warnings: PTSD, reader has anxiety disorder, reader is a historian, and is described as being of average height. friends to lovers, idiots to lovers. a little canon-divergent (in this, the TF boys live in Florida, lol)
A/N: this was supposed to be a one shot but then I realized there’s no WAY I’d be able to fit everything I have planned into one giant fic so we’re gonna have a mini(?) series :) enjoy this Im so excited for what’s coming nextttttt .
PROLOGUE.
To begin, you blamed the heat.
Of all the things you’d anticipated before moving here, the heat was the onething you’d underestimated.
It wasn’t that you’d expected southeast Florida to be cold–not by a long shot. In fact, it was the warmth that had driven you to the new little slice of heaven you now called home; It was the type of heat that had taken you by surprise. The summer after you graduated high school you had stayed for two weeks with your aunt and uncle in Flagstaff, Arizona, and had gotten quite used to the dry, dusty heat that settled into your lungs and skin. Naively, you’d expected Florida to be like that before relocating here.
Were you wrong about that one, youmused.
Sighing, you tucked a stray lock of hair out of your face. Your scalp felt damp. The air here was heavy. You hadn’t been on the clock for even an hour and you already felt you were swimming in the humidity that had managed to creep through the old, heavy wooden doors at the museum’s back-entrance. A thin sheen of sweat coated your skin under your work clothes, a light pencil skirt and blouse, which felt oppressive in the heat. You took a moment to catch your breath as you reached the doors, eyeing the stack of boxes in front of you, piled up in the entryway.
They were a hodge-podge of crates and card-board boxes, all full of 16th and 17th century artifacts, waiting to be unpacked. You glared at the menacing wall of boxes in front of you. They’d been there since the evening before, when they’d been dropped off. Paula, your boss, had told you that it would be yours and your coworker’s job to move them into storage in the morning. Paula had the day off, much to your chagrin, for her daughter’s wedding, and Jen had called in sick. Paula had mentioned that Will, a volunteer from the V. A. who you’d worked with a few times before, was supposed to be here before the museum opened, but it had been almost an hour with no sign of him, so for now you were alone.
Rumor had it that an elderly antique collector had passed away up in Fort Pierce a few months ago, and in his will had requested that all of his relics be donated to your little museum, as it was located in his hometown. And the man had quite the extensive collection; from old documents to antique pistols, this delivery was the most exciting thing to happen to the little museum since your arrival as its new secretary/tour guide six months earlier.
When you’d gotten your history degree a little over a year and a half ago, you hadn’t expected to be here of all places. Your dream had been to work at some huge museum as a curator–like the MET or the Smithsonian. A pipe-dream, you knew, but still: it was your passion. History wasn’t this dead thing to you–it was alive and jumping out at you in nearly everything, you just had to be able see it. And even though your mother was unsupportive of your choice to be “a historian, of all things,” you had earned your degree with a focus in the 15th and 16th century Americas, and when a full-time position opened up at a pirate museum in a little Florida town with a history that dated back to the late 15th century, you took it. No questions asked.
It was the craziest leap you had ever taken–even crazier than when you’d gone against your family’s wishes to study history at university–and it was especially out of character for you, as you were a very look-before-you-leap type of person. Still, when you’d heard of the job opening, something about it called to you, and here you were.
Six months in, and you were struggling, if you were completely honest.
It wasn’t that you didn’t love what you did, you did. In fact, it was during your time at the museum that it felt like things actually made sense. Being surrounded by the history, the artifacts, the wide-eyed tourists and kids on field trips, all made your heart soar. You loved Paula’s strong coffee in the mornings in the break room, Will’s quiet demeanor, and even Jen’s chatter about the town gossip.
We had been waiting for over an hour for Vivien Leigh. Clark Gable was pacing back and forth. “If that’s the way they do things in England, I don’t want to make this picture,” he stormed. “I couldn’t make love to that dame now if she were the most beautiful woman in the world!” And then a rustle of silk, the sweet smell of lilacs and there was the most beautiful woman in the world, standing behind him, touching his shoulder, whispering: “I quite agree, Mr. Gable. IfIwereamanI’dtellthatVivienLeightogorightbacktomerryoldEnglandandfuckherself.” Gable turned and looked. Leigh looked back. The look in their eyes had flash bulbs in it. Slowly Rhett Butler took Scarlett O'Hara by the arm and walked onto the Southern staircase, talking and smiling as though they’d known each other all their lives. Fiveminutesafterthey’dmet,shewrappedhimaroundherlittlefinger.Shereallyhadcharm. - Clarence Sinclair Bull, The Faces of Hollywood
