This anon's headcanon says America makes an intelligent, cunning, badass scientist, since he doesn't believe in England's faeries and all. So I'd like to see a human!AU in which Dr. Jones is a highly respected, experienced scientist.
Enter a little stray unicorn!boy!Arthur (or faery!boy!Arthur's fine too), whose very existence defies his lifelong devotion. Dr. Jones doesn't like that, not at all. Determined to figure him out by the means of science, Alfred hunts and locks up coaxes the creature into his lab to study it. He tries blood sampling, hair sampling, brain scans, urinalysis, skin sampling, everything. Since he's dealing with magic, none of his esteemed science works
( ... )
Aether [1/?]
anonymous
March 17 2011, 23:57:38 UTC
It began at half three, on a Tuesday; Alfred mid-experiment and hungry, and full of giving up for the day. Two little old ladies swaying under paper bags, whispering through the crackle as they jostled in the grocery store queue
( ... )
Aether [3/?]
anonymous
March 17 2011, 23:59:33 UTC
He spent an hour in there. Maybe half. Fifteen minutes. He came back to Gilbert slurring questions at him, and played it off, nothing, silence, a bird. Alfred had seen nothing. Went home. Went to bed. Forgot his tests
( ... )
Aether [4/?]
anonymous
March 18 2011, 00:00:24 UTC
Alfred wanted to look now, analyse its structure. He eased the thing into the back seat of his car, touching the skin blindly, soft under his fingertips. He pulled away as it stirred, a little uncertain, lost, and slammed the door.
(Thinking, the whole time, of the lab. His lab, tucked corners, alone.)
Alfred made it there in record time, ignored in that no one was there to notice him. He slinked into his room, creature in his arms, and took a deep breath, excitement swelling somewhere under his gut―an anxiety along with it, an eagerness, the slow desire to dissect―as he lowered it on to a table.
Alfred had noticed during that it was naked, a male. It seemed humanoid in the basest sense. Arms, legs, head. Young, too; he was, Alfred would hazard, around fifteen or sixteen. By human standards.
The most interesting, however, having gone unnoticed in the dark: a fluted horn through the mess of blond hair.
Cutaneous, Alfred's mind supplied. Tumor. Possibly due to radiation exposure, an advancement of skin cancer.(But it was white,
( ... )
Aether [5/?]
anonymous
March 18 2011, 00:02:42 UTC
Alfred woke up early, the clouds full and huge, his face pressed into his desk. A nightmare loomed behind his teeth, eager to be remembered.
(The world was dissolving, with that soft, slithering sound of sand through fingers.)
He startled himself into being aware-why was he here and not in bed, again? Why was the darkness soft-lit by something else, why why-as every gear unwound sleep from reality and it settled.
Except. Except, what he thought should be the dream was half-real, splayed on a table.
How could he forget?
(How could he remember, this nonsense, this impossibility he'd found.)
Alfred slid out of his chair and tiptoed forward. An inch from the creature laid out on the table, Alfred gently pressed his palm to its face, turning it to the side. He took his notebook to his forearm, and set out, in printed letters:
Re: Aether [5/?]
anonymous
March 18 2011, 00:18:22 UTC
You really have a way with imagery and pacing, author!anon. I didn't think it felt rushed at all. I really liked your "muzzy with late sun." i'm looking forward to reading more.
This anon's headcanon says America makes an intelligent, cunning, badass scientist, since he doesn't believe in England's faeries and all. So I'd like to see a human!AU in which Dr. Jones is a highly respected, experienced scientist.
Enter a little stray unicorn!boy!Arthur (or faery!boy!Arthur's fine too), whose very existence defies his lifelong devotion. Dr. Jones doesn't like that, not at all. Determined to figure him out by the means of science, Alfred hunts and locks up coaxes the creature into his lab to study it. He tries blood sampling, hair sampling, brain scans, urinalysis, skin sampling, everything. Since he's dealing with magic, none of his esteemed science works ( ... )
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(Thinking, the whole time, of the lab. His lab, tucked corners, alone.)
Alfred made it there in record time, ignored in that no one was there to notice him. He slinked into his room, creature in his arms, and took a deep breath, excitement swelling somewhere under his gut―an anxiety along with it, an eagerness, the slow desire to dissect―as he lowered it on to a table.
Alfred had noticed during that it was naked, a male. It seemed humanoid in the basest sense. Arms, legs, head. Young, too; he was, Alfred would hazard, around fifteen or sixteen. By human standards.
The most interesting, however, having gone unnoticed in the dark: a fluted horn through the mess of blond hair.
Cutaneous, Alfred's mind supplied. Tumor. Possibly due to radiation exposure, an advancement of skin cancer.(But it was white, ( ... )
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(The world was dissolving, with that soft, slithering sound of sand through fingers.)
He startled himself into being aware-why was he here and not in bed, again? Why was the darkness soft-lit by something else, why why-as every gear unwound sleep from reality and it settled.
Except. Except, what he thought should be the dream was half-real, splayed on a table.
How could he forget?
(How could he remember, this nonsense, this impossibility he'd found.)
Alfred slid out of his chair and tiptoed forward. An inch from the creature laid out on the table, Alfred gently pressed his palm to its face, turning it to the side. He took his notebook to his forearm, and set out, in printed letters:
"... Arthur, I think," and smiled.
_
character limits ( ... )
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