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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 months ago

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Laswell and Nik watch Price play a Rugby match. Part 2.

cw: brief mention of injury, hand job right at the end.

Look, I just love the idea that Nik, Laswell and Price are good friends outside of work. I want to write more of it. All my work is self-indulgent but this is PURE self indulgence.

The plastic chairs were damn uncomfortable and Laswell was pretty sure she could have managed an extra pair of socks inside her boots, but the atmosphere was contagious. Jubilant, loud; people stamping their feet and blowing on their hands in the cold, old comrades meeting again after a long time, families gathered to see fathers, sons, husbands, play.

Plus, she had promised, hadn't she? And seeing her long term friend do something that didn't have the threat of a bullet mixed in was an opportunity she felt she deserved as much as he did.

"Here, Laswell."

A plastic cup of beer appeared in front of her face between the large fingers and thumb of her companion for the day, and she took it in two gloved hands. "Thanks, Nik."

"It tastes very bad," he informed her as he swung his leg over the chair next to her and fell into it heavily, taking a swig of his own with a grimace. "Da. Like barman pissed into a cup."

"Really selling it to me," she chuckled before taking a sip, nose wrinkling. "That is... quite the aftertaste."

Nik shrugged. "It is all part of the experience, and," he ferreted through his jacket, lifting his ass off the seat, and pulled out his hip flask, "ha." He offered it to her first, to which she shook her head, before he unscrewed the cap with his thumb and dumped a generous helping into the top of his drink. "How long?"

"They headed in from their warm up about ten minutes ago."

"Ah, he looked good, no?"

Laswell nodded, her eyes crinkling with her smile as she noted the blush of pride on Nik's face. John Price had, indeed, looked good. He had been rosie-cheeked and energetic through all the drills despite the cold, keeping up with the younger members of his team without any apparent issue.

And, perhaps most importantly of all, he had been laughing and grinning throughout, exchanging banter, and pausing to talk with someone he recognised in the stands, only ending the conversation with a handshake and bump of the shoulders when his coach - a Major something or other, according to the introductory leaflet - bellowed at him.

It was John's boyish glee that had caught Nik's attention more than all the tight woven shorts around thick thighs, the bulging biceps and full chests stretching through Underarmour base layers, and she had watched his eyes blow wide as he fidgeted in his seat, desperate clearly to be closer and bask in John's happiness rather than observe it from afar. She'd sent him for the beer to cool off.

It was an interservice friendly. Navy versus army. A pre-season warm up before the international competition began and the British armed forces would field a composite team of the very best. "Will they win this one?" Laswell asked, chancing another sip of beer and regretting it the moment it touched her tongue.

"Da. The Navy have uh, what to say, fast backs, but their forwards have bad... set pieces."

"Did you understand a word of what you just said?"

"Nyet." Nik grinned. He loved listening to John talk about the game and absorbed every iota of information he could to share in that passion. That didn't mean he was any better than Laswell in understanding what the hell was going on.

"Do you think he'll be selected for the internationals?"

"He has already been asked for his availability."

"Of course he has. Annoyingly, I don't think I've ever encountered an activity that John Price doesn't excel at."

Nik huffed a laugh. "He is an overachiever. Although, not such a good cook. I have never seen someone turn custard into rubber before."

"Aha! A weakness. I will store it for later use."

They lapsed into a momentary pause and watched the crowd find their seats. Nik checked his phone, and then nudged Laswell for a selfie to send to John. They toasted their crappy beers and Laswell conjured her cheesiest grin with a thumbs up. Nik sent it without filters, because he was brutal like that.

Nik (10.15): [image.jpeg]

JP (10.17): good-looking pair of muppets 👍

Nik (10.18): are you feeling ok?

JP (10:19): hammies tight but physio happy.

Nik (10:19): I will help with that later

JP (10:20): countin on it 👌💦😜

"You better not be sexting while I am right next to you, Nikolai."

Nik smirked at her and shook his head once. "He is fine. Nervous."

"You got 'nervous' from that?"

"Da."

"Nervous for a Rugby match but doesn't even bat an eye at leaping from a Hercules into an active firefight with a single page's worth of intel..."

"He feels out of practice. He missed the start of the tournament due to work."

"Ah. Story of our lives, Nik." They missed so much living due to work. Kate had missed the birth of both of her nephews, her brother-in-law's wedding, her sister's fortieth birthday party. So many big life events that would never repeat. But that's what made things like this special. It may be a forces match, but John was choosing to do it. He enjoyed it. Sharing in that enjoyment, that moment of happiness, that was special too.

"They are coming," Nik said like an excited boy on Christmas morning, having spotted the players at the mouth of the changing rooms. He stood with the rest of the crowd and Laswell rolled to her feet too, joining in the cheers and clapping as two lines of outrageously built men jogged out onto the pitch.

Nik and Laswell stood in respectful silence as the band played through the national anthem and the two teams lined up to bray along with it, hands on chests. The British national anthem was a damn drone, but at least it allowed everyone to pull it off. They sat down after the applause, when the two captains met with the referee in the middle of the pitch for the coin toss.

John tried to make the glance into the stands discreet, but the smile when he spotted Nik and Laswell - due to Nik's not so discreet full-armed wave - was difficult to hide. Hands on his hips, he looked down, scuffing the grass with his boot bashfully before turning to listen to the referee outline his expectations.

Sometimes she forgot about the sixteen year age gap between them; he was so brilliant at it all, so driven, so focused and relentless, he was her peer and her equal, but she had already been at the game for twelve years when he enlisted at 16. Whatever she felt in that moment at seeing John so pleased by their presence, his cheeks dimpling in that full-hearted grin he had, felt annoyingly maternal. She necked some beer.

Nik leaned in. "He will choose to receive."

"Mhm."

"Laswell," Nik said, feigning shock as she hid her smirk against her plastic pint.

The navy took the ball with them, the ref jogged backward with his hand in the air, and the two teams lined up. John was the 'fly half', which Kate understood to mean he was the decision maker of the team. It required effective leadership and communication to connect the forwards with the backline and navigate the enemy defence. The perfect role for one Captain Jonathan Price if ever there was one. Which explained the bright yellow captain's band wrapped around his bicep, clashing with the green and white jersey with its big number 10 on the back.

A single peep of the whistle marked the start of the game and the navy's number 10 put their boot to the ball, the rest of the team surging down the pitch behind it. One of the backline received the ball and immediately shipped it out towards the wings to begin making progress in the opposite direction.

The difference between American football and Rugby had always struck Laswell; the ball was the same-ish shape, there were set pieces for different scenarios, but that's where the similarity ended. Rugby was about keeping play moving. It was a relentless, brutal battle down the pitch, with hits that made her teeth shake and no padding between bodies and the impact.

The navy was playing aggressively, forcing the army's backline to reset. Every time the army's scrum half dug the ball out of the breakdown - which was what Laswell understood the huge pile of bodies on the floor to be called - John was there to receive it. He was agile, twisting, turning, everywhere at once; a testament to his own hard work to maintain his fitness and mobility.

One of the navy forwards was too slow off the mark and slammed into John once he'd passed the ball, bringing him to the ground hard with a shoulder to the gut. Nik was halfway out of his chair on instinct, and Laswell reached out a hand for his forearm. "It's part of the game, Nik. An honest mistake." The ref blew the whistle. Free kick.

John rolled to his feet, tugging the legs of his shorts down from the creases of his thighs before plucking the ball from the ground. He chose to kick into touch and gathered his team before the lineout. They hunkered down, listening intently. Laswell could hear his voice in her mind, imagined his tone, and when she glanced off to Nik and saw the look on his face, she knew he was doing the same.

John set the backline, barking over his shoulder and gesturing with his arm to get them in position, once he was happy, he indicated to the scrum half to take the throw in. The ball sailed over the heads of the two lines and found the hands of the army's flanker, who knocked it with practised ease into John's waiting palms. It sailed down the line quick, John sprinting behind the line. The navy thought they were going for a try at the wing and sent their players down to meet it. John cut in halfway and took the ball through a gap created by their miscalculation.

The hulking opposition forwards couldn't catch him once he had the space to open up with long strides, and he pushed one optimistic player off him like he was nothing. Laswell heard Nik breathe something in Russian, leaning forward in his chair, only to leap up the moment that ball touched the try line. She stood with him to clap and he threw an arm around her shoulder jubilantly. "He is so good, did you see? Like a jet, I cannot--" she missed the rest, because he was too busy celebrating, half his beer splashing onto the ground.

An orange five appeared on the scoreboard at first, and then John turned it into a seven when he kicked the ball over the middle bar between the two posts. "A conversion, Laswell," Nik informed her, toasting the scoreboard as it ticked up.

John's try seemed to turn the tables. Now that the army's side had seen the defence clinically dissected, it was like they were more confident in picking those holes. Seven turned to fourteen, fourteen to twenty-one. The navy managed to land a try shortly before half time but their fly half, John's junior by about fifteen years, missed the conversion kick, leaving the scoreboard at twenty-one to five.

Nik topped up their drinks while the two teams disappeared off the pitch, and returned with a flushed face after a suspiciously long time away. "You snuck into the changing rooms, didn't you?" She asked as she took the beer.

"Da," Nik confessed, shifting in his seat. "I did not stay long. He had a briefing to do."

"Of course he did," Laswell said, chuckling. No doubt Nik had gone to admire John in his kit up close; all that clinging lycra and polyester around John's frame. For a man, John had one hell of an ass. She was surprised Nik wasn't foaming at the mouth every time John bent over to receive the ball from the breakdown.

The second half started shortly after Nik's return. The army started with the ball this time, kicking it into the second half and chasing after it to shut down the offence before they could make ground.

The navy had apparently had what John would call a bollocking, because they were back to their form of the first twenty minutes, hitting hard and punishing gaps. Nik frowned as John was tackled for the third time in ten minutes. "They are targeting him," he growled.

"Oh yeah," a man to their left chimed in, "reckon their skipper told 'em to break that one's legs."

"Nik, it's trash talk," Laswell warned as the big Russian suddenly coiled with tension. "They will try to close down any advantages. He's one of them."

She, perhaps, spoke too soon, because the next hit made John stay down a bit longer, and he disappeared under a pile of bodies that dwarfed even him. When he finally got to his feet, there was blood streaming from his eyebrow. The ref blew his whistle and pointed at John's face, then the sidelines. He didn't even argue his case, chucking his armband to the scrum half's hand before jogging over to the medic, replaced by a sub.

Nik had been on his feet throughout, and now tracked John to the sidelines with his eyes, no doubt scrutinising his gait for abnormality. "It is superficial," Nik said, perhaps convincing himself not to vault the stands. "He will go back on."

"After being kicked in the head?"

Nik frowned, arms folded over his chest. He wasn't happy about it either.

As predicted, John returned to the pitch at the next blow of the whistle, his head wrapped in bandages and tape. The army had put up a valiant defence while he'd been off, and did so for the rest of the game, allowing only one more try to sneak through and returning it threefold. The final score at the end was forty-two to twelve in favour of the army, and the boisterous celebrations on the pitch carried on through the sportsmanlike cheers exchanged by both teams, followed by handshakes and cheers for the ref.

Nik and Laswell picked their way through the stands to the main bar to wait for John to emerge from the changing rooms. Another thing she quite liked about this sport in particular was that the players cleaned up in shirts and ties before they were allowed out. She had thought it was a services thing, a hang up about order and respectability, but no, they even observed the rule at club level. It was about respecting the clubhouse, the fans, the game and each other.

It took John about thirty minutes to arrive, his white shirt and green tie neatly pressed, wool trousers belted at his waist. Nik was on him in seconds, one hand taking his jaw, tilting his head left and right, to inspect the cut through his eyebrow. "Nik," John said through a soft laugh, "s'olright, been checked over."

"For concussion?"

"Yeah. Just a stud scrape. Nothin' dramatic."

Nik's hand slipped around the back of John's neck and Laswell could see the desperate desire to kiss his partner flash over his face, but in the end he only nodded and drew away. She sighed. So much had changed, and yet so much stayed the same.

"Kate, you made it," John said, that Quokka-smile in place and big arms enclosed her in a hug.

"Oh, I was in the area." She returned the embrace and then pushed the pint of bitter into his hands. "Well-earned, I think."

"Huh, yeah, 'm fuckin' knackered," he admitted, wiping the foam from his moustache after he took a sip. "A few of the lads want to do a crawl through the local bars, but I'm gonna turn in. Monday's chocka."

"I don't blame you," Laswell said, hopping onto a stool. "I thought you'd play soccer, you know."

"Rugby is a gentleman's sport and the captain is a gentleman." Nik sat next to her, his elbows on the bar. "Soccer is for thugs and idiots, no?"

"Hoohoo, shit, don't let Simon hear you say that, Nik," John said, leaning his hip against the bar at Nik's side. "You'd have to sleep with one eye open."

"So, the Liverpool scarf is just for show." Laswell recalled the tattered old thing hanging up in a frame in John's office. It sat right next to his medals of valour and a photograph of the 141 in Belgrade.

"Naw, once a Red always a Red."

"That means something very different where I am from," Nik said lightly.

Laswell chuckled low in her throat and John threw his arm around Nik's shoulder for a squeeze. They stayed until the man of the match was announced and, unsurprisingly, John had been selected by the team for his try.

He received the award in the same understated way he did his medals; a thank you to his team and to the panel, then 'all the best' before heading back to his drink. Once again Laswell watched Nik swallow the desire to demonstrate the affection bubbling beneath his skin. She was glad for Nik that John would require plenty of care this evening; an opportunity to dote to his heart's content.

Despite the generally positive experience, she was glad to flop into the backseat of Nik's hired Audi, watching the streets of London flit by as they left the pitch behind. By the time they dropped her off at the hotel, John was struggling to keep his eyes open, slumped low in the front seat, his arms folded tightly across his chest as if to hold himself together. She exchanged a look with Nik in the rearview mirror, the creases around his eyes betraying his knowing grin. John was clinging on for her benefit. Sweet, but unnecessary.

She opened the door but leaned forward to squeeze his shoulder before stepping out. "Well done today."

"Cheers," he said sleepily, one of his big paws parting over the top of her palm. "Thanks again. 'ppreciate it."

"Any time, John. I enjoyed myself. See you soon."

She patted Nik's shoulder too and he touched her wrist in return, before she left them to head to a well-earned rest in their Premier Inn. Hopefully a kiss too, or Nik might just implode.

Nik managed to convince John into a bath with the promise of a glass of whiskey. Without it, he would be stiffer in the morning and not in a way they could enjoy.

Once John was settled amongst the bubbles, Nik sat at the side with a pillow beneath his rear, one hand in the water to stroke whatever part of John happened to be near, while the other held a novel open against his thigh.

"Thanks for comin' today," John said in the comfortable quiet. His voice was soft, his eyes lidded. He had sunk lower, the waterline lapping at his collarbone.

"Of course. I enjoyed watching you in your element, John."

"It was the... uh, first time someone's come t' see me play."

Nik let the novel fall closed and twisted, resting his chin on the edge of the tub. "Have you not invited the sergeants, or the lieutenant?"

"Ah, they have better things to do 'n come and watch me play rugger at the weekend."

"I think you underestimate how much your team loves and admires you."

John hummed in the way he did when he wanted to argue but knew it was a losing fight. Nik got that noise more and more these days when it came to John's perception of other's opinions of him. He had an accurate and pragmatic understanding of his own abilities when it came to work, but that didn't seem to translate into a sound understanding of how much he was admired. The hum was a step forward towards acceptance, in Nik's opinion.

"You will invite them next time."

"Oh will I?"

"Da. And they will feel honoured by the invitation."

"What if I get my arse kicked? Almost did today."

"Then they will be there to pick you back up again, as they are in the field."

John fell silent, heaving a sigh through his nose. Nik gathered his legs underneath him and slipped his second hand in the water to caress the aching body within it. He ran the backs of his fingers over John's chest, down the valleys of his abdomen to the v-shape dips of his hips, and finally to his thighs.

"How are these?"

"Sore. They'll be fi--mm, Nik...'

"Is good?"

"Mmhm."

Nik rubbed his thumbs in firm circles, feeling knots and tension pop beneath them, and watched John's expression melt back into relaxation. He moved from one leg to the other, working his way up slowly across the large expanse of muscle to John's hip.

"Enjoyin' yerself?" John asked, an eye popping open to study Nik's face.

"Da. Watching your legs today was... hm, it made me want to spread them in the shower and demonstrate my admiration."

If it wasn't for the warm water, John would have flushed, but Nik was content by the shy smile he got instead. "In front of the entire team, eh? Filthy git," John mumbled.

"If you would enjoy others watching me make love to you, then I would consider it."

"Fuckin' 'ell, Nik," John said, scrubbing a hand across his face. His body betrayed him though, because the mere thought of it has caused his prick to harden enough to peak just above the surface. Nik tickled up the inside of John's thighs to his sac, fingertips stroking the heavy weight of it in the warm water. John's knees tilted out to give Nik access and he reached for Nik's chin with one wet hand, guiding him down for a kiss.

Nik kissed greedily as he played gently between John's legs, revelling in the vulnerability of his lover's exhausted body surrendering to the tenderness he offered. His tongue swept into John's mouth, licking the taste of whiskey from his teeth, the tip brushing the ridges of his pallet, sucking his tongue, his lips, before sinking lower to kiss his neck.

John made soft noises of pleasure, his heels skidding across the ceramic of the tub, damp fingers winding into Nik's hair. In the warmth of the water, his skin was soft, sensitive, and Nik knew how to touch him. Had spent many a night learning what made John moan and sigh, how his entire body was a map of erogenous zones desperate for a gentle hand that Nik was more than willing to provide.

When Nik encircled John's prick, stroking slowly back and forth, John let out a pleased sigh. "Fuck, Nik... Dunno whether I have the energy."

"You do not need it. Let me look after you."

"Would prefer t' give as good as I get. Ahh, fuck, Nik..."

Nik soaped his hand using the pump at the side of the bath and returned to John's eager prick. Tired he may be, but his body yearned for Nik as much as Nik's did for him. Nik kept a firm pressure, squeezing a little former on the upstroke, precum splashing over the edge of his fist. "John, you are so beautiful... You are so desperate for me."

"Yeah, Nik, haa, ah, god fuck, I'm close already..."

"Come for me then. Do not hold back. I will have you tomorrow, spread your legs and take what I want..."

"Fuck..."

"I know you wanted me to take you in that changing room, your blood running hot--"

"Ahh, Nik, fu--"

"--I know you wanted to touch yourself in the shower, thinking of me--"

"Mm, yeah, yeah, please, Nik..."

"I know what you need, I know how you ache for it, how you want to be filled by my cock and fucked well."

John latched onto the edge of the tub as he came, his thighs and stomach pulling tight, head pushing back as his cock pulsed in Nik's hand. Nik slowed his stroke, milking out the aftershocks as John gasped.

Nik kissed him lightly on the lips as his pleasure faded to throbbing embers, releasing his softening prick to rinse his hand. "Beautiful."

"Just nutted to dirty talk. Not sure beautiful's really the word."

"You do not see yourself as I do," Nik replied, admiring the brightness in those blue eyes, the ruffled hair, the flush. Beautiful was too empty a word for the majesty of John Price, but it would suffice for now. "Time for bed, John. Come."

Nik helped John out of the bath, teasing him about his shaking legs as he helped dry him with a second towel. John slipped naked into the soft, clean sheets Nik wasn't complaining; it would be easier to tease him open tomorrow morning. He was asleep and snoring softly before Nik had even switched the lamp off, the pillow clutched under his head.

Before Nik could sleep, he worked himself over to a swift and gutless orgasm that would allow him to sleep, knowing full well he would be satisfying himself in John come the morning. He fell asleep admiring the peaceful lines of John's face, eternally grateful he had the honour of calling John his.

#captain john price #cod nikolai #nikprice #kate laswell #writing an american and remembering ass not arse #spoilt writing british pov for cod #i am so hard done by oh woe #yes nik is sober when he drives #but what are they gonna do? take his license away? ahahaha

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 3 months ago

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What if all the yeerks suddenly died? AU

Part 3.5; Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 are here. All you need to know from earlier parts is that all the yeerks disappeared at once after the events of #19, and that the Animorphs and ex-controllers have been trying to resume a normal life ever since.

• Hedrick Chapman wanted to be an ecologist when he grew up. Or a veterinarian. Barring that, he’d have settled for being rich. At no point did he ever want to be a vice principal of a criminally underfunded public high school. That had been a yeerk decision, not his. Certainly not his. And yet, here he is.

• Then again, Chapman reflects as he watches Andy Mitchell vomit into the potted plant on his desk, this job has recently involved far more working with wild animals than he initially anticipated.

“It was horrible,” Andy sobs. “Her f-face, it… it split open. I could see bones under the—” He cuts off, retching more.

Probably in shock, Chapman thinks. A perfectly understandable reaction to having seen someone morph for the first time. “What did she turn into?”

“What?” Andy lifts his head. Milk-pale, except for those red-rimmed eyes. Definitely in shock. “What do you mean?”

“Rachel.” Chapman didn’t get a name, but that description could only apply to so many students. “What did she morph?”

“I don’t know,” Andy wails. “Her face got all baggy and horrible, like the skin was coming off, and it…” He makes a pulling motion, away from his own mouth.

“So she turned into an elephant.” Chapman notes that down. “Then what?”

“You don’t understand,” Andy says. “She… she… her body was melting!”

Chapman sets down the pen, looking him in the eye. “I believe you. You saw her turn into an elephant. Did she try to attack you, once she was done?”

“I don’t know! I ran for it.”

“Smart choice.” Chapman massages his left temple, which is where his Rachel-shaped headache seems to have taken up full-time residence in Iniss 226’s absence. “I figured as much, since we’re not having this conversation in the hospital.”

“It was horrible,” Andy says again.

“And what did you say to Tobias Fangor that precipitated this incident?”

Andy blinks. His color looks a little better, anyway. “How did you know that?”

Chapman does not roll his eyes. Because he’s an adult, and in control of his own body. “I just so happen to be fluent in English, Mr. Mitchell. Which is, by enormous coincidence, the language used to write your disciplinary file. I’m also capable of basic pattern recognition.”

“What are you going to do to her?” Andy asks. “Rachel. What happens to her?”

An excellent question. Bringing a deadly weapon to school results in a ten-day suspension. But if Chapman applies that statute in this case, then he’d be forced to suspend all five Animorphs for the rest of eternity. Threatening a classmate can result in expulsion, though it sounds like no actual threats were issued. There isn’t a rule on the books for showing a classmate something so disturbing his brain tries to turn itself inside-out from sheer horror, although in light of recent developments there really should be.

“Not your concern,” Chapman says. “Thank you for telling me. Back to class.”

Andy takes several more minutes to collect himself before he goes. Chapman uses that time to catch up on paperwork, though he does offer the young man a tissue. And a breath mint.

• Andy is barely out Chapman’s door when it swings open again and Tom Berenson strides in. “You have to tell my parents it’s not Jake’s fault,” he announces.

I am not your therapist, Chapman would dearly like to say. I am not your best friend. I am not, regardless of Iniss 226’s relationship with Temrash 114, your fucking subordinate. I do not ‘have to’ do anything.

Not being snippy with vulnerable teenagers is probably one of those things they’d cover M.Ed. programs, if Chapman had ever actually been to school for this job. “Why don’t you take a deep breath and explain from the beginning.” There. That sounds like something a vice principal would say.

“Jake.” Tom sits down. “My parents keep forcing him to go to school. They think he’s, like, being a moody teenager. Or faking it.”

Chapman may not be a therapist, or even a college graduate, but he does recognize that Jake’s entitled to as many sick days as he feels like taking, for the rest of eternity. However, “That’s between your parents and your brother.”

“You can’t do anything?” Tom asks. “You have the ability to give kids permanent excuses for made-up medical conditions— Iniss did it all the time—”

“I am not,” Chapman says severely, “Iniss 226.”

Tom stiffens. “I just meant…”

“I recognize it is not your fault you have entirely too much information about the administration of this school.” Chapman tries to soften his tone. “But if you can do without using the Krav Maga or ability to home-assemble a working handgun that you also didn’t choose to receive, you can do without that.”

“But— Jake. They don’t get it.”

“I will speak with your parents. I’ll express these concerns to them,” Chapman says. “In the meantime, might I suggest you focus on your own grades? Thanks to Iniss, you’ve missed far too much school already. If you want to have any hope of graduating on time, you need to catch up.”

“Why?”

He says it so simply. It’s a question Chapman’s been asked before: Why bother? Of all the kids who’ve asked him, only Marco Santiago has been more entitled to ask. Why, indeed, bother with school? Why care about Civics and Algebra when the world itself has already ended around you?

A real vice principal would make a speech about learning being its own reward, or the importance of insuring one’s future. “Because,” Chapman says, “when I speak to Coach Lu about letting you back on the basketball team, he’ll point out that student athletes need a minimum two-point-oh GPA.”

Tom’s whole face lights up. Suddenly looking years younger. Looking like a kid, for the first time in months. “You’d do that for me?”

That M.Ed. program no doubt would have advised against bribes. “No skin off my butt,” Chapman says. “Now go do your homework. And let the adults worry about your brother.”

“Yes sir!” And he’s off like a shot. Possibly even, miracle of miracles, off to work on that backlog of English essays.

• The first time Jake called a meeting in Cassie’s barn, even though they don’t really have a reason to meet anymore, it was to discuss what they can do to help the hork-bajir—taxxon alliance. The second time, it was to make a plan to help Tobias get caught up in school. The third time, he doesn’t even make an excuse.

Rachel complains about the press hounding them for a statement. Marco complains about his parents making out on the couch while he’s in the house. Tobias complains about Ms. Paloma’s workload, and about the hork-bajir constitution negotiations. Jake complains about his dad’s horrifying questions about how morphing affects puberty. Ax complains about Alloran’s frequent, extremely snobby, emails. Cassie complains about her parents constantly asking her to morph their patients to figure out what’s wrong with them.

It’s silly. It’s fun. It’s playing at being teenagers with teenage problems.

“This time next week,” Jake announces, at the end. “And if there are any major developments in the meantime, keep the rest of us posted.”

• “Tobias Fangor’s aunt called again,” Principal Walsh says, when Chapman gets to the office on a Tuesday morning. “Don’t you think we should at least speak to her, see what she wants?”

“No,” Chapman says. “I don’t.”

“His uncle. This…” She glances at the paperwork. “Axel Mili-Esgarrouth. Didn’t show up for last parent-teacher conference.”

Small mercies. Chapman doesn’t explain Tobias’s living situation. Doesn’t reveal that he owes the kid’s parents the kind of debt that cannot be repaid in an entire lifetime of favors. Doesn’t deign to find out if Maggie Walsh knows what an andalite is.

“Tobias Fangor,” he says, “is part of the one-tenth of one percent of students who are, somehow, attending this high school because they want to be here. If you give him reason to transfer out, I will resign.”

• There are reasons that Chapman stays in this job, despite being stashed here against his will. Not the pay. Not the sullen ingratitude from the teens he helps. Certainly not the parents. It’s because he’s needed here, now more than ever.

• He stays for the times Loren’s kid comes skittering into his office, wild-eyed and muttering, “Sorry, I just, sorry, I’ll be out of your hair soon, I promise…” Chapman knows to open the window, when that happens, knows to shove a chair already well-deformed with talon marks out from behind his desk.

• He stays for the kids who on paper had straight As, perfect attendance, promising gigs at The Sharing — and overnight became failing wrecks with insomnia and dozens of unexplained absences. He can explain to their teachers, to their parents, in a way that someone who hasn’t been there will never be able to understand.

• He stays for the way Eva Santiago clasps his hand and says, “You will look out for him.” Half-supplication, half-command.

• He even, despite himself, stays for Tom. Who showed up at school the day after Aegas 1909 died, trying to pretend like nothing had happened. Who is a truly godawful actor — he took one look at Chapman, went dead-white, and ran for it. Who was backing away even as Chapman cornered him in the parking lot. “Wait!” Chapman had said. “Wait! Iniss is dead too.” And Tom had burst into tears.

• No one else would understand them. No one else would know why nearly every one of the seventy-three ex-hosts in this school has been sent to his office for not paying attention, for sleeping in class, for allegedly being stoned during school hours. No one else would overlook the absolute illegal mess of Tobias’s paperwork, or give Rachel a fortieth second chance after she has yet another hair-trigger reaction to being bumped in the hall.

• But there’s one reason above all others that he stays in this job.

“You don’t mind?” Melissa says, every single time he offers her a ride to school. As if he’s doing her a favor, letting her take up space in the car he’s already driving that way. As if it’s a chore to get to spend time with his daughter and hear about her day.

“You sure you don’t mind?” he always answers, smiling, and she always runs to get her bag.

It takes so little — a smile, a nod, an offer to feed the damn cat, sometimes even just a glance her way — to get her to light up with gratitude. It breaks his fucking heart to know the reason why.

He drives her every day. He helps her with homework every night, and cooks her dinner afterward. He drops more than he can afford on leg-warmers and Lisa Frank and Limited Too. He’s every parenting cliché: on a trial separation from Alison, spoiling their kid rotten because of the guilt.

Anyway, time with Melissa is worth a hell of a lot more than mere money. And it’s almost enough to make up for dealing with parents. Almost.

• “But Cassie’s a good kid,” Michelle Logan says. “She’s always been responsible, and she’s always taken care of herself. There has to be some kind of mistake.”

Chapman looks at the good kid sitting between her parents. Thinks of watching her rip a hork-bajir’s throat out, taking an innocent life along with the guilty one. Trusts that she had no choice in the matter, because if it was him she’d killed instead then he would have understood.

“I recognize that Cassie has had an overall clean record thus far,” Chapman says. “However, the Rain Forest Café is filing charges against the school for the impersonation and theft of several live animals, and I don’t have other suspects.”

“Cassie would never,” Michelle said. “She’s a good kid. She just fell in with the wrong crowd, that’s all.”

“Of that,” Chapman says dryly, “I have no doubt.”

Cassie lifts her head then to look straight at him. “I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding it. “I was trying to help the parrots.”

I. Yes, she’s a good kid. “It’s admirable,” Chapman tells her, “that you’re covering for your friends.” Probably also on the list of things a real vice principal wouldn’t say. “But there is no way that you could have acted alone.”

“Can you prove that?” Cassie asks.

“Can you even prove it was her?” Michelle says. “What about Marco, or Rachel? They morph. Isn’t Tobias a bird quite often? Who says it wasn’t him?”

Cassie and Chapman make eye contact. Marco is one incident away from being expelled. Rachel is about negative eight incidents away, and Chapman can only do so much to protect her. Tobias isn’t supposed to be at this school at all, which the board will surely notice if he comes to their attention. Cassie confessed, because Cassie can take the heat. And Chapman’s letting her take that fall.

“It’s okay,” Cassie tells the adults. “It’s only a week of detention.”

Because that was the lowest sentence he could propose, while still avoiding a legal proceeding. She really is a good kid.

• “Where you going?” Jake asks, not looking up from his Spanish homework, when Tom unlocks the front door at 8:00 PM on a Sunday.

“Sharing meeting,” Tom says casually. “Wanna come?”

Jake sets down his pen. He looks at his brother.

Tom stares back, smirking.

“Where are you actually going?” Jake says.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” And with that, Tom walks out the door.

Despite himself, Jake follows.

• It’s an under-21 nightclub that Jake vaguely recognizes as being a front for The Sharing, but the crowd spilling onto the lawn around it is truly all ages. There’s a giggling pair of 10-year-olds standing too close to the beer keg for his comfort, a middle-aged guy handing out glow sticks, and a woman with gray hair and a hand-knit sweater smoking a joint on the curb.

“Tommy-boy!” That’s the guy standing next to the door, an ex-controller Jake thinks is named Bill. He throws out his arms and, before Jake can react, has grabbed Tom, spun him around, dipped him, and kissed him on the mouth.

“Hands off, asshole,” Tom says, laughing as he pulls loose. “You are so fucking drunk.”

“Sssshhhhhh,” Bill says, not disconfirming the accusation. He points to the Employees Only printed on the door. “Just meat-puppets tonight. Ditch the tagalong.”

“Oh, come on.” Tom gestures at Jake. “The kid was a controller for a hot second last November.”

Bill squints at Jake. “Wait, really?”

Jake shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about it. “Yeah.”

“Well all right, then.” Bill ruffles Jake’s hair, Tom slaps Bill on the ass, and they shoulder their way inside.

• The club is jammed full of bodies, most of them sweaty and partway naked. Jake retreats until his back is against the nearest wall, looking over the mess of dancing humans. Tom has split off, chest-bumping with some other guy Jake doesn’t know and stealing a drag off his cigarette. None of them are acting remotely like controllers, which is reassuring, and now he’s wondering if it’d be rude to leave without Tom about 10 seconds after having arrived.

No one would notice if he turned into a bug, he decides after about an hour of this. Seriously. This crowd would not notice, and it’s not like they’d care if they did. Tom can find his own way home.

A small form sidles up next to him. “Hi, Jake.”

“Melissa!” he says too loudly, glad to see a familiar face. “Hi.”

“You want some drink?” She holds up a clear plastic cup, three-quarters full of liquid. “There’s plenty more over…” She points to the punchbowl behind her.

“Drink?” Jake asks.

Melissa shrugs. “From the empty bottles, it’s mostly beer and tequila, with a little bit of Bloody Mary mix. Which is probably why it…” She grimaces down at her cup. “Looks, smells, and tastes like urine.”

“Um.” Jake peers at her cup; her assessment isn’t wrong. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Cool. There’s also a guy around here with E, if that’s more your speed.”

“Gee.” Jake looks back over the crowd, which includes several couples openly pawing at each other, a group of four with hands inside each other’s clothes, and Tom apparently attempting to eat some woman’s tongue before she can eat his. “There’s ecstasy here? I never would’ve guessed.”

“People are just glad the war’s over,” Melissa says. “And your brother’s a really good kisser.”

It’s official: this is worse than the gathering of alien slugs plotting Earth’s destruction that Jake expected to find. It’s not even a proper orgy, just a whole crapton of giddy ex-hosts hugging each other and then getting too enthusiastic about the hugs.

“Look,” Jake says. “This has been nice, but I have school tomorrow, so…”

• Which is when the commotion breaks out near the door.

“Gatecrasher!” That’s Bill, brandishing a mason jar as he continues to yell. “We have a gatecrasher!”

Several people crowd around him to get a better look, someone holding up a glow stick to reveal that, sure enough, the jar in his hands contains a single wolf spider. Among this crowd, animals that act strange or aren’t native to California don’t go without notice.

«I’m innocent! And even if I’m not you can’t prove anything,» the spider says. «Maybe I just wandered by accidentally, and this is all a big misunderstanding.»

“This thing’s for full members only,” Tom says, straight-faced. “There’s a sign on the door, can’t miss it.”

«Maybe I want to join the Sharing?» the spider suggests.

This gets him several unamused looks. “Toss him out,” Li says. “And let’s get back to the keg stands.”

“Nah, let him stay!” That’s Koko, piping up from the back. “God knows every person in this bar owes the Animorphs a drink.”

Looking between them, Bill turns back to the jar. Finally he lifts it up to eye level, starting at the spider’s middle two eyes. “Repeat after me,” Bill intones.

«Uh-huh.»

“What your mom doesn’t know…”

«What my mom doesn’t know…»

“Will not hurt her.”

«Dude, I wouldn’t narc on you! What do you take me for?»

“A chip off the old block,” Tom mutters.

“Repeat it,” Bill says severely.

«What my mom doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.»

“Great!” Bill unscrews the lid of the jar, dumping it out on the ground. “Welcome to the Sharing.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Melissa says to a slowly-demorphing Marco, “I got the same speech.”

“It really does.” He presses a hand over his heart. “Now, someone mentioned buying me a drink?”

• A small nightclub on the outskirts of the city burns to the ground, shortly after having every piece of its furniture and glassware smashed in a pile in the middle of the floor. The local police force, over 30% of whom were controllers three months ago, elects to ignore this development.

• Chapman loathes paperwork to the absolute depths of his soul. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is worse than filing paperwork to get permission to file paperwork, and yet here he is. The state of California cannot possibly need this many copies of Ashley Shawn’s transcript. This has to be a torment invented by an evil god to punish him for everything he did aboard the Jahar. There is no other explanation.

So when Ms. Hanna comes skidding into his office and announces “Science wing! There’s a brawl!” his first thought is, oh thank god.

His second thought is to wonder why she came to get him, skipping the security officer and Principal Walsh, but they’re already running by the time that occurs to him.

When they get there the press of screaming-chanting bodies fills the hall from end to end, but kids still find room to crowd out of the way when they see Chapman coming. The circle of spectators breaks long enough to reveal the melee at the center, and—

Oh hell. Chapman can tell exactly why Ms. Hanna got him first.

Fiona Aherne has one hand fisted in the collar of Tom Berenson’s shirt, and is punching him repeatedly in the face. Joe Lassen catches her around the middle and rips her off Tom, tossing her to the floor, only to be caught in a side-tackle by Li Saren. Beyond them, Hailey Ng and Bill Renaldi are hanging onto Asher Reed, until Asher suddenly rolls forward and body-slams Bill to the floor.

Chapman winces — so much for not using that Krav Maga. He's knocked aside as Jake shoves past him and dives in to the fray.

Principal Walsh is across the battlefield, staring in bafflement. Shouting ineffectually for everyone to stop. She doesn’t know, of course, what Tom and Joe and Asher all have in common. What Bill and Li and Fiona and Hailey do.

Li has Tom by the throat from behind, which is why Jake throws himself onto Li with the gracelessness typical of a high-schooler. Li head-butts Jake, only to have Jake, snarling, bite him in the face.

“Stop!” Chapman bellows. “ALL OF YOU! STOP!”

Jake drops off Li. Hailey drops Asher. Slowly the others lower their fists, glaring.

Good to know everyone’s fear of Iniss 226 is still good for something.

“Everyone in the Biology classroom,” Chapman barks, pointing at the door. “Bill’s lot near the windows, Tom and the others by the door. Move it!”

Principal Walsh stares at Chapman in confusion, which deepens when everyone obeys him without question. He beckons first to Ms. Hanna, then to Mr. Tidwell, pointing them into the room as well. They also take their places without question, Mr. Tidwell supervising the voluntary half of the room as Ms. Hanna covers the involuntaries.

Pausing in the doorway, Chapman turns at last to face Maggie Walsh. His boss. Who has the ability to fire him, if she misunderstands the situation. “It’s about yeerks,” he settles for telling her.

Her look of bafflement doesn’t fade. “How?”

Chapman opens his mouth. Hunts for words.

“Jake had nothing to do with this.”

Chapman doesn’t have to turn his head to know who spoke from the involuntary side of the room. What a surprise, a Berenson kid running his mouth.

“Thank you for your input, Thomas.” He spins around. “That isn’t your call.”

Tom crosses his arms. Between the fingernail marks down his cheek and the broken knuckles of his right hand, he looks the very picture of delinquency.

“He’s right,” Joe says, from the voluntary side of the room. “It’s nothing to do with Jake.” In Chapman’s peripheral vision, Maggie Walsh blinks several times. He’ll explain later. Or try to.

“Fine,” Chapman says. “Jake, get back to class.”

Jake lifts his chin, blood striping the lower half of his face. “I chose to get involved,” he says. “I’ll take my punishment.”

“Oh yeah?” Tom says. “Then what was the fight about?”

Jake looks from one side of the room to the other. Both sides have ninth graders, twelfth graders, jocks and nerds, white and Black and brown kids. Jake’s probably smart enough to identify several ex-controllers, and to guess at the rest, but unable to tell how or why they sorted themselves like they did. Nonetheless, after a second he opens his mouth.

“That’s what I thought,” Chapman cuts him off. “Anyway, if I suspend you then Marco and Rachel will have burned down the school within a week. Fix your nose, then back to class.”

Knowing when he’s beat, Jake leaves. Chapman makes a note he’ll also have to explain to Maggie how morphing works, and that he didn’t just order a 14-year-old to hand-set a broken nose.

“The involuntaries started it,” Bill announces, the moment Jake is gone.

“Yeah,” Tom snaps, “and the voluntaries are the ones who—”

“Who were lied to, instead of being coerced?” Mr. Tidwell suggests.

Tom shuts his mouth.

“Asher called me a traitor.” Li points a finger across the room.

“Six months ago Li told me,” Asher says quietly, “that I should really join the Sharing.”

“And so,” Chapman drawls, “you had no choice but to punch each other in the face. Is that correct?”

Tom mutters something under his breath that Chapman chooses not to catch. He can’t threaten them, not this crowd. Most of them have survived worse hells than the Geneva Convention ever dreamed of. Detention means nothing.

Fine. Persuasion it’ll have to be. Fuck his life. Chapman raises his voice to address the involuntaries. “They—” He points to the voluntary side of the room. “Are not the enemy. The yeerks are the enemy, and the yeerks are dead. Don’t start doing their work for them, you hear me?”

There’s a long silence. Asher scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor.

“Yeah,” Tom says at last. “We hear you.”

“Everyone get checked at the nurse’s office,” Chapman tells the room at large. “You’re all suspended for the rest of the week.”

Maggie Walsh takes a seat next to Chapman, even as the kids all file out. Yeah. He owes her an explanation. Taking a deep breath, he tries to sum up what just happened. Hopefully in a thousand words or less.

Don Tidwell, coward, takes that opportunity to slip out the door.

• “Does anyone have anything to report?” Jake looks around Cassie’s barn. It’s still odd to see Ax and Tobias sitting out of morph and in the open. There was a brief collective panic when Cassie’s mom poked her head in earlier to ask if they want any lemonade or feeder mice.

“I have,” Marco says grandly, “a date… with Destiny!”

«Oh, you mean Destiny Trembull in tenth grade?» Tobias immediately undercuts this, because of course. «She seems nice.»

“And we don’t even have to spend the next three days following her around,” Rachel comments, which gets Marco to lob a horse comb at her head.

«I have accessed one-hundred twenty-three additional channels on my television,» Ax adds.

Cassie and Jake exchange a glance. “How’s it going, getting a ride home?” Cassie asks. “Any word on that?”

Ax shrugs — he isn’t even going to fit in on the andalite homeworld anymore when he does finally get there — and looks away. «I’ve been told that there are more important priorities concerning the Navy.»

«Their gratitude,» Tobias drawls, «is overwhelming.»

• Chapman explains to Jake’s parents that Jake needs a therapist, and also permission to miss school if he needs to. Chapman explains the Yeerk Empire and how exactly they recruit humans to Li Saren’s parents for the third, then the fourth, then the fifth time, until they are in tears and begging their son’s forgiveness for doubting him. Chapman explains to the district that he has no idea how the school ended up with a staircase leading from a supply closet to the alien sinkhole, but that he wants it sealed up posthaste. Chapman explains himself to Naomi Berenson, and then he does his best to explain Rachel as well.

• "No," Chapman tells the officious-looking little man sitting across his desk. "I don't know of anyone like that. I'm sorry, I wish I could be more help."

The man — he's probably a real detective, he has a badge — leans across the desk to push the photo array a little closer to Chapman. "You're sure? None of these individuals is a..." He glances at his notes. "Voluntary controller."

Chapman looks at the array, which includes images of nearly 100 students. Some of whom weren't controllers at all — that's Tobias Fangor in the upper left corner. Some of whom were lied to by the Sharing, and then lied to by the Yeerk Empire. Some of whom, like Bill Renaldi and his absolutely debilitating major depression, felt they had no choice but to give up their bodies. "Sorry," Chapman says. "None of these individuals appear to be voluntary controllers to the best of my knowledge."

The detective stares at Chapman, waiting for more information. Chapman stares back, waiting for the detective to get bored. He can do this all day, literal hours of silence if that's what it takes. He doubts any mere civilian can say the same.

Sure enough, the detective breaks first. "You see," he says, "we know for a fact that some of these individuals did, in fact, collude with the Yeerk Empire. And we have CCTV footage indicating that you might have been one of those colluders yourself. So anything you can do to help us out..."

Chapman lets the silence go for another minute, long enough for the detective to shift in place. "You're mistaken," he says at last. "About what it means to be a voluntary controller. Or an involuntary one, for that matter. The distinction you're seeking does not exist."

"I'm sorry." The guy has his notepad out now, pen moving. "You're saying... there's functionally no difference between the voluntary hosts and the involuntary ones?"

"Yes," Chapman says, unaware of the hell he's about to unleash. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

• “Ms. Paloma’s being a butt,” Melissa says, spinning her chair with a toe on the floor. “I told her that I have a French test the same day as the Bio one, but she just said that means I have to learn to manage my time.”

She just walked into his office. Without knocking. Without asking if he’s busy, if he minds, if he’s sure. Without apologizing for her existence. She walked in, she sat down uninvited, and now here she is complaining to him like any normal teenager.

“That sounds stressful.” Chapman is choosing his words with infinite care. He’s six years old again, holding a butterfly cupped in his palms and knowing that even a millimeter’s clumsiness will crush this precious living jewel. Thinking this. This is what I want. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.

She came in unprompted. She just walked right in.

“I hate French.” Melissa spins the chair again. “It’s all those lists of vocab words, and I can’t even say half of them correctly…”

“Do you want me to help you study?” Chapman asks.

Her head pops up with the force of her surprised, pleased smile. “You’d do that?”

That’s it, then. He’s never leaving this job. Paperwork and all.

#animorphs #animorphs au #long post #hedrick chapman #melissa chapman #violence #implied past child abuse #bullying #aus #imperfect consent #failure to obtain consent before kissing? doing things under the influence of substances that should really be done sober?#sol cares too much about the meatsuits #i am SO normal about the yeerk hosts

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