#-casually rolls back to this blog nearly four months later-

[jetaime-jespere]

I Was Enchanted To Meet You

This is a long time in the works, and a gift to my dear friend @cmhotchniss-blog, who sent me her idea of how Aaron and Emily met. Most of the ideas are hers, and I am forever grateful she let me connect some of the dots. 💓

"I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet. For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

One night for Aaron and Emily has a lasting impact on them both, twenty-four years later.

A mess of metal is what’s left behind on a dusky stretch of Route 66. Shattered glass sparkles like diamonds along the wet asphalt in the darkening sky as night meets the last moments of the day. Smoke curls and hisses around the mangled frame of the SUV, the stillness of the air a juxtaposition to the chaos that wraps around them - a slew of first responders, a few ominous rumbles of thunder, the mounting traffic on the other side of the highway. It’s a cacophony of sounds and sirens, shrill and relentless, that bring them all back to the reality that it can’t get much worse than this.

Read the rest below or on ao3!

There’s shouting - so much shouting - the frantic and panicked voices from the normally imperturbable team as one of their own is pulled from the passenger seat, limp and unresponsive. It only took seconds for things to go horribly wrong. Accidents were never supposed to happen, and yet here they were, helplessly surrounding a team of paramedics who were just a little too quiet in their intense focus, their faces stretched a little too thin, a little too grey, as they bent over Emily.

Her speech is slurred; her eyes flutter and blink weakly as they fight to keep her conscious and alert, rattling off blood pressure numbers with thinly veiled concern. They abruptly push JJ to the side, curtly demanding the need for more space to work, bark directions to the hospital, and start preparing to move her into the ambulance.

On the other side, a hand with a set of bitten down nails grapples for purchase at Dave’s shirt, fingers wrapping around the folds of expensive fabric to pull him closer in one last moment of semi lucidity. With a fading grasp Emily drags him down close enough to whisper something inaudible in his ear, words meant for only him to hear. The older man frowns, eyebrows furrowing with confusion as she falls unconscious, the last lick of light disappearing behind the trees.

____

“Dad, are you sleeping?”

Aaron’s eyes snap open a little too quickly, the bowl of popcorn nearly spilling into his lap when he jumps to attention. The voice, a familiar one, is insistent, as if it’s not the first time he’s said his name in the last few minutes. “No,” he says quickly and he’s not entirely sure who he’s reassuring. “No. I was just -”

“Let me guess,” Jack scoffs, taking a large handful from his own, much larger bowl of popcorn in his lap. “Just nodded off.”

“I’m paying attention,” Aaron attempts weakly as Jack laughs under his breath and shakes his head.

“I’ve heard that before.” His son reaches for the remote to rewind the last ten minutes of the scene he’d missed, still laughing. “This is what … the third week in a row?”  While he’s right, Jack doesn’t seem bothered. The years away have made him wise beyond his years, with a patience not often possessed by hormonal teenage boys who spend most of their time with a screen in their face. Aaron often thinks his son inherited the best of Haley - her patience, for starters. He resembles her too, and every now and then, looking at Jack is like looking into a window of the past. A past that could have been a fantasy, for now it seems like so far gone.

“Something like that,” Aaron mumbles. It’s true. In the four months they’ve lived in the quaint Philadelphia suburbs of Chester County, an idyllic place without the Main Line housing prices, adjustment has taken on a new meaning once again. Gone are the fake identities, the constant checking and double checking of doors and windows, the frequent looks over their shoulders, the unsettling notion that it might not end - that this might, unfairly, be their reality. He knows they’d go to the end of the earth to find Scratch - they’d done it before to find Foyet, then Doyle. They fought monsters before, but somehow, this was different.

There had been a finality in his decision to take Jack and go into Witsec. His final act to name Emily as Unit Chief was an easy one, and while it didn’t lessen the blow of the circumstances in which he and Jack left, in a flurry of panic, reminiscent of one his son experienced once before, it gave him a semblance of peace he wasn’t expecting. A little bit of reprieve, the ability to sever ties that may never be rebuilt, to no fault of their own. The cruel and unusual situation was one that they always risked with the nature of their work, one that was always a distant possibility.

In the quiet moments, he thinks of her. The what ifs and the whys. Everything between them that was said, and what never was. What he’s never told anyone is just how long he’s thought of her in one way or another, the one night they shared together, years ago, tucked neatly away in his mind to save for nights when he wondered just how things got to be this way.

“Come on, Dad,” Jack laughs. “At least try to make it through this movie. You said you wanted to see this one.”

With a hint of guilt as his obvious disinterest, Aaron sits up a bit straighter on the couch, grips the popcorn bowl in his hands, locking his eyes on the television. The plot of the movie is already lost on him, despite it being a topic of conversation for the last several days. “Just play the movie, Jack.” He stifles a yawn into his fist and valiantly attempts to focus his attention on the screen.

Aaron is dozing when he’s interrupted again; this time by his phone vibrating on the table. He doesn’t miss Jack’s eyes flickering over to the phone. “It’s just like old times,” he sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

The name on the screen is the very last he expects to see at such an hour in the middle of the week. Aaron frowns, the phone cradled in his hands as the phone vibrates insistently. It’s the familiar push and pull of guilt he feels when his eyes shift between his son and the phone again, an unexpected window into a life he long left behind. The phone keeps ringing, immediately following the first unanswered call. Not a good sign, he thinks.

“Dad?”

“I need to take this, Jack,” Aaron says quickly. It’s late enough that this is anything but a casual phone call. The blanket is tossed aside and the popcorn already forgotten. He barely hears Jack’s half-hearted protest as the phone crackles static and then connects. The voice on the other end speaks first, his tone clouded with thinly veiled fear.

“Aaron.”

“Dave.” His tone is equally clipped, even and steady even as the phone is held tightly in his hand, waiting for whatever news is about to come.

“Aaron, you need to get to Prince William Medical Center as soon as you can.” It’s the urgency in Dave’s voice that unnerves him; it sets off every warning bell in his head. His normally unflappable, at times annoyingly rational friend sounds harried and exhausted, as if it’s already been the longest of nights, as if making this very phone call was a last resort. “It’s Emily.”

Emily .

The words reverberate through his head, the implications tear through his chest like a series of spears. He knew it wasn’t good, but he didn’t expect this. “What happened?” But years of experience and unbridled heartache have steeled his nerves, tested his resolve time and time again. He should be used to this by now - bad news that haunts those he loves. But the fear is like a vice, a cold stab that wraps itself around his mind and back again.

“There was an accident.” Dave begins. It’s been a few years since he’s seen him, but through the phone Aaron can see the lines on his forehead that have certainly deepened by now, perhaps a few have been added over time as the years add up.

“Accident? What kind of accident?”

He barely listens as Dave recounts the last few hours in excruciating detail. They were on a case - local - Reston - on their way back to Quantico. A poorly timed summer storm made visibility terrible, rendering driving nearly impossible. They were sideswept by another SUV, the impact sending them careening into the median on 66 just outside of Woodbridge. It sounds like anyone’s worst nightmare - airbags deployed, the windshield shattered upon impact, the entire hood a mangled mess of metal as the car careened to a stop, the threatening hiss of the engine.

But the totaled car was the very least of their problems.

“She’s in critical condition, Aaron,” Dave says carefully, as if it’s only part of the truth, as if somehow it’s even graver than this. “She’s unconscious.” It doesn’t sound good - her head hit the window on impact, the rest of Dave’s news confirms his worst fears - a likely head injury, the extent of which they don’t know.

It doesn’t make sense. It seems like some kind of sick, ill joke - a nightmare he’ll wake up from, only to find Jack having devoured both bowls of popcorn and the credits of the movie he never actually watched rolling. “What aren’t you telling me Dave?”

“I think you’d want to be here, Aaron. It … it could go either way at this point.” Dave’s voice is so heavy, something Aaron isn’t used to. His friend was typically the voice of reason, the one he went to for assurance when things seemed to be spiraling out of control - something he did many times over. And now the tables were turned to their side, a cruel twist of fate. It takes no convincing; he’s already reaching for his jacket on the hook by the door, grappling for an umbrella shoved unceremoniously in a closet somewhere closeby.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

…

“Mendoza is on his way.,” JJ says quietly as she rounds the corner with two cups of coffee in her hands. “ He just called me.”

“That might complicate things.” Dave wrings his hands and paces the tiny hallway. “Who told him?” He asks curiously. It hadn’t been long since Emily had shown up in his office one night, shoulders heavy as she relayed the news of their breakup. Dave is no stranger to the failures of love - having been thrice divorced himself. Sometimes timing was to blame, other times it was priorities. In their case it was commitment, or lack thereof, things fizzling out and hasty goodbyes, half-hearted assurances of keeping in touch, that one will call the other. Yet Dave isn’t exactly surprised to hear the news. Despite their challenges, Mendoza had been all but enamored with Emily, in awe of her at times. He wasn’t a stupid man; he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t follow him to Colorado. There was always something else that stood in her way. He just never knew exactly what.

“Word travels fast.”

“Aaron is on his way.” After a long pause, Dave scrapes a hand across his face, exhaustion bleeding through the cracks of age. “I just called him.”

JJ only nods and stares into Emily’s room with a pensive expression. “What do we tell them?”

“We tell them what we know. Hope for the best. That's all we can do.”

...

The storm takes the humidity with it, a soft chilly breeze spreading through the darkness. Aaron hurries through the hospital doors, charging past the triage nurse towards the elevators. He’s only vaguely aware of the other man that wedges himself past the doors just in the nick of time. He looks just as distracted as Aaron feels, eyes distant -worlds away - and lost in his own thoughts as he offers a quick smile, fists shoved in jacket pockets.

“What floor?” Aaron offers with a tight smile.

“The ICU.”

He nods and pushes just one button, indicating that they’re in fact going to the same place.

“I’m sorry.” The other man nods his head in solidarity, noticing the single illuminated circle on the panel, shuffles his feet, checks his watch and hangs his head. The phone in his pocket buzzes; he checks it with a resigned sigh. Aaron feels a touch of sympathy for him, wonders just what brings him there.

Except he doesn’t have to wonder much longer, because not only is Dave waiting when the doors open, but he clearly knows whoever Aaron just shared the elevator with. And judging by the way Dave’s eyebrows lift just enough at the sight of them both, practically side by side, something tells him there’s more to the story than just a simple coincidence.

“I see you’ve met?” Dave cocks his head to the side, scrubs his chin with his hand thoughtfully. “I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

“What the hell happened?” The man beside Aaron demands, a little more forcefully this time.

“So you haven’t met.”

“What the hell is going on, Dave?” Aaron snaps first, his patience starting to wane. The last three hours of travel have already started to catch up with him. It’s been years since he’s had to channel his feelings into something more stoic and taciturn. It doesn’t return as easily this time. He tells himself it’s because of age and time, yet the nagging voice in his head says it’s something else entirely.

“Andrew Mendoza, meet Aaron Hotchner. The former chief of the BAU. Hotch, this is Andrew Mendoza. Mendoza was the Special Agent in Charge of DC’s Field Office. He consulted with the BAU on a few local cases about a year ago.”

“Was?” Aaron questions, quickly putting together what Dave doesn’t tell him about Andrew Mendoza. There’s only one reason why he’d be there - a reason he didn’t anticipate. He has to swallow the bitter pang of regret that rises in his throat. It shouldn’t exist at all, but a familiar feeling that has lingered just within his reach whenever he thought of Emily. The chances they never took, the timing that seemed to elude them for one reason or another. Time. It had never been on their side.

“The Denver Field Office offered me a promotion last month. My daughter and I are moving out to Colorado in a few weeks.”

“Congratulations,” Aaron says stiffly as he offers his hand. It’s obvious why he’s here - the same reason Aaron is. “I’ve heard good things about Denver.” There’s something about the news that satisfies him.

“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” Mendoza glances at Aaron, then Dave, then back at Aaron again. “But what the hell happened tonight?”

“JJ didn’t tell you?”

“Just that there was an accident.”

Dave presses his mouth into a thin line, relaying the story with such tact that Aaron knows it’s an abridged version, a slightly less terrible rendition of what happened back on the highway. “We were right outside of Woodbridge. On our way back from a case in Reston. Visibility was awful. It happened so fast. Emily must have hit her head on impact. She lost consciousness shortly after the ambulance arrived. They’re considering surgery to relieve the pressure in her brain.”

Dave pauses, letting the news sink in, taking a deep breath of his own to compose his frayed nerves. “There’s a chance of brain damage but they won’t know more until after she regains consciousness.” His gaze shifts between them both, gauging their reactions.

“When will that be?”

“There’s no easy way to tell. Could be hours after the surgery. Or days. She’s not breathing on her own. It’s going to be a while before we know anything.” He repeats the doctors’ words as calmly as he can. Dave’s typically unflappable demeanor is strained; the weariness laces through his voice.

“How did this happen?” It’s Mendoza who speaks up this time, clearly distraught and searching for words of his own. He almost looks embarrassed by his uncharacteristic show of emotion.

“It was an accident,” Dave repeats as calmly as he can, as if he’s practiced this speech in his head before giving it. “No one is to blame.”

The air seems to thicken around them, the reality setting in that while it’s already been a long night, it’s only just beginning.

“We’re here because of Emily. It’s a waiting game now, as long as it might be. May as well make yourselves comfortable. There’s a waiting room just down the hallway and a cafeteria on the sixth floor, if you want some coffee. It might eat a hole in your stomach, but it’s something.”

The room around him starts to spin. Aaron can’t remember the last conversation they had - something hasty by phone, he suspects, in the days of time differences and small talk. Never awkward, but something always lingering beneath the surface. Their conversations were all about what wasn’t said - subtext, layers of awareness only they possessed.

“One other thing,” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, a fleeting thought he nearly forgot, nothing more than a passing thought. “Before she lost consciousness, she was rambling incessantly about apple pie.” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, eyes narrowing in confusion. “The best apple pie in DC. Any idea what that could be about?”

Aaron stiffens, his jaw flexing at Dave’s seemingly innocuous mention in the midst of everything else. It’s been years since he’s last seen her and another fifteen since that night, one he’s never actually spoken of out loud. It could have been a lifetime ago, a distant memory. It feels so foreign at this point he could have dreamed it. Surely he misheard - there’s no way she’d be thinking of that. He pinches the bridge of his nose, stifles a yawn into his fist. It’s about to be a very long night. “Where is she? Is she in surgery yet?”

“Not yet. She’s just down the hall.” In the distance a monitor beeps then an alarm starts to go off, punctuated by the efficient scramble of nurses. It reminds him just how much he hates hospitals, and Aaron breathes a heavy sigh of relief when they don’t go into Emily’s room.

“You can see her, you know.” Dave offers gently, sensing the growing tension. “One visitor at a time.”

It’s somehow decided, without officially being decided out loud, that Aaron will go in first. Mendoza quietly mentions something about needing to call his daughter. Not for the first time this evening, Aaron is actually grateful Jack can hold his own at home for a little while, that they’re long past those years of constant check-ins. A simple text will do in a few hours’ time. And he steels his nerves with a few deep breaths before slipping into the room, the silence punctuated by the staccato beeping of monitors and a ventilator.

She’s like a ghost, translucent almost - amidst the machines and wires. He remembers a time, years ago, when the roles were reversed. Aaron wonders if she felt the same clench of fear in her gut, the awful feeling of helplessness that came along with being at someone’s bedside in a hospital. He wonders if she felt the same desperation clinging to every nerve in her body that things would be okay.

“Hey,” he says, sinking into the hard plastic chair at the side of the bed. “It’s been awhile.” Deep down he knows she won’t - can’t - respond. But there was a moment of hope - a tiny one - flimsy and built on nothing - that maybe she would move or something to indicate she heard him. There isn’t one.

Aaron swallows the rising lump in this throat, thick and pressing right down into his lungs. “I really need you to wake up, Emily.”

...

“When’s the big move?” Dave presses Mendoza gently, asking all the questions Emily never gave answers to. He folds his arms across his chest, unable to tear his gaze from the scene before him. From his place behind the window, he watches Aaron lower himself onto a chair on shaky legs, taking a few steadying breaths as he settles beside her. He rests a weary head on his fist.

“Two weeks. Keely wanted to finish her soccer season.” Mendoza crosses his arms over his chest as his eyes follow Dave’s.

Dave nods without really comprehending the words. “You’ll have to let us know when you’re both settled out there.”

“Yeah.”

Dave breaks an awkward silence. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you two.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t.” By now, Mendoza’s full attention is on the scene before them both, face solemn and stiff. “What’s the story between them?” His eyes narrow ever so slightly, shades of suspicion cloud his features and his shoulders tense. Years of profiling make Dave keenly aware of these subtle changes in his behavior. He’s questioning it .

Dave shrugs. “Friends? Colleagues?” By now, Aaron is brushing Emily’s arm with his thumb, and if he isn’t mistaken, swears he sees his lips moving too. “Anything else and your guess is as good as mine.”

It seems to smooth things over for a few moments, even as something else is planted in his mind. Something he never considered at all.

…

“Have you been to Boathouse Row yet?”

It’s an attempt to make small talk as they sit down; it doesn’t get past Aaron, who stays silent, completely ignoring the question.

“So what is it you’re not telling me?” Dave passes a flimsy styrofoam cup over the small table.

“Now might not be the best time, Dave,” Aaron retorts, rolling a tiny cup of creamer in his fingers.

“We’ve got nothing but time, Aaron. Surgeon says things could take hours. She might even be conscious immediately after. And you’re not driving back to Philly anytime soon.”

He has a point . “She was talking about when we first met.” He sighs heavily as he spins the cup around in his hands. “It was a long time ago.”

“At the BAU?” Dave knits his eyebrows in confusion.

Aaron rubs his eyes tiredly. By now any movement feels like effort, the space behind his eyes starting to throb with an oncoming headache and exhaustion. “Before that.”

“You mean you knew - “ Dave stops, his coffee ignored and interest piqued. “You two knew each other before?”

“We met years ago. Would be at least twenty now.” He’s too tired to do the math of exactly how long it’s been. “We met when I was working for her mother one summer in DC.”

“I certainly had no idea.”

“No one did. It never really came up.”

“By choice or on purpose?” Dave quips, his eyes just a touch brighter than they were moments before. He chuckles when Aaron just stares right back, the hint of a smile hidden in his eyes. “So what’s the story?”

His expression is wistful, as if he were dusting off a long held memory. “It was kind of an accident.”

__

Twenty-Four Years Ago

DC

Not for the first time that evening, Aaron checks his watch discreetly and sighs into his fist. It’s only eight-thirty; who knows how long this thing will last. It wasn’t that he agreed to this. It’s practically a rite of passage when working for an Ambassador, or so he’s been told -working one of the many extravagant parties and benefit dinners that were practically part of her job description. The ballroom is full of DC’s political elite - congressmen and senators, the Secretary of State and the Attorney General. Rumor had it the Vice President would be making an appearance. For that reason alone, security was heightened, every egress monitored, yet he’s never felt more invisible in a room full of people.

Aaron spots her accidentally, but something tells him she’s not trying to blend in. The tall figure on the opposite side of the room is entirely too young to be one of them , yet she mingles easily with a champagne flute between her fingers. She’s wearing an elegant black dress with a high neck and open back. It shows off delicate shoulder blades that jut out like wings when she moves. He isn’t the only one staring.

She’s the Ambassador’s daughter - Emily . Aaron has only heard of her from the others, her name being uttered in exasperation when one of the agents finds her breaking protocol yet again - sneaking out and in at all hours of the night, slipping an endless parade of friends past the entrance logs without proper verification. He’s never spoken a word to her; he knows almost nothing about her except that she’s a student at Yale, supposedly speaks multiple languages, and has a knack for causing trouble.

They haven’t spoken a word to each other, but her eyes meet his across the square in the middle of the room that is supposedly a dance floor. His mouth goes dry and he immediately looks away when Emily excuses herself from whatever conversation she’s immersed in, only to look back seconds later to find her sauntering directly towards him , effortlessly maneuvering through the crowd.

Aaron nods a polite hello, attempting to keep his expression neutral when she’s finally closed the gap between them both.

“You know,” Emily says with amusement, eyes flicking over him. “You could at least try not to look so miserable.”

“Who said anything about being miserable?”

“It’s practically part of the job requirements if you work for my mother. Besides, you’ve been wearing the same expression since this thing started.” When she catches his look of sheer bewilderment and mild annoyance, she laughs softly. “Trust me. I’ve been to enough of these things to know what I’m looking for.”

“Are you spying on me?” He glances around, wondering just where the Ambassador even is amidst a sea of black suits. He should be keeping a close eye, after all. He strains his neck a little, scanning the crowd purposefully until he sees the woman that strongly resembles the miniature version of her in front of him.

“No. I’m just observant.” Without missing a beat, Emily waves to someone - a Congressman Aaron immediately recognizes from the news - something about a scandal involving a rather young intern under a desk - but he hadn’t been paying too much attention to remember all the details. “He’s such a scumbag,” she adds quietly without any elaboration.

He senses her reticence immediately; he wonders just how she knows all of this, if he should push, if at all “Isn’t that part of their job description to a degree?”

“Some of them,” Emily mutters. “But he’s one of the worst.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aaron murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the crowd to get a better look at her. Up close she’s even more stunning, with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly symmetrical face, her smile wide and eyes like dark orbs. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“I’ve seen you around. You’re the new guy.”

“New-ish. I started in March.” It comes out a bit more dejectedly than it should, but it’s hard to hide the disdain he feels for it all. Things have been far from easy over the last few months. It’s a mindless shuffle of one foot in front of the other, days that blend together similar to the ones before, with the slightest hope that a few more weeks of patience might wield a change.

“New to me.” She’s only been home for the summer a few weeks at most, so he can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually seen her. “So what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“You stick out like a sore thumb.” She cracks a grin at her own remark. “You’re too tense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Agent …”

“Hotchner,” he fills in quickly.

“Agent Hotchner, you certainly wouldn’t be the first security detail to use this as a stepping stone to a different career. You’re all just biding time until something better comes along.” She’s so matter of fact, so assured, it’s as if she’s had this very conversation with every other agent in the room at one point or another. “It’s usually the quiet ones. They have less to prove.”

“Are we that transparent?”

“Some of you. And I can’t say I blame you. This place surely isn’t a means to an end.”

“What does your mother think of your beliefs?”

“My mother knows exactly what I think of her career and everything that goes along with it. It’s what’s gotten us to this point, actually.”

“And what point might that be?” He’s only heard of some of the epic arguments between the two of them, the harshness of their voices reverberating around the Ambassador’s office or some ornately decorated living room. The bitter clashes of two strong wills, hidden behind the fact that just maybe they were more similar than different.

“A story for a different time,” Emily says smoothly. “Can’t exactly talk about it here.”

“You’re full of stories, aren’t you?” Aaron deduces but she isn’t even paying attention anymore as she scans the crowd. He can see the wheels start to turn in her head, the flicker of an idea materializing somewhere. She turns back, this time a grin stuck to her lips. “What?” He asks reluctantly.

“Let’s get out of here.” Emily bats her thickly lashed, heavily lined eyes. “This thing is going nowhere fast. Besides, you look like you could use a break. “How long have you been on?”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” she says casually with a wink as she plucks a champagne flute from a nearby tray, downing it quickly. “I probably shouldn’t drive, but you can.” It’s accompanied with a flippant toss of hair over her shoulder, an expectant purse of her lips.

It’s certainly not the smartest idea or the most prudent, but something tells him Emily could care less about prudence and image. “I could be suspended for unauthorized use of a government-issued vehicle.” Not to mention, having his boss’s daughter in said government vehicle with him, or completely leaving his assignment altogether. He remembers skimming over the terms of employment months ago, specifically the section about fraternization with members of the Ambassador’s Family.

“Who said anything about one of theirs?” She looks almost bored now, tapping her fingers against the empty flute. “That’s no fun anyway. They have trackers on them. For security purposes.” She forms air quotes with her fingers. “We wouldn’t get far.”

He’s about to ask her how she even possesses that knowledge when he feels her hand on his waist, dipping into the creases of his jacket like a lover would. It doesn’t phase her, and while normally his reflexes would spring into quick action, he’s glued into place.

“You have a car don’t you?” Emily unabashedly pats his pocket, feeling for keys.

He opens his mouth to object, but she’s too fast. She grins with satisfied smirk, a triumphant click of her tongue as he stiffens awkwardly when they jingle against her hand. “You aren’t a great liar, Agent Hotchner.”

“Aaron,” he says somewhat stiffly, resignedly. He’s doing his damn best to keep his eyes centered on the ballroom but it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate on the task at hand. The scent of perfume - something undoubtedly expensive - lingers and it makes him dizzy even if he hasn’t had a sip to drink. “And I didn’t lie.”

“Aaron.” His name rolls off her tongue thoughtfully. “Aaron,” she repeats, as if it’s the first time she’s ever heard it. “I never understood why there were two A’s. What do you do with the second one?”

His head spins to keep up with her, how her mind somehow bounces from one thought to the next with seemingly little direction. “Never gave it much thought myself, actually.” From the corner of his eye he catches one of the other agents giving him a quizzical, perhaps slightly jealous, eye roll. It’s a bad idea to entertain, but one he can’t ignore. Emily is staring at him, eyes sparkling, with the slightest touch of longing. Longing for what he isn’t sure, but whatever it is, it wouldn’t be found in the middle of the opulent ballroom.“What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been told of a place not too far from here,” she begins slowly, a smile on her face at his gradual acquiesce. “A diner that supposedly has the best apple pie in DC.”

“Apple pie?” Just how much has she had to drink?

“I’m starving ,” she offers with a hand pressed to her flat stomach. Aaron’s eyes follow, lingering up and down on her narrow frame.

“They’re about to serve dinner,” He says lamely, shaking his head to ensure he heard her correctly. Waiters have started to circle the room with large serving trays balanced precariously above their heads, passing around the plates that he guesses must cost a few hundred dollars a head, maybe more. The crowds have thinned as more guests take their seats.

Emily shrugs with disinterest. “Once you’ve been to one of these things you’ve been to them all. Besides, this is when things start to get really insufferable.”

“Is that so?”

“Someone will start talking,” Emily drawls sardonically, surveying the crowd starting to take their seats at previously assigned tables - tables he could probably rattle off by name if asked. “Make some big speech promoting their campaign trying to get reelected or whatever. Then they all will. They love hearing themselves talk.”

“Part of the job, I guess.” He stares, unsure of what to say next. Her attitude towards politics is the complete opposite of that of her mother. His interactions with his boss have been somewhat limited; he doubts if she even remembers his first name. Yet he’s seen the way Elizabeth Prentiss revels in a world seemingly dominated by men, a woman in a league of her own. He wonders just how much the Ambassador has sacrificed; wonders if her daughter might be amongst that list. It would certainly explain their tenuous relationship.

“So what do you say? Surely you don’t want to sit around listening to a bunch of old guys spout a bunch of half truths to line their pockets?” She seems unbothered yet again, almost amused by the sight in front of her - as if her premonition of how the night would go is coming true.

There’s nothing he wants less. “How do you suppose I get out of this? I’m still on the clock, you know.”

“I’ll leave that up to you.” Emily sets the champagne flute on a nearby serving tray and spins on her heel, sauntering back towards the center of the ballroom. “I’ll be outside of the South Gate when you figure it out.”

…

In the end, he makes up an excuse to leave. It’s not exactly convincing and the agent in charge doesn’t exactly believe him when he feigns an emergency - food poisoning. But Aaron has always had an exceptionally good poker face, grimacing just enough to make it look questionable, and the other agent curtly nods, grunting something about having enough security for the evening, and making up the hours later in the week. It falls on deaf ears - he’s already out the doors of the security office, a small grin playing at the corners of his lips as he strides across the asphalt driveways with his back toward the house.

Sure enough, Emily is waiting for him, finishing the rest of a cigarette when he pulls around to the South Gate. He keeps his taillights off; the less attention he draws to himself the better.

His car has seen better days, the leather seats worn smooth and the stereo outdated, the steering wheel permanently indented from the grip of his own two hands, scuff marks and faded carpets. But it’s well maintained, and Emily smiles appreciatively when he holds the passenger side door open, then explains how to adjust the seat, just in case . She doesn’t seem to notice at all, just unceremoniously tugs her long skirt out of the way of the door and kicks off her heels.

“Fucking things,” she grumbles. The heels are sharp as knives, ridiculously impractical yet Aaron can’t help but picture her wearing them in a dress much shorter than the one she currently has on. He shakes his head, reminding himself not to go there, because the reality is, she’s still his boss’s daughter, and if anyone were to see them, he’d most definitely be written up, maybe worse, for taking her off property without following protocol. But she’s close enough to touch, her arm a gentle weight against his own on the center console.

“So,” Aaron asks, his voice barely audible. He shifts the car into reverse, breath hitching when his knuckles brush against her hand. “Just where is this diner you speak so highly of?”

“Silver Spring.”

“I thought you said DC.”

“It’s close enough.” Emily tucks a long piece of hair behind her ear with a roll of her eyes. “Just trust me.”

It’s the way she says it that makes him wonder if she would do the same for him. Aaron grips the wheel in silence as the cool night air seeps through the open windows. He catches her shiver and is about to offer his jacket when she breaks the silence.

“Make a right up at the light, and then it’s a quick left.” Emily shifts in the passenger seat. Her fingers twitch as if she were still holding a cigarette between them; she tucks her hand against her cheek daintily. She’s very much aware the passenger side is nearly spotless - nothing to indicate someone sits there frequently. No wayward sunglasses or a forgotten piece of jewelry belonging to a significant other. She straightens the wrinkled fabric of her dress and lowers her eyes.She’d had him pegged wrong - certainly he’d had it all figured out, the well intended nature that comes along with a mostly idyllic existence. She imagined a naive wife or girlfriend completely enamored with him, both parties working to make ends meet for bigger and better things - not happiness, for one. That they had in spades. But maybe a white picket fence, a dog and a baby or two one day.

Instead, he seems lonely and guarded, a choice he was forced to make. Circumstances, maybe, she thinks as the traffic light ahead blinks from a glowing green to yellow, to red. It shines a little brighter than usual, a universal warning everyone should understand . It makes her shiver again.

“Here. Take my jacket” The red light gives him the chance to shrug out of the confines of his suit jacket, which he hands over. He palms the wheel a little tighter when she wraps herself into it, the fabric draping over her like a shield.

“This is the place?” Aaron studies the gaudy exterior of the diner, hard to miss and yet, the type of place you wouldn’t give a second thought. The fluorescent lighting nearly blinds him, and he’s somewhat surprised to see through the windows that multiple tables are full despite the late hour. He can hardly conceal his disbelief. “How’d you learn about this place?”

“Word gets around,” Emily says lightly as she slips her shoes back on, wincing slightly when she stands upright, nearly enveloped by his jacket. “I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover. Maybe you should do the same.”

They find a booth in the back, tucked away from the clamor of the bustling kitchen and constant jingle of the doors. Again they’re left with nothing but silence, a few wayward glances, and two plastic coated menus between them. The haggard waitress only nods abruptly at their order - two black coffees, one with splenda and one without, one slice of apple pie, and two forks.

“You think she thinks we’re a couple?”

“I’m sure she has a lot more on her mind than us.” Aaron twists the paper straw wrapper between his fingers and studies her across the table. What he’s not expecting is to realize she’s doing the same thing - analyzing his body language with a degree of precision that matches his own, an expression that hides what she’s thinking. He wonders if she’s practiced it over time. She wears his jacket like a coat of armor yet she’s curious, the mundane quietness of the diner a stark contrast to their initial surroundings a short time ago.

“How does someone like you end up working for my mother?” Emily asks out of nowhere, direct and forward without an ounce of hesitation. It could be mistaken for an interrogation, he muses.

“Someone like me?”

“Decent. With manners. Not some macho guy with a little man complex or some baggage like that who gets off swinging his gun around.” She blows the straw wrapper across the table; it hits him square in the shoulder and stays here until he flicks it off. She doesn’t seem to notice as the waitress sets down their much anticipated order amidst a promise to come back with some cream for the coffee.

It’s his turn to laugh; he knows exactly what type she’s referring to. He could name more of them than he has fingers. “Trust me, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”

Emily carves out a large bite of apple pie with her fork, eyes closing with delight as it disappears between her lips, along with a delicate moan. “This is so good.” She pushes the pie plate towards him. “So then what was it?”

“Bad timing, for starters.” Aaron stabs his fork into the jagged slice of pie, cuts off a bite for himself. His stomach growls; it’s been hours since the early dinner he’d scarfed down behind the wheel on his way back to work the shift he just abandoned. “You’re right,” he says around a mouthful of apple and pastry crust. “That’s really good.”

“Told you.” She proudly lifts her shoulders, momentarily triumphant before she digs in for another bite. But she also looks expectant, ready for an answer, even with another forkful of pie. He supposes he owes her one.

“I wanted to join the FBI,” Aaron begins slowly. It comes to him that she’s only the second person he’s ever told any of this to. He supposed talking about it would make it real, take it from a pipe dream to something that could irrevocably fail right in front of his own eyes.

“The big leagues, huh?” She waves her fork in a circle, and it takes a moment for him to realize she isn’t totally shocked. “I could see that, actually, now that you mention it. You have the poker face for it, at least.” Emily gives a little grin, one that meets her eyes. “But that didn’t happen?”

“Had the application filled out and everything. Was going to send it in.”

“So what happened?”

“My girlfriend … She didn’t like the idea. The recruitment process takes months and basic training even longer. Close to a year sometimes. Haley wanted me to do something a little more traditional. Wanted me home at 6 for dinner and around on the weekends.” He takes another bite of pie, partially to gather his thoughts, and to let Emily give her own.

“Girlfriend, huh?”

“Well.” The fork in his hand feels heavy all of a sudden; he sets it down with a clatter. “We’re taking a break right now.”

She takes in his words, chuckles a little bit. “I’m a little disappointed in myself. I definitely had you all wrong.”

“You keep saying that.” It’s more of a question than a statement, a curiosity he can’t contain.

“I took you as settled. Happy. With Haley. ” His girlfriend’s name rolls off her tongue; hearing it sounds strange, like she’s saying something she shouldn’t.

“I’m ... figuring things out. We’re figuring things out.”

“Do you love her? Does she love you?” Emily asks directly without hesitation. “If you do, there shouldn’t be much to figure out.”

He stiffens. “I don’t … not love her. But we want different things. At some point, you have to be honest with each other, right? When you can’t make it work, what do you do?”

“I’m definitely not the person to ask.” She laughs but there isn’t any humor in it, more of a resigned sadness if he looks close enough through the rough edges hidden by carefully curated appearance. “Relationships aren’t something I’ve had a ton of luck with.”

“Maybe you’re dating the wrong people.”

“Maybe.” She looks around the diner, rests her chin in her hands. “I’m pretty directionless myself at the moment, if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t, but thank you.” He takes a sip of coffee, more for something to do with his hands than a need for it. He wants to know more, wants to ask just what could possibly make her directionless. Someone who seemingly had it all.

“Sounds like we’re both lost.” There’s a dreamlike tone to her voice, as if they’re sharing a secret.

“We don’t have to be.”

“If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be a bored socialite by 30 throwing cocktail parties every night and getting drunk by the pool by day.”

“Who says?”

“No one has to say it. It’s … expected of me, I think?”

“Is that so?”

“I’m certainly not following in my mother’s footsteps into politics.” She scoffs. There’s contempt in her voice, for what he deduces is years of being put second, something she never asked for but received over and over again. “What else is there for me to do? Someone has to carry on the family tradition somehow.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Emily says, dragging her fork through some of the remaining bits of pie on the plate. She flicks a crumb into the air.  “I’ve never really had a home , you know. Most of my life has been spent overseas. Just staying in one place for a while would be nice.”

“I always wanted to get away.” Aaron laments. “From Manassas at least.”

“Well, that’s understandable. You aren’t missing much there, or so I’ve heard.” She stirs a spoon into her coffee to work in the mess of splenda packets she’s dumped in.

He watches the liquid swirl, her mezmirzation at it. Something comes to him - something he’s always wanted to know. “Is it true you speak four languages?”

Emily looks up from her coffee, temporarily distracted by his question. “Six, actually. French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Greek, and some Russian.” She ticks them off on her fingers nonchalantly as if she were counting inanimate objects.

He does a double take. “Six? I can barely handle English.”

“It’s always been easy for me. I just wish I knew what to do with it, you know?”

“When I applied, I remember seeing that the FBI needs linguists. People with language experience to work overseas.” He takes his own fork to the last remaining bits of the pie, watching her face carefully for a reaction. She’s almost unreadable; he can’t discern just what she’s thinking.

She laughs - not the reaction he expected. “You know, applying for the FBI would absolutely piss my mother off entirely. She would hate it if I did that. Kind of makes me want to do it.”

“She and Haley should meet. I’m sure they’d have lots to talk about.”

“You want to hear what I think?” Emily says after a few long moments, the coffee and the pie that once sat between them are now gone. “I think you should go for it. The FBI. Do it and don’t look back. And call your girlfriend. Let her talk, but tell her how you feel.”

“And?”

“If she comes back, then you know it’s meant to be.”

...

“Never even knew this place existed,” Aaron says, lingering at Emily’s elbow as they pick their way across the pebbled driveway of the diner. She’s a little unsteady on the heels now, not unsurprising given the late hour and the time they spent sitting down.

“Who knew a diner in the middle of Silver Spring Maryland would have such great pie?” Dangling from her wrist is a to-go bag with an extra slice of pie for the morning - the waitress had kindly given her one on the house - the leftovers from the day before.

“I thought New Jersey was the diner capital of the world,” Aaron muses. “New Jersey is all about their diners and traffic circles.”

“And Bruce Springsteen,” Emily adds pointedly. “He’s from New Jersey.”

“Him too.” Aaron laughs quietly. The tension in his shoulders mounts; he doesn’t want this to end. He wants to talk to her, wants to keep her there. But the moment feels final. Emily catches the wrist of the hand that reaches out to cup her cheek, wraps her fingers around it. “If things were different -” he starts quietly, looking almost embarrassed.

“I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to go, is it?” Emily leans into the weight of his calloused palm, into the touch of a man that isn’t her own. It feels foreign, like she’s taking something that isn’t hers. “I don’t think that’s in our cards, Aaron. Maybe in a different life.”

The ride back to DC is again silent, save for the crinkling of the paper bag in her lap. Aaron skips the main entrance and the long paved driveway, taking a shortcut around the massive property to the South Gate entrance. Emily side eyes him, looking slightly impressed. “Trying to remain inconspicuous?”

“I think that’s for the best.”

“I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet,” she offers as he pulls up to the outside of the South Gate. “For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

“Maybe.” He tells himself to pull away, curling it back around the steering wheel protectively. “Remember what I told you, Emily.” He watches her reach for her shoes, their moments together dwindling down to seconds. “Don’t live your life on the terms of someone else. Especially your mother. If our paths cross again and you’re a bored socialite throwing cocktail parties, we’ll have to talk.”

She loops some hair behind her ear, gives him a small smile. “If our paths cross again in ten years and you aren’t leading some FBI unit somewhere, I’ll have some words for you as well.” She draws a breath, carefully slips on her shoes. “Thank you for the pie, Aaron.” The creak of the passenger side door is the only thing he hears as she slips away like a ship in the night, not to turn back around.

Aaron watches her disappear across the grass, blending into the deep blue of the early morning, the sky not quite awake but out of the depths of night. She’s a shadowy dark figure amidst the promise of a new day. The clock on the dashboard nears 6:00 AM. The little red numbers glow are a reminder of the inevitable crash that will most definitely come later on. He isn’t 20 anymore, after all. But when he drives away, there’s a sense of renewal, one he can’t explain, but deep down understands.

He hands in his resignation before he can work another shift, and he never does make up the time he promised. Three days after that, he mails a thick packet of papers in a standard manila envelope to the FBI Headquarters in Quantico.

A week after that, he takes out his phone and dials Haley’s number. About thirteen years later, his son comes into the world, wailing and screaming with healthy lungs and a head of dark hair. Haley is tired and beaming, his pride is obvious as the tiny bundle is placed in his arms.

They name the baby Jack.

In some ways, the stars aligned.

He’ll sometimes wonder if Emily’s did too.

…

Present Day

“Why didn’t things ever work out between the two of you?”

Dave’s voice brings him back to reality, out of the daydream he’s held so close to his heart for so many years. It’s jarring at first, a confusing limbo of then and now, past and present blending together for a few long moments. He glances around, the harsh overhead lights glaring bright, the low hum of hospital sounds reverberating through his ears. Along with it comes the reality of why he’s there, and the bitter rush of fear that floods his consciousness.

“Timing.” Aaron spins his now empty coffee cup in his hands. “Even after Haley and I got divorced, it was never the right time.”

“You’re going to blame timing ? That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“I never wanted to take the risk.” It’s the closest thing he can think of as truth. They built a tentative friendship after a rocky start, something built on mutual respect. His divorce brought new challenges - co parenting amidst a ridiculously stressful career, supporting and leading his team. Emily had always been one to hold her own, a silent backbone of their team, a friend to all of them. He’d relied on her, never wanted to lose what they had in hopes of something else . Ian Doyle had taken her from them all; her return was tense and it didn’t take a profiler to understand that Quantico just wasn’t home to her anymore. He let her walk away, encompassed by a fragile shell of his own tentative happiness, and in the years after she went to London, there was a permanent hole in his heart that never quite mended itself again. “Maybe I should have.”

“Love is a choice, Aaron. It doesn’t just happen. You have to choose to make things work.” Dave leans back in his seat, checks his watch, an eyebrow arching just a bit. “I thought you would have known that by now.”

“You and Krystall made a choice?”

“We still do. Every day we have to choose to love each other. Some days it’s easy. Others, not so much. But you know the best part?”

“I think you’re going to tell me anyway, Dave.”

“It’s never not been worth it, Aaron.” There’s a subtle gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before. “Something tells me you might just feel the same, if you gave it a chance.” Dave fumbles for his phone, patting the pockets of his jeans and then that of his blazer before finally pulling the phone from his breast pocket. He flips it open, his eyes widening at whatever message lights up the tiny screen.

“What is it?” Aaron asks with baited breath.

Dave looks up from his phone. For the first time since all of this began, he looks full of hope. “Emily’s out of surgery.”

…

The surgeon is pleased with the outcome of Emily’s procedure, and the air around them seemingly lightens with each minute he explains the procedure, and its success. The three of them hang on every word he says, asking questions and seeking assurances.

“She should be awake within a few hours. We’ll know more then, but her brain activity is good, and her vitals are strong. Agent Prentiss got very lucky. I have patients who often have a very different outcome.”

The relief is palpable, as if the tension was cut with a knife as they all exchange optimistic smiles and tentative handshakes, while profusely thanking Emily’s surgeon. Aaron excuses himself to call Jack - something he should have done hours ago. “I’m not going far,” he reminds Dave, his words a warning of what to do if anything changes in the next few minutes.

“We’ll be right here.”

Mendoza is shrugging into his jacket and digging for his keys with a look of resignation on his face. He catches Dave’s sideways glance. “I think it’s time I head out, Dave. Please give Emily my best wishes on a quick recovery when she’s discharged.” There’s a change in his voice, one that wasn’t there earlier.

“You’re leaving?” Dave asks curiously. “You aren’t going to stay and see Emily? It shouldn’t be much longer before we can go in.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

Mendoza shakes his head, runs a hand over his scalp. “I learned something tonight. You know when it’s just not meant to be, but you can’t find the reason why?”

Dave nods, a glimmer of understanding appearing in his eyes. “I do. I know it very well, actually.”

“I think I found the why.” His eyes roam around before they finally land on Aaron and Dave’s do too. The phone is still pressed to his ear but he’s still staring right into Emily’s room, never once looking away, even as his mouth moves in conversation to Jack on the other end. “I tried to deny it, so did Emily. But I don’t think her heart ever belonged to me. I think it belonged to him.”

—

Emily finally wakes up a few hours later. Aaron and Dave wait outside the room as she’s tended to by a horde of surgeons and nurses, testing brain function and vital signs, spattering off medical terms with ease. It’s a language only they understand, one Aaron never wants to learn. But their voices are hopeful, they have smiles on their faces as they talk to Emily, assessing her cognition and running tests. She’s a little confused and extremely tired, but awake and alert . Dave is just as relieved to see things appear normal; they’re both very aware of just how lucky they got.

Eventually, they’re finally allowed to see her.

“Do you mind if I … “ Aaron trails off, except he doesn’t need to finish the question.

“Go, Aaron. I take it you have some things you want to get off your chest,” Dave quips. “I’m going to call the others and give them an update. They’ve been waiting awhile.” He departs with a pat of encouragement on the back, a shared moment between them.

Moments later, he’s back in her room, at her side on the same uncomfortable chair from earlier. Her eyes flicker open once again, widening almost impossibly when she sees him. Years of unanswered questions are written on her face in seconds, a shared history fraught with more than what most people experience in a lifetime. But there’s something oddly content there too, as if she woke up from a dream that has somehow materialized in front of her.

“Hey,” Aaron says softly, reaching out with a nervous hand to touch her for the first time in years . He dodges wires and IV lines, finds her fingers with his own and gives a gentle squeeze. “You’re up.”

“You’re here?” Emily blinks with confusion, still making sense of just how she got there in the first place. “But I thought you were .. you and Jack are in Philadelphia. What are you doing here?”

“Of course I’m here,” he says soothingly, ignoring her question. They can talk about that later. “How are you feeling?”

Emily gives a wry grin, slightly distorted and weak, but there. “They asked me who the President of the United States was.”

It’s his turn to smirk. “What did you tell them?”

“To ask me after 45 leaves the Oval Office,” she says without hesitation. “I think I made at least two of them laugh.” But then something comes over her face, the reality of it all setting in. “You came all this way,” she croaks, throat raw from the intubation tube. “How did you know about all of this?”

“You were there for me, remember?” He’s not only talking about Foyet, but all the years she spent at his side. The years they spent doing a dance around one another,  their steps never quite aligning. This time feels like a second chance he never thought he’d get, one he can’t mess up.

“That was a lifetime ago, Aaron. So much has happened since then.” Emily tries to sit upright, pushes herself up about halfway before exhaustion overtakes her. She grumbles in frustration; he shouldn’t smile but he does. It means the Emily he knows, the Emily he fell in love with years ago is somewhere in there.

“Take it easy,” he soothes, adjusting the pillows so she’s more vertical than horizontal. He uses the opportunity to press a kiss against her forehead. He touches his own to hers and murmurs, “That’s something I should have done a long time ago.”

A smile spreads across her face, just as brilliant as the night he met her. She remembers it all, just as well as he does. “Funny how it always seems to take one of us dying to figure things out.”

“What are you talking about?” It’s a morbid thought, one he can’t entertain for long because despite his question, there’s an element of truth to it. He brushes some hair from her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. It’s matted in his fingers and dirty yet he doesn’t even notice. His heart swells, the hand in her hair trails down to her cheek, a thumb against the blush that spreads there. “And by the way, that’s not funny.”

“I’m saying maybe after I get out of this place,” she gestures to the mess of monitors and wires and tubes, “You can ask me out on a date. Finally.”

“Anywhere,” Aaron agrees. He would go anywhere, if it meant he could be with her.

“I know a place in Silver Spring. Supposedly they have the best apple pie in DC.”

[ppersonna]

planning forever - myg

↳ summary-  you have special news to deliver to your husband, yoongi.  and you find your inspiration to do so in a unique way.

↳ rating- PG

↳ pairing- min yoongi x reader

↳ word count-

↳ genre- fluff, oh my god the fluff

↳ warnings- mentions of sex, some swearing, min yoongi is D A D D Y

↳ a/n- happy birthday to @carly-bean-blog​ ! my sweet angel who has been with me through nearly my entire blog life.  you’re so special to me!  myself, @chimoona​ and @sombreboy​ wanted to do something special for you.  together, we created your future ;).  we hope you enjoy your day, sweet peony!

"You forgot your lunch.”

The voice of your husband, Yoongi, chuckles lightly through the phone in an amused tone. 

“Shit,” you sigh, walking into work with arms packed full. Keys, your jacket, nametag, and an energy drink fumble in your grasp. 

“Good thing you’re married to the nicest man in the world,” he goads. You roll your eyes, but he’s right. Min Yoongi is simply the sweetest, most kind man you’ve ever met. It’s why you married him.

“Hmm,” you tease as you shove your items into your locker, “Did I marry Namjoon?”

Yoongi grunts through the phone and it forces you to laugh.  

“Not funny,” he sighs. You know he’s holding back laughter, maintaining his stoicism.

“I love you, Yoongi,” you smile. “My break is in about four hours.”

“I’ll bring it then. We can eat together.”

Your heart warms at the idea of sharing your simple sandwich and chip combo with the quiet man—the one who so easily captured your heart. You love that he’s willing to spend time during his day to sit at your boring job and eat lunch with you, all to make you happy.

“I’ll see you then.” The smile that's on your face nearly makes up for the fact that you have to suffer through a grueling eight-hour shift. Yoongi makes all the bad things in your life good. He takes those bad days and holds them tight in his arms until the bad melts away and you’re simply left with nothing but bliss.  

“I love you.” He says it so easily, so much easier than when you first met him. Yoongi’s icy demeanor quickly melted after he spent time with you. Your infectious laughter, kind heart, and easy-going attitude had the man falling fast.

“I love you too, Yoongi.”

As you press ‘end’ on the phone, one hand drops to your stomach. You rub it idly. Consciously, you know it’s early and that you’re showing no signs of growing a life inside of you, but you can’t help but smile at the tiny fluttering in your belly.

---

Work goes by slower than you’d like. You’re excited at the idea of seeing Yoongi, but four hours suddenly seems too far away.  

It’s as you’re arranging the new shipment of artisan, 100% organic cotton diapers that you’re forced to pause.

On the box of the far-too-expensive diapers, is the cutest baby model you’ve ever seen in your life.

You stare dumbly at the box for what feels like hours, unblinking as you take in the baby’s chubby cheeks and silly grin.

Maybe it’s the new pregnancy hormones coursing through your veins, or maybe this baby is sincerely so cute it’s making you cry—either way, tears slip down your face and a dumb, deliriously happy grin spreads across your face.

You’re pregnant. You’re going to have a baby with Yoongi. Maybe your baby won’t look like the tiny one on the display box, but it doesn’t matter. You’re going to have a child with the man of your dreams and you suddenly want the next eight months to go by faster.   

The only problem that remains is, well, you haven’t told your husband.

It’s not like you two meant to get pregnant. You weren’t opposed to the idea but having sex was never with an end-goal of conception in mind. Yoongi wanted kids and assured you of that before you agreed to marry him. You both knew they would come at a time that felt right, when the universe and stars aligned.

And it appeared that they had. You noticed the symptoms a few weeks ago. Missed period, a little nauseated in the mornings, increased hormones. So, during a lunch break at work, you bought a pregnancy test and scurried to the staff bathrooms, only to come out with a positive reading and a grin on your face.

It wasn’t that you were scared to tell your husband. Frankly, you were far from it. You wanted to make sure the moment was just right. The pressure of telling your husband he was about to become a father was overwhelming. You couldn’t just tell him casually, as if discussing the weather. No, you wanted something more. And you agonized for weeks about how to make it happen.

But now, standing in front of the diaper section with tears pouring from your eyes, you throw any need of extravagant celebrations aside. Seize the day—it’ll happen at lunch and there’s no use backing out now. 

The next fews hours creep by painfully. You take note of every ticking minute as it passes, practically hopping on your heels with excitement, waiting until you can pop the news. You finish stocking the nursery aisles with a happy heart and a smile on your face. You’re so engrossed in stocking shelves and running through the dialogue in your mind that you slowly lose track of time.

Hours pass and—

“_____,” Yoongi’s low voice bounces off the tall aisles behind you.

You turn on your heel and come face-to-face with the most familiar, welcoming pair of deep brown eyes. 

“Baby,” you laugh, amused at how domestic he looks with both hands full of sack lunches like a father at a soccer game half-time. 

He pulls off the look well. It reminds you why you fell in love with him in the first place. So kind and doting on those he loves most. Gosh, he’s going to make a great father. 

“I knew I’d find you here,” he says with an eye-crinkling grin. “You love this department.”

“Love? I’m assigned to this department.” You close the distance with a small peck and tug your lunch from his hand. “But I guess you can say I have a fondness for it.”

He takes a step back and reclines in a nursing glider, motioning for you to join him in a neighboring seat. 

“It’s the graveyard shift—do you think anyone will mind if we eat here?”

You look around the completely vacant store like a covert agent, then answer in a hushed tone. “For the time being, it looks like we’re off their radar. The coast is clear.”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughs, “I love you.”

“Love you too, rule breaker.”

It felt good to be bad in the most wholesome way in the most wholesome department of the entire store. Well, aside from the home decor section. Those fragrant eucalyptus candles and plush throw pillows in the shape of wild animals melts your heart to no end. 

The two of you empty your bags into your laps and make small talk about your days. While you were toiling over the display case for Jessica Alba’s latest line of gluten-free, non GMO shampoo for thin baby hair, Yoongi watered the plants and did the dishes. 

Real riveting stuff. 

No, really, there is nothing sexier than a man who takes care of the home. It only makes you want to pop the news sooner, but the sandwich clutched in your hands makes for a less glamorous prop in your otherwise fairytale picture-perfect moment.

“Oh! I also did the laundry and folded it the way you like.”

“Bunched up and tossed in the drawer?”

He winks and points his finger at you. “That’s my girl—nothing gets past her.”

“Nothing does, nothing does…” You stare off blankly at the display behind Yoongi and notice a package of diapers is slightly askew. You begin to make a mental note to fix it later, but are abruptly snapped from your thoughts at Yoongi’s words—

“Nothing gets past me either, ______.” He sighs and reclines, belly full of sandwich. He closes his eyes and rests his head against clasped hands. “I know you’ve been keeping a secret from me, I can sense it like a bloodhound.” 

With that, you pop the rest of the sandwich into your mouth and chew quickly. It seems the moment to savor has quickly evaporated and it was time to come clean.

“I wanted to tell you sooner, but—”

“—You got me that Pioneer DJ System for my birthday. I knew it! When I saw a purchase on our credit card for $500, I knew I caught you red-handed,” He looks at you for confirmation and assumes he’s right based on the reddish hue of your cheeks. 

“You’re the idiot,” you snicker, nervously biting your lip between your teeth. “That wasn’t a DJ System, that was a crib.”

He holds up his finger in an AH-HA moment of victory, but pauses mid-celebration and looks at you with a crooked smile. “C-crib?”

“I’m pregnant, Yoongi.” 

You can’t keep the butterflies from fluttering, seeing his face slowly shift from slightly amused to tear-dabbed and nearly shaking. 

“You’re...you mean...we’re…” He stands from his seat and takes a knee beside you on your rocker and places his hand gently on your stomach. 

“Yes,” you confirm through a strained voice, edging back tears of your own. “We’re having a baby.”

“This is, I mean,” He stammers and verbally struggles to come up with the right words to say that properly shows the multitude of emotions coursing through his body.

“Are you happy?” You ask despite the answer being written plainly on his face. 

Of course he’s happy. It’s the happiest moment of his life and it’s all happening under the watchful gaze of a Peppa Pig cardboard cutout. 

“Beyond,” he confirms, stroking your belly gently as if you were made of glass. “And excited, and scared.” 

“Me too.”

“But mostly happy.” He strokes his hand through your hair and curls the loose strands behind your ear to place a soft kiss on your cheek. “God, I can’t wait to spend forever with you two.”

“Already? You haven’t even met the kid. What if he/she is a brat?”

“Too late, I love them already.”

You lean forward and kiss your husband, capturing his plush lips with your own. It’s warm and soft and reminds you of home. 

“I love you,” you whisper, lips still touching his. 

“I love you too,” he smiles, “Forever.”

[sleekervae]

The Neighbour [0.7]

Masterlist

The sun was high in the sky, bright and casting everything in a flattering golden light. The grass blades beneath Eva's body pricked at her fair skin and Remington's hair tickled her spine, the May heat was blazing but she was happy as she proofread her latest article.

Remington had his white heart-shaped sunglasses on, and Eva was sure he must've been asleep from how still he was. She broke her attention from her laptop and looked over her shoulder, stormy blue eyes gliding over the expanse of his torso and the many tattoos that were like a gallery to his world. A gallery that she had the pleasure of enjoying just for herself.

With a sharp intake, Remington stirred when he felt he was being watched. And when he saw Eva's delicate face looking back at him, he smiled back, face thick with sleep but he looked happy.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

"Just checking on you," she replied coyly, "You comfortable?"

"Yes I am. Had no idea you made such a good pillow," he grinned, to which Eva simpered amusedly, "How's your article coming?"

"Just proofing before I send it," she said.

"How much you getting for it?"

"Seven hundred and fifty bucks"

He gave a stirring whistle, settling down against her flank and closing his eyes, "Make that money, Eva,"

Eva was quiet as he nestled down again, but she kept her eyes fixated on his body. She admired the way the light bounced over the sunscreen-slick film on his skin, and how effortlessly pretty and cool Remington looked in contrast to the lush green grass beneath him. The tips of her fingers brushed at the cooler blades beneath her chest, fighting the urge to reach over and touch the ink on his bicep.

And just like that, a new poem jingled in her brain and sprinted to her fingertips. The poem was drafted in minutes, and as Eva read it over and over to herself she was at a loss as to whether she should publish it to her blog. She knew Remington had looked at her poetry, and she wondered what he would think if she posted a piece about him. Or what his fans would think if they happened to find her blog. Would people even know it was about him?

Nevertheless, she took another glance at his rising and falling chest. In her lens she looked at him like a muse, a piece of art that she wanted to record and worship with her words. And that feeling made her nervous.

... But it also had her simmering with excitement.

"You're still staring at me," he suddenly said, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.

Eva rolled her eyes, though a sheepish grin spread across her own lips as she pushed her laptop across the grass, "Let me up,"

Remington's eyes snapped open again as he lifted his head so Eva could get to her feet, "You alright?" he asked.

"I'm just gonna' get something drink. You want anything?" she replied.

"I'm good," he threw his hands behind his head as he laid back down in the grass, "I'll guard your computer for you,"

Eva chuckled, "You're so brave,"

"Aren't I?"

Eva slipped her tank back over her bikini top, rubbing at the hot spot where Remington's hair had prickled over her skin. Her hand seemed to shake as she pulled back the glass sliding door, quickly slipping inside and finding Emerson sat on the couch with his notebook and variety of charcoals. Pepper was sleeping at his feet, but she perked up and tried to crawl to the top of the couch when she heard Eva's footsteps.

Emerson turned to his neighbour, "You okay, Eva?"

"Yeah," the small brunette replied, "Could I grab some water?"

"Of course," he smiled, "You know where the glasses are,"

"Thanks," she grabbed herself a glass of cold water and headed back for the door, stopping when she peaked over Emerson's shoulder and gazed in awe at the gothic victorian architecture covering two full pages in his journal, "That's so sick,"

"Thanks," he replied happily, "Did Remington tell you about our graphic novel?"

"He did. Did you illustrate everything?" she asked incredulously.

Emerson shrugged sheepishly, "I had a lot of help. I'll let you read the first copy that comes out, if you'd want"

"That would be awesome,"

It was then an idea stirred in the back of Emerson's head, "Do you write any fictional stuff?"

Eva shrugged, debating whether she should bring up her fanfiction hobby, "... I've dabbled,"

Emerson smiled, "Well, I'm planning to make these into a series. When we start drafting the next volume, would you want to work on it with us?"

Eva's heart nearly leapt into her throat, "You serious?"

"Why not?" he shrugged, "It's always more fun working with friends, anyway,"

Eva's face flushed, "Emerson, I'm honoured! I'd love to work with you guys,"

Over in the backyard, Remington shifted and sat up from his nap. He blinked his eyes a few times to get used to the sudden influx of light, then focusing in on the shadowy silhouette of Eva and Emerson in the house. He watched her smile, and the hand that wasn't holding a water glass came to rest on her chest. He wondered what they were talking about: probably art, the pandemic, the album party that was coming up this week.

Or was it possible that they were talking about him?

Remington took a glance at her macbook, the screen having just fell asleep. Curiosity got the better of Remington, he wondered why Eva kept glancing at him between her writing. He checked again and Emerson and Eva were still having their conversation, and Remington reached over and tapped the touchpad, bringing the laptop back to life. Eva's main page was her article about dog fighting and the people who ran these gambling rings, but Remington clicked on the open Tumblr tab. A draft of a new poem stared back at him, and before he knew what he was doing he was reading it word-for-word.

"You sleep soundly, protected by the company of

snakes, angels, and demons.

They guard your organs, flesh, and muscles.

Without moving eyes they watch the world pass you by

While you're none the wiser, drunk on beer and sunstroke.

The breath that leaves you fans over a crest of regality, valiance,

The summer grass tries to scratch away the frowns of the skulls on your arms,

You've come too far to continue to be sad.

At least, that's the impression I get.

I like your homage to the illuminati: that little triangle below your intestine

forever searches for lies and enlightenment.

Or maybe you just decided that it looked cool?

And I love that angel, clinging to your spine as you dive into the four corners of hell

Yet it drags you back to the surface, reminding you of the better qualities you have

that overshadow the bad ones.

Your body is a gallery, and I've bought myself a ticket.

I only planned to take the basic tour, a brief introduct --"

Remington quickly clicked back to Eva's article when he heard the door sliding open again, but Eva had caught him snooping. She looked down at him quizzically.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her standing figure blocking out the searing sun.

Remington glanced back at the screen, "Reading about the bastards who exploit defenseless animals and force them into fighting for monetary gain," he replied quickly, "Very profound work,"

Eva had the mind to know he was spouting straight bullshit, but she didn't press on, "Thank you," she set down her water glass and started to pull off her shorts.

"Your thirst quenched?" he asked.

"Yes, and now I'm going to go for a swim," she smiled, "You're more than welcome to join me,"

Remington sat back as her tank top fell to the ground, revealing the small flower tattoo on her ribs peeking out from the band of her bikini. Eva stood at the edge of the pool, shook out her hair, and dived head first into the crystalline water. Remington smiled to himself as he stood up, his heart thrumming as fast as a hummingbird could bat its wings when as the words he read fluttered behind his eyes.

She was writing a poem about him.

Eva emerged from the water just as Remington took a running start, and without warning, cannonballing into the water beside her. As she wiped the water from her eyes more had splashed over her head. Remington broke out of the water seconds later, laughing when he saw the scowl on Eva's face.

"You're so fucking chaotic!"

"You love me,"

The album was to drop this Thursday at midnight, and they were going to stream and celebrate its release at Sebastian's place with a party. A small party, with Daniel, Andrew, their mom, and their girlfriends.

And of course, Eva had been invited.

Remington assured her it was just going to a small casual affair, and all she needed to bring was her "gorgeous smile". Those were the words he used. Nevertheless, Eva had a constant flutter in the pit of her stomach as Thursday neared; annoyed because no matter what she pulled out of her closet she seemed to have nothing to wear, and popping advil because her period decided to pay her an early visit the morning of the party.

Remington continued to check Eva's Tumblr and Instagram pages now and again, wondering if she had posted the rest of that poem. He felt a little guilty about snooping, and he wondered what her reaction would be if she knew he had looked. Or perhaps she already knew that he had and she was only letting it slide because she didn't want to talk about it. And as he stood in the shower on the morning of the party, not snapping out of his thoughts until Emerson banged on the door loudly for his turn, Remington began to realize he wanted Eva so much more than he should have for a friend.

Pluto lay diligently at the foot of Eva's bed while she worked, wearing a face mask to hopefully keep her period acne at bay. She read through her most recent poems, a shiver crawling up her spine every time she read them. It was scary because within the last few days, she realized Remington had become the muse she examined and picked apart in her pieces. It wasn't that she hadn't written about boys before, she had, but they didn't elicit the same excitement Remington did when he touched her; or when he was even near her.

In the two and some months she had come to know him, Eva's world had grown so small and yet exploded so suddenly in such little time. Remington was a firecracker of wild colors that splattered across the folds of her brain and drew her into him like a moth to the light. She wanted to watch him move, work, and no matter what she wanted to make him smile. After listening to his music, she knew how badly he needed to be happy. And there was a part of her that wondered what it would be like; how would he be with her if they started a relationship? What's it like dating a rockstar? She imagined the day-to-day wouldn't be very different from how they were now: great friends just one step further on the scale of intimacy.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted it. She wanted him.

✧✧✧

Remington's tongue tingled as he approached the complex courtyard in the late evening, his gaze flying to her balcony to hopefully get a small glimpse of Eva. He smashed the call button for her apartment and waited for her sweet voice to pick up.

"Yellow!" she answered happily.

"It's your friendly neighbourhood psychopath," Remington smiled as he spoke into the speaker.

Eva chuckled, "Come on up! I got the door open,"

The front door clicked and Remington slipped inside, his mask over his face as he waved to the landlord who was too nose deep in his newspaper to give a damn about him.

He pulled his mask down and knocked first before entering Eva's apartment, first being greeted by Pluto who leapt out of his bed and began to rub himself against his pant leg. Remington scooped him up in his arms.

"It's good to see you too, buddy!" he cooed at the cat, "Are you coming to the party with us? Maybe if we ask nicely your mom will take you?"

Remington's attention diverted from Pluto when he heard Eva walk in from behind. Turning around, any words he had were suddenly stuck in his throat when his eyes fell over her. Just when Remington thought she couldn't look any more gorgeous, she blew all his expectations out of the water in a body-hugging black, white, and red plaid dress, white sandals on her feet and her short hair loose and wavy. She only had on mascara and some eyeliner, but in his opinion, Eva didn't need any more than that.

She was absolutely beautiful.

Her smile faltered when Remington hadn't said a word, not even a hello, "... You're looking at me weird," she said, bordering on panic as she glanced at her dress, "Do I look weird? 'Cause I can go change --"

Remington quickly snapped out of it, "N-No! You're fucking gorgeous," he gaped, "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare like that --"

"No, it's okay," she assured him, smiling sheepishly as her heart skipped a beat, "You look really good, too. Yellow suits you nicely,"

Remington chuckled, continuing to cradle Pluto as he glanced at his pants, "See -- me and Emerson got into a debate. I say they're yellow, he think they're lime,"

Eva shrugged, "Regardless, they're on the citrus spectrum," she grinned, going to grab her purse, "Are you sure I can't bring anything? Like a bottle of wine, or --"

"Nope! Seb's got all the alcohol we'll need," he replied, "You can bring Pluto if you want, though. Emerson's gonna' bring Pepper,"

"He's better off here where I know he'll be safe. Over there, I'll constantly be worried if he's trying to tear up the carpet or... or eating another shoe," Eva shook her head.

Remington shrugged as he set Pluto down, "Just as well, I don't think he and Pepper like each other," he said.

"Oh really? What gave that away?" Eva asked in mock disbelief, "The constant hissing, the yapping, the growling? The cat's staying here,"

"Sorry bud, I tried," he said to Pluto. The tabby spun his tail before striding off back to his bed.

Eva took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, "He'll be fine," she sighed.

Remington cocked his head, "You okay?"

"Yeah," she nodded quickly, "It's that time of the fucking month again and my stomach does not like me,"

He swallowed with uncertainty, "... It's just a period thing, right? You're not losing taste or smell or anything, right?"

"No, it's just a period thing," she assured him, "I'll be fine. I feel like shit, but I just need some fresh air and some good music,"

"Lucky for you, I can provide all of those things. And just to reiterate, you look fantastic," he said.

"You're sweet," she smiled, slinging her denim jacket on and clutching her purse, "Shall we?"

"We shall," Remington quickly held the door open for her, "After you, my lady,"

"Why thank you, kind sir,"

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ @sasuhinabigflash2020 || Day One: Chance ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura ] [ SasuHina, NaruSaku ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

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With the end of the war and the aftermath all around it, Sasuke finds that what he feels the most is tired. Between the fighting, the politics, and his own personal struggles, all he wants to do upon securing his freedom is lay down and sleep for a thousand years. No more risks, no more struggling...just some peace and quiet.

But unfortunately, life waits for no man, not even Uchiha Sasuke. So, while he spends a great deal of his time cooped up at home, he eventually finds he can’t do so forever. While he has plenty on his mind, and could think himself through an entire day, there’s more that needs to be done.

Like work.

Missions are hardly a challenge, and he only takes them occasionally. Enough to support himself. Otherwise, he’s not too keen on supporting a system within a village that’s so cruelly wronged him in the past.

...but that’s what he devotes all of his spare thinking time into: it’s not going to be this way forever. So in the interim, he does what he must.

But that’s not all he finds himself unable to avoid.

“Oi! Teme!”

Lying on his stomach on a couch, Sasuke’s eyes peel open, gaze already murderous as Naruto quite clearly pounds on his door.

“I know you’re in there, ya bastard! Open up!”

Teeth gritting in a snarl, Sasuke takes to his feet and wrenches the door open. “What?”

Retreating half a step and looking ready to block a blow, Naruto hesitates a moment. “...jeez, what’s got you so crabby?”

“You, obviously. What do you want?”

“Well, uh...how to explain…” A finger itches at his chin. “The Academy’s putting on a fundraiser, and...I thought I’d ask if you could...help?”

“...help how?”

“Well the point is, it’s supposed t’be, like...a little carnival! Booths and all that. And you pay to play games or eat food or whatever. So, I thought, if you had some spare time tonight while it was going...you could maybe throw a few ryō their way…?”

Sasuke’s eyes narrow. “I can’t just make a donation or something?”

“Well, sure! But...c’mon man, that’s no fun! The kids have been working really hard on all their booths! And you know they’d be psyched to see ya!”

At that, the Uchiha’s expression painfully sours. “...I doubt that.”

“No, really! Look, I know…” Naruto sighs, a hand at his neck. “...I know it’s not easy. But these kids need people to look up to. And hey, you want people to know the truth, right? Well...where better to start than with kids? Before they get other garbage in their heads!”

He considers that. “...anyone else going?”

“I’ve got a few others roped in, but some of us are on missions right now. Sakura’s going, Kiba, Shikamaru...I think Ino said she’d think about it, and Hinata’s going!”

Though unchanged in expression, Sasuke internally brightens just a hair. “...all right, I’ll come out for a bit. Just...don’t expect much. I don’t want to be out late.”

“Oh please, they’ve all got bedtimes, too. The kids, I mean! It’s not gonna run all right or nothin’. It’ll open at two! So, y’know, you’ve got a little time.”

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

Naruto’s blues go starry. “Thanks, man! It means a lot! Iruka-sensei’s really excited about it!”

Ah, that explains a lot. Nodding, Sasuke watches the blond retreat before shutting his door. A little carnival, huh?

...sounds cute.

After a proper breakfast, some kata, and then a shower, Sasuke deems himself ready. Dressed as casually as any other day, he meanders toward the Academy grounds to see - as Naruto promised - little aisleways of booths.

...huh.

“Sasuke-kun!”

Repressing a cringe, he turns to see Sakura waving him over. Beside her stand Naruto and Hinata.

“See? Told you he’d come!”

“I’m a man of my word,” he replies blandly as he approaches.

“So, where to first? Games, food…?” Sakura asks, digging out her wallet.

“Games!” Naruto declares, hands thrown into the air. “I’m gonna win all of ‘em!”

“Carnivals are known for their rigged games,” the rosette counters with a grin.

“Pshhh, they’re kids! How much could they do?”

Heading for the proper booths, Sasuke stands idly toward the rear of the group, watching with guarded eyes. He hasn’t been to the Academy since…

“See anything you want to try, Sasuke-kun?”

Glancing to Hinata, Sasuke then roves eyes over the games. Most are...pretty basic. A ring toss, catching fish with a paper net, hitting targets...but one catches his attention. A game of chance, it declares.

“What’re the rules?” he asks the kid behind the booth, who quails slightly at the sight of him.

“We’d like to play, if that’s all right.” Coming up beside Sasuke, Hinata smiles charmingly. “But...we don’t know how.”

Glancing between the two, the little girl offers a set of dice. “...w-we roll. Whoever gets the higher number wins. The more rolls you do, the...the bigger the pot.”

“What are your prizes?”

After a pause, she fetches a little bag of...smaller bags? “I...made treats. If you win more, you get a bigger bag.”

“Well I like treats,” Hinata chirps in reply. “How about...two out of three to start?”

Nodding, the student hands Hinata a die, and they both roll. Hinata’s stops on a three, and the girl’s a five. Again. This time, Hinata’s six to her two.

In spite of himself, Sasuke finds himself watching the last cast a bit nervously. Hinata’s die lands with a five facing up. But the other spins and spins on a corner, landing on...a six.

“Aw, you got me!” Hinata laughs, handing over the proper ryō. “Want to try, Sasuke-kun?”

Eyeing the prizes, he admits, “...I’m not a big fan of sweets…”

“Well, maybe you can win them for me! And I’ll trade you another booth’s prize later.”

Again he glances to her, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “...all right. Two out of three.”

Looking far more wary, the girl hands him a die. His first roll is a four, hers a one. Then his two to her five.

“Sure these dice aren’t loaded?” he teases, hesitating as she swiftly shakes her head.

“N-no! I just bought them this morning, I promise!”

“It’s all right,” Hinata gently cuts in. “He’s only joking. It’s all a game of chance after all, ne?”

“...yeah.” Taking up his die, Sasuke waits for the girl before casting. He ends up with a six, brightening only to see...a second six.

A tie.

“...roll again?” he asks, looking up.

Clearly unsure, the girl rapidly shakes her head again, and just hands him the bag. “T-thank you for playing!”

“...hey, I -?”

“Thank you,” Hinata intercedes, a hand on Sasuke’s arm before guiding him away.

In spite of himself, he feels his shoulders wilt. “...I just…”

“It’s all right, Sasuke-kun,” Hinata murmurs.

“No, it’s not. I knew coming here was a mistake,” he hisses bitterly. “I knew they’d -”

“Opinions are some of the slowest things to change. Sometimes...they never do. But not all of them matter.”

Watching a gaggle of students crowd around Naruto, Sasuke finds himself surprised by the painful pang in his chest. “...some matter more than you think.”

Softening, Hinata lays a hand upon his shoulder. “...it might not mean much, but...I’m not afraid of you, Sasuke-kun. I might not know or...understand completely, but I hope you know I’m on your side.”

Looking to her touch, Sasuke makes to reply...but soon finds himself interrupted as Naruto and Sakura rejoin them.

“Whoa, win some candy? Nice!”

“It took Naruto ten tries to beat the ring toss,” Sakura offers with a smirk, ignoring as the Uzumaki tries to make excuses.

Shaking his head, Sasuke hears Hinata giggle beside him, clearly amused by Naruto’s pleading.

...it brings another feeling to his chest, but...not quite the same as before.

“I vote we try some food next!” Sakura then offers, cutting Naruto off. “You can buy me my portion since you borrowed ryō for that game, Naruto.”

“But -! Sakura-chan, I -!”

“You want anything, Hinata?” Sasuke asks, following as the other pair start to move.

“No, thank you - I think the candy will suffice,” the Hyūga replies, smiling. “I don’t want to get a bellyache. Besides, I’m happy you won it for me.”

Ever so lightly, pink blooms along the bridge of Sasuke’s nose. “...hn. You’re welcome.”

Maybe this was all a good chance to take.

     Heya everybody! Long time no see! Not gonna lie, it feels both good and yet a little weird to be posting on this blog again, haha! Since I wasn’t able to participate in SHM this year due to the schedule change and my own busyness, I’m super psyched to be able to do this event. Admittedly I’m a little on the slow side writing lately (I recently took nearly a month hiatus from my main blog), but I’m going to do my best to do every day that I can, and try and keep the same word count average I had during the year-long challenge. That said, there might be days I skip if it keeps to be too much. But I’m hoping that will not be the case!      Anywho, just a little canon-divergent fluff-angst combo. I tried something in a modern verse first but it...flopped lol, so we have this instead which I like a lot better. Poor Sasuke...he has a lot to come to terms with and face upon his return after the war. But at least he’s got someone in his corner!      That said, it’s very late and my eyeballs are not happy lol, so I’ll be back tomorrow! Thanks for reading!

[amoralto]

Playgirl: Paul! (June, 1982)

(Note: I’ve been wondering if I should include more full articles/interviews on the blog, i.e. pieces that are not already available and/or hosted online. This is one of them - more of an overview/feature piece, but worth a read nonetheless. For Paul and Linda’s 1985 interview w/ Playgirl, I typed it up a while ago here. Previous quote posts from both articles: here, here.) 

-

by Mark Rowland

He turns 40 this month, and if he is anything like the rest of us, the last 20 must feel as close as yesterday. Was it really so long ago that four working-class chums from a dingy English port town sang and laughed and shook their mop-tops to signal a crumbling of the old order and a hailing of the new? You look for the signs of age in recent photographs, but the changes are so subtle—a slight hollowing of those cherubic cheeks, perhaps a hint of wariness in eyes that used to sparkle with playful coquetry. Yes, time has been a gentle thief.

The lad who stole girls’ hearts all ’round the world is a husband of 13 years standing, and the father of four. The inveterate rock ’n’ roller divides his time between home and studio, now surfacing to promote a new album (Tug of War, Columbia), soon disappearing back into the mists of his Scotland farm. Which is just as it should be. Paul McCartney, handsome and rich and brimming with easy charm—and still the mirror in which we seek the reflection of our own youthful dreams.

“I like Walt Disney cartoons—they sort of live forever.” Paul McCartney

In fact, the last decade has not treated Paul all that kindly. When it becan he was, quite simply, a hero. By its close he’d become the subject of casual ridicule, a turnabout engineered in part by the mocking comments of his former best friend and musical compatriot, John Lennon. Any critical appraisal of his band, Wings, was bound to include unflattering comparisons to the Beatles and/or snide references to the credentials of its keyboard player, who just happened to be Paul’s wife.

And then there was Wings’ disastrous final episode, a triumphant tour of Japan that abruptly terminated when customs officials unearthed a hefty cache of marijuana in Paul’s luggage. Instead of Budokan’s concert stage, McCartney commenced a 10-day engagement “live” in the local jail, regaling his fellow inmates with renditions of “Yesterday” and “Mull of Kintyre”. Then he was deported.

“He certainly received quite a shock,” recalls Michael McCartney, Paul’s brother and the author of an affectionate family history entitled The Macs (Delilah Communications, Ltd.). “But even worse was the way the media deliberately distorted his situation. When I said I was angry at what was happening, for instance, they made it sound like I was angry at Paul. So just at the crucial moment, when the court is weighing judgment, they read the papers and think, ‘My God, even his own family thinks he’s a fool.’ It could have gone to his detriment, you know. He could have been locked up for years.”

Paul’s problem, of course, is that he has always appeared just a tad too sexy, too suave, too eager to please. His equipoise looms like a red flag to critics ready to knock him down a peg, and no matter that his temperament is genuinely affable. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a bad mood,” contends rockabilly great Carl Perkins, a friend of nearly 20 years standing. “I’ve worked with a lot of greats, from Elvis to Dylan, and they could all get pretty moody at times. But Paul’s not like that. I’m sure he has a time and place, but it doesn’t interfere with his outward personality.” Though McCartney is far from invulnerable, it has never been his style to exorcise personal demons in public, a la John Lennon. Instead, he turns inward, to his family and his music. When the Beatles broke apart, Paul did both—he formed a new band with his wife.

“If you want the Beatles, go see Wings.” George Harrison

“I think I’m good. I like me, I’m good. I can dig me. Can you?” Paul McCartney

“He sounds like Englebert Humperdinck.” John Lennon

Wings took flight in 1971, when Paul and Linda joined forces with old pal Denny Laine (from the Moody Blues) and drummer Danny Seiwell. It endured, in various incarnations, for eight more years and eight more albums. Paul first conceived the band as a vehicle for playing small clubs and halls, a return to his rock roots and an emergence from the isolation that, in Paul’s view, had ultimately destroyed the Beatles. As a traveling show, Wings was a hit from the start—who wouldn’t want to hear Paul play the local pub?—but a succession of pop hits soon propelled him back to superstar-sized arenas and concert halls.

Critical acclaim was not so readily forthcoming. Without the Beatles’ special alchemy Paul’s romanticism tended to drift toward pap, lacking the spark of originality that characterized the best McCartney-Lennon collaborations. His most acrid critic, to Paul’s everlasting chagrin, turned out to be Lennon. For years they squabbled like ex’s unable to leave behind a stormy marriage, but when it came to sarcastic repartee John was in a class by himself. Japes like the one about Humperdinck, or the picture of John hoisting a pig by its ears (a wicked sendup of Paul holding up a sheep on the cover of his Ram album) wounded Paul deeply. He still has not entirely recovered; in a recent interview he claimed to draw fresh solace from his conversations with Yoko Ono. “She tells me something very important,” he revealed, “that John still loved me, after all.”

“Of course my brother and John loved each other,” declares Michael McCartney, “same as my brother and I do. Brothers have their feuds—you love ’em and you hate ’em. Oh, it’s easy enough to put all the negative parts under a microscope. I could have written a book called Paulie Dearest, slagged him to death and made millions. But it wouldn’t have been the truth. With Paul and John, though, all the dirty linen was brought out in public.”

Despite, or perhaps because of, such controversy, Paul continued to pour his energy into the music, and by 1976, his faith had been rewarded. Wings toured America that year like conquering heroes. McCartney was hailed on the cover of Time, and the band’s crack performances drew wildly ecstatic crowds and rave reviews. Amidst all the hoopla, however, Paul and Linda remained serene and jocular, causing one associate to marvel that McCartney was the only touring rock star around who knew how to keep a grip on his sanity.

”Groupies, chicks. It was fabulous. I loved it. There was no stopping me after a (Beatles) show. I was the biggest raver out. But I got to thinking, ‘What am I doing with my life? Who am I getting to know? What one chick do I know as a pal?’ And there weren’t any… Mainly, I’d sown enough wild oats. Making love does become a sort of commitment—I love the idea of vows and stuff. To tell the truth, it keeps me kind of straight.” Paul McCartney, 1974

“I’m not sophisticated, a good conversationalist, looking good all the time. I don’t think of myself like Jacqueline Kennedy or Patricia Nixon.” Linda McCartney, 1974

Paul was always the most desirable of the Beatle bachelors, and by the end of the sixties, he was the only one left. Any whiff of serious romance merited close scrutiny by the press. Thus, Linda “no relation to Kodak” Eastman was in for some rough sport, when, after a relatively swift courtship, she and Paul tied the knot in 1969. A rock photographer at the Fillmore East who’d enjoyed acquaintanceships with various rock figures previous to meeting Paul, she was dubbed the “Park Avenue groupie”—a sobriquet that says more about rock’s inbred sexism than Linda’s character. (Years later, Rolling Stone slurred Joni Mitchell in much the same fashion.)

Nonetheless, Paul and Linda took to the life of domestic bliss with remarkable dispatch, a condition rather smugly documented on their first two records together, Ram and Wild Life. Since then, however, they’ve managed to sustain the ideal of traditional marriage and family—no mean feat in this era of celebrity swapstakes. Though rumors of discord surface from time to time, from all indications, their marriage remains solid. Indeed, one of the highlights of the Wings Over America tour was Paul’s impassioned rendition of “My Love”, crooning the hook “my love does it gooood” while a smiling Linda posed before the multitudes, hands on hips, letting no one miss the implications of that particular song.

“Paul would be sort of a Republican.” John Eastman, Paul’s brother-in-law and business manager

According to the Guinness Book of World Records, Paul McCartney is “the most honored man in music.” One is naturally inclined to trust Guinness in these matters, and Paul’s statistics do tell an amazing story—over 100 million album sales, 100 million singles sales and, separately, 43 million-selling songs. Since 1970, all 10 of Paul’s records (solo and with Wings) have been certified gold by the Record Industry Association of America. The last five releases have also gone platinum (over a million units sold), and his newest, Tug of War, which features Ringo, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson and Carl Perkins, is certain to do the same.

During the sixties, however, only a small part of the Beatles’ fabulous success translated into personal wealth. For many years the band relied on a loose network of acquaintances to handle their financial matters—most proved either honest or competent, but rarely both. But under the guidance of John Eastman, Paul has since realized a vast financial empire, with an estimated annual income, mostly from record and publishing royalties, of about $40 million. His publishing house, MPL, originally established for tax purposes, is the largest independent song publisher in the world, holding the rights to scores from Grease, Annie, Hello Dolly, A Chorus Line, Bye Bye Birdie and Mame; standards from “On, Wisconsin” to “Stormy Weather” and “Autumn Leaves”; the entire catalog of Buddy Holly songs, rags by Scott Joplin, songs by Ira Gershwin, even the theme to the Dinah Shore TV show. And in a recent twist of fate, Paul and Yoko are currently negotiating with British mogul Sir Lew Grade to buy back Northern Songs, the catalog of early Beatles hits (including “Yesterday”) that was sold during the sixties. The whimsical Beatle has turned out to be one savvy entrepreneur.

Less publicized, however, are McCartney’s frequent gestures of charity. He’s performed various benefits for UNESCO, and, in 1979,, following a plea from then-Secretary General of the United Nations Kurt Waldheim, he personally organized a giant pop concert to raise the emergency relief aid for Kampuchea. The event and subsequent album, Concerts for the People of Kampuchea (featuring the Who, Queen, the Pretenders and Elvis Costello, among others), has netted UNICEF over $600,000 to date, according to organization officials. A concert movie will also be released around the United States and Europe this summer.

McCartney’s generosity crops up in smaller, more personal encounters. “When I first decided to become a writer, I sent a bunch of stuff to Paul,” recalls Laura Gross, now a radio interviewer at KRLA, the “Beatles station” of Los Angeles. “Then, when he came to L.A., I knocked on the door of his hotel, and he said ‘Oh yes, I’ve read your stuff, you ought to send us what you’re doing. Linda and I are very interested.’ Here I was, a stranger and a nobody, and he took the time to be kind. He gave me encouragement at a time when that was very important to me.”

“He was my boss,” observes Wings guitarist Laurence Juber, “but he was also my teacher. At one point he gave me a fairly substantial budget just so I could develop my own ideas. He’s an extremely benevolent sort of person, but he doesn’t shout about it. He’s aware of his responsibility to other talents, otherwise he wouldn’t be a nice person, and he is a nice person. Of course, he’s always got that element of cockiness about him, because he’s come such a long way. Don’t forget, he was just a kid off the street in Liverpool. That’s all any of them were.”

“Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust.” The Clash

“I love Paul, he’s my favourite—brown, white, red, blue or green! He is the Beatles.” Little Richard, interviewed by KRLA’s Laura Gross

In 1974, Mark Lapidos decided to put together a kind of giant swap meet and communal gathering for Beatles fans. He called it Beatlefest, rented a hall, and ended up admitting 7,000 people and turning away thousands more. This year, Beatlefest will span 11 days in four different U.S. cities, as interest continues to mount in a group that called it quits more than a decade ago. “We’re not living in the past,” Lapidos insists. “You take surveys now and ask young people their favourite group and what do they say? The Beatles! Their music will not die. It is the cultural phenomenon of the century.”

Lapidos may be right. The past year has evidenced yet another spate of books and articles about the Beatles, along with discoveries of long-dormant radio recordings and master tapes by the Fab Foursome. And if anything, the hideous murder of John Lennon in December 1980 seems to have inspired fans to rekindle the flame of memory. “We simply couldn’t let that act destroy such an important part of our lives,” explains Lapidos. “Actually, we became more like family, pulling closer together after we’d lost our brother.”

The man who knew John Lennon best was devastated by his murder. Paul’s friend, Paddy Moloney of the Chieftains, remembers seeing McCartney looking “stunned. He said it was useless and tragic, (but) I don’t think it had penetrated that John was gone forever. I’m sure it took a few days for that to sink in.” When it did, Paul turned, as he always did in times of crisis, to his closest ally—music. At the suggestion of friend and producer George Martin, he shifted base from London to Martin’s studio on the Caribbean island of Montserrat, away from the obtrusive glare of the media. Once settled in with Linda and the kids, he called up Ringo, Wingsmate Denny Laine, Carl Perkins, Stevie Wonder, and embarked on the most ambitious and painstaking project of his musical career.

“I have never met a more dedicated musician than Paul McCartney. He’ll work all night on a little guitar lick until he gets it just the way he wants it. He’s a perfectionist.” Carl Perkins

The intensity of his commitment on Montserrat became its own kind of therapy. Between sessions the musicians would swim, sun on the beach, or take Jeep rides along the scenic island trails. But after two months, McCartney and Martin returned to London, where they continued to refine the material for another year. The sessions had produced two albums worth of music; the second set was still in its final stages of completion when I phoned Martin’s studio in March. A spokesperson remarked that McCartney was anxiously awaiting its public reception. “I think Paul wants to have a truly ‘musical’ success this time, not just a popular one,” she declared. “He really wants to be recognized for achieving something.”

In the past decade, McCartney’s most trying periods have often fostered his best work—McCartney and Ram, following the Beatles split; Band on the Run in 1973, when Wings was coming apart at the seams, and to a lesser extent, Back to the Egg in 1979, amidst persistent rumors that Paul and Linda’s marriage was on the rocks. But all of those efforts pale, I think, beside Tug of War. Here Paul has finally cast off the aureole of calculated cuteness that marred so much of his seventies music, and penned lyrics that are evocative, unsentimental and deeply personal. At the same time, the album’s sheer range and spunky, let’s-try-it-on spirit recalls the Beatles at their most ambitious, from the daring juxtaposition of rock ’n’ roll rhythm and big band texture that propels “Ballroom Dancing” to the graceful, quirky country swing duet with Perkins, to the hothouse funk of “What’s That”, a six-minute corker with Stevie Wonder that bears favorable comparison to Wonder’s own “Superstition”. Yet the record’s most eloquent moment is its most elemental—a quiet, heartfelt paean to McCartney’s fallen brother, entitled “Here Today.”

And if I said I really knew you well, What would your answer be? Well, knowing you, You’d probably laugh, And say that we were worlds apart If you were here today… here today.

Every era has its myths—from Jesus to Camelot to the Beatles—and every myth exists to fill the special needs of its culture. As Beatle Paul, he will always play the courtly knight, the crooning Lancelot in shining Nehru jacket. But the real Paul McCartney is no more or less than a talented musician with wife and kids, nearing middle age and trying, along with the rest of us, to sort out the various slings and arows of life’s fortune. It is no put-down to say that nothing he ever does, no matter how accomplished, can again approach the majesty of the legend he once helped create, precisely because it is a legend.

“Why should the Beatles give more?” John Lennon once asked, with characteristic bluntness. “Didn’t they give everything on God’s earth for 10 years? Didn’t they give themselves?”

So now Lennon is gone, though his restless, vibrant spirit survives among the living. And now Paul McCartney, unarguably one of the premier artists of his generation, continues with his own life’s work, which is simply to make music for the world to hear and enjoy; perhaps even be touched by.

[charllieeldridge]

Teacher Feature: Living in The USA and Teaching ESL Online

In this interview, we’re chatting with Nicola, an American teacher living in the USA while teaching English online and travelling around her home country!

Nicola has taught English from her laptop while on an east coast USA road trip from Florida to North Carolina, camping in the north Georgia mountains (while using a wifi hot spot), and while on a trip to Nashville.

In the (hopefully near) future, she’s planning to do a Florida Keys road trip while teaching.

Learn about what it’s like to be an online English teacher, what a day in the life of a teacher looks like, how much the salary is, what qualifications are needed to get hired, and the pros and cons of the job and lifestyle.

Here we go!

1. Thanks for allowing us to interview you! Please tell us a bit about yourself.

My name is Nicola and I’m an online English teacher from Atlanta, Georgia. I’ve been teaching online since 2017 and in that time I’ve become totally fascinated with all things related to online education. 

Nicola teaching online from her virtual classroom

Because I love the sweatpants-wearing freedom of teaching online, I now create helpful guides and classroom resources for aspiring virtual teachers. I also write about digital nomad life on my travel blog, https://ift.tt/2WiJQWC;

When I’m not teaching or blogging, you can find me befriending lizards in the park, wandering through obscure little museums, or whipping up a batch of my famous guacamole. 

2. What made you decide to become a teacher? Did you have any prior experience?

Before I started teaching online, I worked as a science teacher in a small town back home. My students were amazing and I loved teaching. Plus, getting to make fizzy explosions with Alka-seltzer and vinegar all day was pretty cool. 

I’d always loved exploring new places and I knew that long-term, I wanted travel to be a big part of my life. So I started researching ways to combine my two passions: teaching and travelling. 

Of course, I stumbled upon post after post (some of them on this very blog, now that I think about it!) about how to start teaching abroad.

After reading what felt like 15,000 blog articles about teaching abroad, I decided it would be the perfect fit for me.

I enrolled in an online Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL) course with International TEFL Academy while I was still teaching full-time and finishing up my graduate degree in teaching. 

It was a lot of work, but I learned so much in my course. And, that’s really saying something because at that point I already had years of classroom experience!

While I felt pretty confident about lesson planning and classroom management, I enjoyed learning more about how to create lessons specifically designed for TEFL students. 

The TEFL program required that I complete 20 hours of hands-on ESL teaching experience so I found an adult English as a Second Language (ESL) class in my community.

I reached out to the instructor and he agreed to let me observe some lessons and even do some practice teaching. 

Teaching online while on a road trip

In that class, I met a woman who wanted more one-on-one practice. We agreed to meet at the local library once a week for tutoring and quickly became great friends. We even met a few times after I finished my 20 hours of student-teaching, just for fun!

Because I was balancing taking the TEFL course with my normal job, it took me about four months to complete everything and earn my certification.

When the time came for me to start applying for teaching jobs, I had several years of in-person teaching experience as well as my TEFL certification. I also had a graduate degree in education. 

My background qualified me for a lot of teaching positions, but most online teaching jobs don’t require the level of experience that I had.

A TEFL certificate, degree, or experience working with children in some capacity is often sufficient. And actually, there are some online teaching companies that will hire you even if you don’t have a university degree. 

3. How did you find an online English teaching job?

At the beginning, I planned to teach English in a classroom abroad. I didn’t even know online teaching was a thing until I discovered it by chance! 

The school year ended and I knew I wanted to start teaching abroad in the fall, which gave me a few months to figure out my next steps.

Luckily, the International TEFL Academy was very helpful and warmly responded to my (seemingly) thousands of questions.  

As I “researched” places I might want to go by binge-watching episodes of House Hunters International, a friend casually suggested that I try teaching online as a summer side hustle. 

I had never heard of teaching online before and I was skeptical at first. It sounded way too good to be true! I spent several days reading everything I could find about online teaching to make sure it was legitimate before finally taking the plunge. 

At that point, teaching online wasn’t as popular as it is now. There wasn’t nearly as much information out there about online teaching and I didn’t realize that it could be a long-term job. 

I just figured it would be a fun way to get more TEFL teaching experience under my belt and pad my travel savings account for my big move abroad. 

I applied to VIPKID, decorated a tri board with felt shapes to be my classroom background, and started teaching a few weeks later. 

Nicola teaching online with VIPKID

But it didn’t take me long to realize that online teaching was my bread and butter. I absolutely loved working from my computer and the fact that I could roll out of bed, brush my teeth, and be at work 5 minutes later.

The fact that I didn’t have to do any of my own lesson planning meant I could focus on my favorite part of the gig — teaching my students. After the summer ended, I decided to keep teaching online as my main job, and the rest is history. 

Even though I didn’t end up following the path I thought I would, I’m so happy I found an opportunity to work as a teacher with plenty of time to travel. 

4. Did you need to have any qualifications to get a job teaching with VIPKID?

To teach for VIPKID, you’ll need to be a native English speaker from the USA or Canada, excluding California. You’ll also need a bachelor’s degree in any subject and at least two years of experience working with children in some capacity. 

VIPKID does not require formal teaching experience. Having it is a plus, but you can count things like tutoring, mentoring, babysitting, homeschooling, and camp counseling as experience working with children. 

VIPKID is unique because, at this time, they don’t require a TEFL certificate. Having one will save you time during the hiring process, but it’s not a firm requirement.

If you don’t have one, you will just have to complete additional TEFL training modules during the onboarding process. 

However, the vast majority of online teaching platforms do require a TEFL certification so it’s worth looking into getting one, especially if you’ve never taught before. 

I’m a native English speaker from the USA, with a bachelor’s degree, experience working with children, and a TEFL certificate, so I checked all the boxes with VIPKID and was able to secure a job. Click here to learn more about my experience working with VIPKID.

5. What does a day in the life of an online English teacher working from the USA look like?

I live in the east coast time zone and the majority of my students live in China, so my mornings start pretty early! I usually get up around 5:45 am and start teaching at 6:30 am. 

I have back-to-back half-hour classes until 9:00 am Eastern time, which is when the VIPKID platform closes classroom hours for the night. I work that schedule every morning Monday – Friday. 

Even though the early mornings are an adjustment, I love taking care of work at the beginning of the day so I have the rest of the day to pursue other interests. 

Sometimes, I’ll also work Friday or Saturday nights. These nights correspond with Saturday and Sunday morning in China, so there’s a higher demand for classes because students aren’t in school. 

Teaching in the morning means getting your work done early and having the rest of the day free!

If I do a night shift, I’ll start at 8:30 pm east coast time on Friday or Saturday. I’ll usually do 6 classes back to back, ending at 11:30 pm. If I’m feeling really energized or want to make extra money, I’ll sometimes go even later. 

The most classes I’ve been able to do in one sitting is 12 (6 hours) but that was pretty exhausting. If you choose to do late nights on Friday and Saturday, make sure to keep the following morning free so you can sleep in!

6. How much does an online English teacher with VIPKID earn per month/per class?

Pay with VIPKID can vary depending on your credentials, amount of classes taught, and time with the company, but in general most teachers make between $7-$9 per 25-minute class with the opportunity for bonuses.

These bonuses include a slight increase to class pay depending on the length of time you’ve been teaching with VIPKID and how many classes you’ve taught in a particular month. 

Classes are 25-minutes long so you can teach 2 classes per hour.

Remember that you don’t have to teach two classes per hour when you are first starting. Some newer teachers prefer to do just one class per hour and take a longer break between classes until it starts to come more naturally. 

Nicola travelling around Vietnam

I’ve created the example scenario below to explore how much an online teacher could work with VIPKID when they are newly hired. Your exact situation will vary based on personal factors, but this will help you get a baseline of what you can expect to earn. 

For a teacher who is first starting out, it’s common to get a starting pay rate of $7.50 per class. According to the new VIPKID pay system, they would receive an additional $0.80 per class for their first 20 classes, then an additional $1.20 per class for classes 21 – 40, and so on.

To keep it simple, let’s say this new teacher earns on average $8.50 per class ($7.50 base rate plus the additional incentive amount) or $17 per hour. 

If that teacher were to work 15 hours per week (3 hours per day, 5 days per week, for example), they would earn $255 per week or $1020 per month. 

If that teacher were to work 25 hours per week (let’s say 4 hours in the morning Monday through Friday, then an extra five hours on Friday nights), they would make $425 per week or $1700 per month. 

Keep in mind that the longer you teach on the platform, the higher your base rate and bonus amount can go. Many teachers who have been with VIPKID for a while and teach frequently earn over $20/hour. 

Of course, teachers are free to work more or less than this if they want.

Some months, I’ll take entire weeks off at a time. Other months, I’ll do overnight teaching sessions on the weekends to earn some extra money. The flexibility is an awesome part of online teacher life!

7. What are the pros and cons of teaching online while living in the USA?  

The time zone difference is the biggest pro and the biggest con of teaching online while living in the states. 

On the negative side, USA-based teachers who are working with students in China will likely have abnormal teaching hours. Teachers must get up very early or work late at night to accommodate their students’ schedules on the other side of the world. 

If getting up early isn’t your cup of tea, it will be hard to make significant income as an online teacher living in the USA while teaching kids in China. 

That being said, there are other companies out there that don’t cater to the Chinese market. If you were teaching for a non-region specific company, the hours wouldn’t be so extreme. 

Funny enough, the time difference is also one of the biggest pros.

Now that I’ve gotten used to it, I really like getting the bulk of my work finished early in the day. It has given me time to pursue new hobbies and interests that I wouldn’t have time for otherwise.

Even though I go to bed at embarrassingly early times, I really like having most of the daytime hours free. 

Additionally, if you’re planning to teach online on top of your normal job, you can easily do so without having to change your regular schedule. You can schedule classes before work or on the weekends to add an extra income source without changing your usual work routine. 

8. Any final advice for an aspiring English teacher? 

There is a lot to love about online teaching. It’s fun to connect with students around the world, the pay is competitive, you don’t have to commute, and you can work from home or anywhere with good WiFi.

One of the best parts about being an online English teacher is flexibility. With this job, your schedule and workload can really look however you want.

Most platforms do not have set schedules and they do not require that you teach a minimum number of hours. This is great news for aspiring online teachers who maybe aren’t ready to make the jump. 

Because you usually aren’t locked into a set schedule, there’s no harm in applying and trying out online teaching with the platform of your choice.

Sign up, teach a few lessons, and see what you think! I bet you’ll love it, but if you don’t, all you have to do is stop scheduling classes. It’s low risk and you could end up with a new remote job that you love!

Nicola in Nashville — combining work and travel

Whether you’re looking for a work-from-home-job, a fun new side hustle, or a job that will give you more location independence, teaching online might be a great place to start. For me, online teaching was a great way to combine my two passions: education and travel. 

To learn more about teaching, have a look at our detailed articles:

10 Best Online English Teaching Companies

Teaching English Online Without a Degree – Top 10 Companies That Will Hire You

7 Best Online TEFL Courses for English Teachers

Note: The lead image in this article is courtesy of Shutterstock. Learn more here.

The post Teacher Feature: Living in The USA and Teaching ESL Online appeared first on Goats On The Road.

Teacher Feature: Living in The USA and Teaching ESL Online published first on https://travelaspire.weebly.com/

[daleisgreat]

RoH Supercard of Honor XI

Welcome all to my yearly recap of Ring of Honor’s Supercard of Honor (SoH) event. It is the one RoH show I make sure to catch every year, so click here to check out past installments. 2017 marked the 11th edition of the show and like most previous SoH cards, it transpired within the same vicinity as where Wrestlemania occurred that same weekend. As a result, the announcers for this show (Kevin Kelly, Colt Cabana, Ian Riccaboni) stated SoH XI had one of the largest attendances in RoH history. RoH is about in the same place as it was a year ago, owned by TV conglomerate Sinclair. One new addition to RoH since the prior SoH was bringing back their own women’s division and branding it as ‘Women of Honor.’ They aired a handful of women-only shows since the summer of 2016 and women matches spotlighted on the RoH YouTube channel are among their videos that garner their highest traffic. RoH still has their weekly syndicated TV show that can be found on your local Sinclair affiliate or on a few day delay on the official RoH website. I am impressed to see they have maintained their step up in ring and arena lighting that I noticed last year as it brings their overall production values up to a more professional level. They even added a few video-trons to their entrance area and have near-WWE quality matchup and banner graphics throughout the event. Big ups to Sinclair these past two years for doing those little things that go a long way!

The four prelim matches are included as bonus material on disc two and are all Women of Honor bouts. On one hand this is great seeing four women matches on a show, but to see them all relegated to the preshow is disheartening. Tasha Steelz bested Brandi Lauren in the opener with a Butterfly Suplex in a basic opener while the arena was still filing in. Next, Mandy Leon & Jenny Rose beat Sumie Sakai & Faye Jackson in a bout that engaged the crowd with a few more dives and high-flying maneuvers and saw Mandy get the pin with her Unprettier finisher. The best of the four women’s matches featured talent on loan from Mexican promotion CMLL. Marcela and La Amapola are two sound veterans who had a main event caliber match with many impressive holds and moments, and eventually Marcela got the victory with a Michinoku Driver. The final women’s match saw the undefeated Kelly Klein defeat Deonna Purrazzo with a Northern Lights Suplex. The announcers kept hyping Klein as a big deal for being undefeated for 525 days going into the match, so I anticipate only big things for her ahead. The opener for the main SoH XI card was for the TV title and featured Marty Scrull defending the strap against Bullet Club member Adam Cole. Yes, the same Adam Cole who left for WWE a few months later and is now the head of the NXT faction, Undisputed Era with Bobby Fish and Kyle ‘o Reilly. This bout had a lot of good exchanges and counters and vicious-looking piledrivers. The exception however was Cole botching two attempts at a Tombstone, but the duo quickly found their footing not too long after. Eventually Scrull successfully defended the title with a rear naked choke submission. My man, Silas Young (AKA AWA Scott Hall) and Beer City Bruiser teamed up next against The Kindgom, and after some chicanery involving a cigar, Young hit his version of the TKO and got the pin while puffing away on the stogie in a fun match.

A nice highlight package recapping Bully Ray’s involvement in RoH and becoming a triple tag team champion along with the Briscoes helped set up their title defense versus Bullet Club’s Hangman Page & Gorillas of Destiny. If you recall my past RoH recaps, I am not a big fan of the lack of officiating in RoH tag bouts, but considering the participants involved here I will allow a little leeway in this match that had a ton of chaos and crowd pleasing madness. I am still a little surprised to see Bully Ray competing in an RoH ring, but he seems like a good fit with the Briscoes as they successfully defended their titles with a double Doomsday Device and Super 3D for the win. Another former WWE star made his SoH debut next with Bullet Club’s Cody Rhodes taking on Jay Lethal in a Texas Bullrope match. Oh yeah, I forgot he is just called ‘Cody’ here because WWE owns the ‘Rhodes’ trademark. Another video package and the announcers helped set the stage for their rivalry and why the Bullrope match is a big deal for the Rhodes family. There were some big moments here that saw Cody dawn the crimson mask and a sweet-looking spot from Cody where he popped up and toss Lethal through a table. Eventually Cody got his first RoH loss here after Jay pinned him with the Lethal Injection. The next match was a triple threat tag team match with the Motor City Machine Guns, the Rebellion and Will Ferrara & Cheeseburger. This contest was more of a cluster-mess with all kinds of hijinx in the opening half and the tag rules being practically non-existent. Once I got past the craziness, there were a few decent spots that culminated with the Motor City Machine Guns getting the win with their finish. The last match on disc one saw Punishment Martinez take on Frankie Kazarian. Martinez can fly for a big man, and he eventually got the victory with his South of Heaven Chokeslam after Hangman Page distracted Kaz.

The aforementioned Bobby Fish came out next and called out Jay Lethal, but instead Silas Young came out and the two had an impromptu match that featured a cringe-inducing ref bump. The match got thrown out after a few minutes when Silas attacked the replacement ref for the DQ. More CMLL talent was showcased in the next bout with Dragon Lee & Jay White taking on Volador Jr. & Will Ospreay. These guys can go, and their acrobatics puts a vast majority of the cruiserweight action on 205 Live to shame. Ospreay delivering a Shooting Star Press to the outside of the ring was the standout highlight, but it was his partner Volador Jr. who got the pin with a body scissors from the top rope. The first half of the double main event followed with Christopher Daniels defending his RoH World Title against Dalton Castle. It was a nice feel good story earlier this year with Daniels winning his first World Title gold after over 20 years in the business. Dalton dialed back his act enough so it is not as obnoxious as before, but despite his efforts in this match a well executed counter-exchange had Daniels getting the surprise roll-up win. After the match Cody attacked Daniels to set up their title match several weeks later.

The final match saw the Hardy Boyz defending their tag titles against the Bullet Club’s Young Bucks in a ladder match. Since my previous SoH recap, I have since ‘got’ the Young Bucks ‘too sweet/superkick party’ personas. It was a bit too over-the-top initially when first exposed to it last year, but I kind of get it now and am not as mortified by it as I once was. I still think they forever ruined the superkick as a finish, but to be fair so did the Usos in recent years to a lesser degree. The match did not disappoint, and while the Hardyz are 25-year vets, they nearly stayed on pace with the Young Bucks throughout. A couple OMG moments were the Bucks putting Jeff Hardy through a table with a 450 Splash and the Hardyz shoving one of the Bucks off a ladder in a specific way that he wound up inadvertently putting his own brother through a table. I am not kidding when I state that at least 10, maybe even 15 tables were broken throughout the match. Ultimately, the Young Bucks emerged as the new tag champs when they simultaneously superkicked both Hardyz off a ladder and grabbed the belts for the win. If you recall how this weekend went down earlier this year it was the final day for the Hardyz in their short RoH stint after a lengthy run in Impact/GFW/TNA. They would proceed to return to WWE the next night at Wrestlemania 33, but more on that in a future blog! SoH XI was a major improvement from the two night split SoH X lineup from last year. The overall show was better paced and they did not go excess on the comedy or highspots overkill like in some previous years. The continued bump in production quality and convenient storyline highlight packages that preceded most matches added a lot for a casual RoH fan like myself who only catches just a few shows a year. I would have liked to have seen at least one of the women’s matches on the main card, and I had a few other nitpicks noted above, but for the most part this was the best SoH show in quite a few years. My picks for matches of the night are the Bullrope match, the CMLL tag match and the tag titles ladder main event that delivered! Definitely go out of your way to add Supercard of Honor XI to your RoH collection! Past Wrestling Blogs Best of WCW Clash of Champions Best of WCW Monday Nitro Volume 2 Best of WCW Monday Nitro Volume 3 Biggest Knuckleheads Bobby The Brain Heenan Daniel Bryan: Just Say Yes Yes Yes DDP: Positively Living Dusty Rhodes WWE Network Specials ECW Unreleased: Vol 1 ECW Unreleased: Vol 2 ECW Unreleased: Vol 3 For All Mankind Goldberg: The Ultimate Collection Its Good to Be the King: The Jerry Lawler Story Ladies and Gentlemen My Name is Paul Heyman Legends of Mid South Wrestling Macho Man: The Randy Savage Story Memphis Heat OMG Vol 2: Top 50 Incidents in WCW History OMG Vol 3: Top 50 Incidents in ECW History Owen: Hart of Gold RoH Supercard of Honor 2010-Present ScoobyDoo Wrestlemania Mystery Sting: Into the Light Straight to the Top: Money in the Bank Anthology Superstar Collection: Zach Ryder TNA Lockdown 2005-2014 Top 50 Superstars of All Time Tough Enough: Million Dollar Season True Giants Ultimate Fan Pack: Roman Reigns Ultimate Warrior: Always Believe Warrior Week on WWE Network Wrestlemania 3: Championship Edition Wrestlemania 28-Present The Wrestler (2008) Wrestling Road Diaries Too Wrestling Road Diaries Three: Funny Equals Money Wrestlings Greatest Factions WWE Network Original Specials First Half 2015 WWE Network Original Specials Second Half 2015 WWE Network Original Specials First Half 2016 WWE Network Original Specials Second Half 2016 WWE Network Original Specials First Half 2017

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US vs. UK Deferred-Prosecution Agreements: Some History and Key Differences

US vs. UK Deferred-Prosecution Agreements: Some History and Key Differences

8/7/2017

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        By John Bostwick, Managing Editor, Radius

Anyone familiar with recent high-profile corporate corruption scandals in the US has at least heard the term deferred-prosecution agreement, or DPA. An article in the current issue of The New Yorker about prosecuting banks and bank executives says that from 2002 to 2016, the US Department of Justice has entered into over 400 DPAs, a remarkable number that reflects a shift in DOJ’s approach to addressing white-collar crime.

I’ll get to exactly what DPAs are in a moment, but before that a little more legal history. The New Yorker article explains that until the mid-1970s, US authorities usually targeted individuals in cases of corporate crime. After a watershed case involving the 1975 suicide of an executive, however, DOJ’s strategy started to shift towards prosecuting corporations as well individuals.

Another watershed case occurred in 2002, when DOJ convicted Arthur Andersen of cooking the books in the Enron fraud case. The conviction eventually put the venerable accounting firm out of business, which among other things cost the US economy thousands of jobs.

The article says that many came to see the Arthur Andersen conviction “as a flagrant instance of government overreach: the problem with convicting a company was that it could have ‘collateral consequences’ that would be borne by employees, shareholders and other innocent parties.” In an era of M&A and corporate behemoths, the Arthur Andersen outcome could be regarded as a cautionary tale of the dire economic consequences of meting out white-collar justice. Or, as many have put it, some companies are simply “too big to jail” if we hope to keep our economy from sliding into the abyss.

Which brings us back to deferred-prosecution agreements. DPAs are agreements between prosecutors and companies that essentially say the DOJ won’t prosecute a corporation for bribery, fraud and/or other criminal activity if it agrees to pay a fine and get its regulatory house in order. And as the first statistic quoted in this post hints, we are now firmly in the era of the deferred-prosecution agreement.

Former prosecutor and current US district judge Jed S. Rakoff addresses the subject of DPAs in the New York Review of Books article “The Financial Crisis: Why Have No High-Level Executives Been Prosecuted?” Rakoff suggests that one chief reason for the current popularity of DPAs is that they’re viewed as a win by both prosecutors and the corporations they investigate. He writes that, if you are a prosecutor, “You are happy because you believe that you have helped prevent future crimes; the company is happy because it has avoided a devastating indictment; and perhaps the happiest of all are the executives, or former executives, who actually committed the underlying misconduct, for they are left untouched.”

The New Yorker points out that some corporations are so happy with the DPA trend that they don’t even regard it as a deterrent to criminal behavior. Pfizer, it says, flouted not one but two DPAs related to bribery and other crimes, and “after offering Pfizer a second chance, only to have misconduct continue, the government was apparently happy to offer a third.”

DPAs, then, allow executives off the hook, allow prosecutors to maintain spotless records (since they don’t have to assume the very real risk of losing criminal cases to lawyered-up corporations) and provide authorities with substantial revenue and the ability to tell the public that rogue corporations have been fined and rehabilitated.

As many (including Rakoff) have observed, this may look good — and even keep a portion of the public happy — but the trend hardly serves the cause of justice. For one thing, shareholders typically foot the bill for the fines. And, of course, executives that have enabled and/or engaged in the criminal misconduct that (in many cases) has made them fabulously rich are not held accountable. Rakoff’s article appeared in January 2014, and in it he observed that “not a single high-level executive has been successfully prosecuted in connection with the recent financial crisis.” Nearly four years later, his words still hold true and they’ll probably continue to do so for years to come, at least in the US. The New Yorker points out that “federal prosecutions of white-collar crime are now at a twenty-year low.”

Given our similar judicial systems, it is interesting — and important for US executives to grasp — that the US and UK have different DPA systems. UK authorities, in fact, have a very short history of entering into DPAs, as they were introduced just three ago under the Crime and Courts Act 2013. UK DPAs are available to the Serious Fraud Office (as well as the Crown Prosecution Service), and to date UK authorities have entered into just three agreements, in stark contrast to the hundreds entered into by DOJ.

As the SFO website explains, UK DPAs are “concluded under the supervision of a judge, who must be convinced that the DPA is ‘in the interests of justice’ and that the terms are ‘fair, reasonable and proportionate.’” In other words, a UK judge can reject a proposed DPA. Remember that US DPAs do not need judicial approval and are entered into at the discretion of prosecutors. Ben Morgan, the UK’s joint head of bribery and corruption, emphasized the importance of the court’s involvement in a March 2017 speech, saying: “This is a key and distinguishing feature of the UK DPA system. The judge is asked to give a declaration.”

This judicial approval provides greater legitimacy to the process. In what’s almost certainly a veiled reference to US DPA practice, Morgan assures his audience of finance professionals that they “will not find us at the SFO slipping into a casual, commoditized practice of processing DPAs. You will instead find us agonizing over the fine detail of each potential candidate — is it really the right thing to do this time?” Knowing that a judge will have to approve each DPA on its own merits helps ensure this kind of analysis, if not agonizing. It’s also critical to note that the judge who reviews a proposed DPA must make a public declaration, which increases the transparency of each agreement. The US DPA process has been criticized for its opacity.

UK deferred-prosecution agreements apply only to organizations, never to individuals.Tweet this

In another breach with US protocol, UK DPAs apply only to organizations, never to individuals. One of the high-profile cases settled this year under a UK DPA involved Rolls Royce. Among other things, the company agreed under the DPA to pay 671 million pounds in fines to avoid prosecution for bribery, paying off rivals and other criminal behavior. The Financial Times explains that the judge who approved the DPA indicated the corruption at Rolls “went right up the ranks of senior management, and even ‘on the face of it, [the] controlling minds’ of the company.”

Unfortunately for Rolls Royce executives, the DPA does not shield them from criminal prosecution. The Times asks: “who knew what, and when, and will anyone [at Rolls Royce] be prosecuted? … And why did the leadership of the company decide not to report to authorities concerns over potentially corrupt behavior raised in 2010?” 2010 is the year that Britain’s strict Bribery Act was given assent, so, the Times observes, Rolls executives certainly knew that a “blind eye would no longer be turned to corporate misbehavior.” (The Bribery Act became effective in 2011.)

Presumably most people who don’t save their money under their mattresses will think it right and just that executives at Rolls Royce or any other corporation can be held accountable for engaging in corrupt behavior. There are, however, some vocal opponents of the UK DPA regime that allows for this. A post on the Spectator’s blog, for example, defends former Rolls Royce CEO Sir Ralph Robins against the possibility that he might be swept into the SFO’s fraud investigation of the company. The writer takes the SFO to task for disclosing the fact that it interviewed Sir Robins during the course of its investigation, damaging his “name” and reputation. The writer of the post contends: “One of the many downsides of the new [UK DPA] system is that such deals do not cover individuals. In short, the company is exempted from prosecution, the SFO gets its check – but senior employees (in this case long-retired) are hung out to dry.”

Clearly, the writer is a strong proponent of the kind of US-style DPA strategy that targets only corporations and does not hold corporate employees accountable. The counter argument can be summed up by Justice Rakoff, who writes in his NYRB piece: “under the law of most US jurisdictions, a company cannot be criminally liable unless at least one managerial agent has committed the crime in question; so why not prosecute the agent who actually committed the crime?”

This kind of individual accountability is what many people have clamored for in the wake of the financial crisis, but which hasn’t materialized, at least in the US. Just last month, however, four Barclays executives appeared in a UK courtroom to face charges of misconduct. The BBC observes: “Nearly a decade on from a financial crisis and this is the first time any former bank chief executive anywhere in the world has faced criminal charges for alleged conduct during the greatest financial crisis since the 1930s.”

Interestingly, the SFO has not extended a DPA offer to Barclays in this case. The BBC article indicates that SFO leaders insist on full cooperation from companies in the case of DPAs (see the 2017 Ben Morgan speech for evidence of this), and Barclays “withheld tens of thousands of documents citing legal privilege — behavior [SFO head David Green] described as leading the SFO ‘a merry dance.’” Instead, Barclays itself will face criminal charges. In order to obviate possible serious economic fallout similar to what occurred after the US’s Arthur Andersen case, the SFO is charging Barclays PLC, Barclays’ holding company, not operating company. The BBC explains that charging the holding company “means the ability of this important transatlantic bank to operate in its key markets should not be affected — whatever the outcome.”

The BBC notes that charging the company and its executives raises the possibility that they could each enter different pleas, and that the situation in general is “complicated territory.” Adding to the complications is the fact that the SFO is facing an existential crisis. The agency is relatively small, with an annual budget of 40 million pounds compared to DOJ’s $500 million enforcement budget for financial and mortgage fraud. And it is now in danger of being incorporated into the larger National Crime Agency. The BBC suggests that the possibility the SFO could be dissolved may have affected its decision to bring charges against both Barclays and its executives, and that the charges may be a kind of “last hurrah.”

Those who have accused US prosecutors of protecting their own careers by favoring DPAs over criminal prosecutions may find it telling that the first charges brought against executives for misconduct related to the financial crisis may have been brought in part because the prosecutors are under threat of losing their own agency.

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