but as John stands back up, I feel bad for using him like a patsy in my petty revenge ploy.
“Well, uh, I gotta get back to work,” he says, stepping backwards towards the exit. “Let me know if you need any more heavy lifting done.”
With that he turns around and exits the lab. I look after the door, still puzzled over the interaction I just had. After a few seconds, I shake my head turning towards my computer. I'm single for less than a day, I had sworn off men, and I'm already being charmed by an oafish straight guy.
I mean, he is the complete opposite of a man like Richard: simple, big muscles, tall. I'm being almost comically pedestrian lusting over a buff construction worker. Who am I kidding, though, I have nothing in common with that guy. He's just a chatty construction worker completely oblivious to the fact that he was accidentally flirting with a gay boy.
I shouldn't have given him that book. I guess I am more like Richard than I care to admit, and Richard’s the kind of guy I'll probably end up dating again.
The door opens again and I snap back up at attention. John peeks his head in the door, looking for something. Eventually he spots it and quickly walks up to his construction hat on the table with my microscope. “Oops, sorry, forgot my hat,” he whispers loudly. He snatches it and quickly retreats to the exit. “Sorry,” he says as closes the door. He flashes a smile at me and whispers, “Bye!” and the door is closed again.
Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just done with men like Richard.