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daydreamerdrew · 10 months ago

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Comics read this past week:

Marvel Comics:

The Avengers (1963) #25-28

These issues were published across December 1965 to March 1966, according to the Marvel Wiki. All were written by Stan Lee and penciled by Don Heck. Issue #25 was inked by Dick Ayers and issues #26-28 were inked by Frank Giacoia.

In issue #25 Steve thinks, “How much longer can I continue to live a life not truly my own? A life with no roots? As Captain America, I’m merely a relic of an almost-forgotten past… Yes, as Captain America, I wear the mantle of Avengers’ leadership! But, what of the man inside the costume? What of Steve Rogers?? Am I destined to go through life with no real identity of my own? Is Steve Rogers always to live in the shadow of Captain America?” He deals with these feelings by training by himself at the Avengers’ manor. This reminded me of Steve’s thought process in his story in Tales of Suspense (1959) #75, also published in December 1965, which he dealt with by putting on ordinary clothes over his costume and going through a walk in the city. This made me realize that I can’t remember Steve spending time as Steve Rogers prior to this, although he got brought back in The Avengers #4. I’m not going back to check, but I remember when he was depicted in his off-time he was spending time, in costume, with Rick Jones, and then I can’t remember him spending time as Steve Rogers after Rick left.

I am charmed by Wanda’s concern for Steve. In issue #25 she wonders, “What is there about Steve Rogers that makes him so appealing to me? Is it the fact that he seems to harbor some tragic secret… some hidden sorrow? Or, am I just confusing pity with the dawning of love?” In issue #26 she thinks, “He endures so much- to hold the Avengers together! And yet- none can help him! He walks- alone!”

I have been less charmed with Clint’s characterization, with him always picking fights with Steve and Pietro, but he grew on me a bit in these issues. Firstly, it was his internal contradictions in issue #25. Wanda and Pietro go to tell him some exciting personal news and he just complains about them interrupting his training, then thinks, “I did it again! My blasted temper just lost me the only ally I’d need in order to get the Avengers’ leadership away from Captain America! To say nothing of ruining any chance I mighta had with Wanda!” In the very next panel he insults them again, and thinks, “What’s the matter with me?? Everything I say seems to come out wrong! I’m beginning to sound like the heavy in a grade-B movie! Rogers is right! I’ve got a big mouth!” Later he insults Steve by asking, “Do you always haveta make everything you say sound like the Gettysburg Address, winghead?” But when Steve starts to respond in kind, Clint cuts him off by saying, “Relax, cornball! For once I agree with you!”

I also liked some of what he brought out in Steve. In issue #25 Steve starts to argue with Clint when Clint tries to leave an Avengers meeting before being dismissed, then thinks to himself, “No! I’ve got to curb my temper! There’s nothing to be gained by this,” and says, “But, come to think of it, it’ll be a pleasure not to listen to your complaining for a while! So take off! But be back for morning roll call!” In issue #26 Clint is completely uninterested and disrespectful when Steve tries to explain some new important Avengers equipment to the team, which bothers Pietro and makes them get into a fight. Steve stops the fight and deescalates the situation by making them shake hands and not contradicting Clint when he acts like he’s in charge of the situation. This is even though Steve had previously spoken harshly with Clint, for example, telling him, “zipper your fat lip.” Though Steve speaks harshly again with him afterwards, saying as Clint leaves, “The less I see of your smirking pan, the better I like it!”

I also found some of the Clint’s dialogue when he was arguing with Steve in issue #28 to be fun. When Steve gets mad at him for complaining about an assignment, Clint says, “Anyone ever tell you how your eyes sparkle when you’re angry?” Later, when Steve gives the group orders while they’re on a mission, Clint asks, “Is it okay to breathe without your permission?” Steve responds, “In your case, I’d rather you didn’t!” But later, Clint stresses the necessity of getting to Steve to help him during a fight, to which Wanda expresses surprise, and Clint says, “Why not? Even if he is a square- He’s an Avenger, isn’t he?”

I recently read Clint reflect back on this behavior in the ‘Avengers oral history’ section of New Avengers (2010) #5: “We were not getting along. As I said before, I was somehow crazy jealous of Captain America. It was nothing but my own insecurity, but it was there. So I spent every minute of every day riding him, poking him with a stick, and challenging his every word. […] Meanwhile, he, for all his bravado, is a mess. He’s still a man fresh out of time. He is still a man trying to figure out his place in this brave new world. So not only does he have me needling him for no reason, but also not a day goes by where he isn’t thrust into a situation- a call to arms. He has to go act the hero. He was not allowing himself any time to directly deal with all that he’d been through!”

Sgt. Fury and his Howling Commandoes (1963) #11-12

These issues were published across August 1964 to September 1964, according to the Marvel Wiki. Both were written by Stan Lee and penciled by Dick Ayers. Issue #11 was inked by George Bell and issue #12 was inked by George Roussos.

The story of issue #12 actually made me sad. At the beginning of the issue the Howlers hear a Nazi propaganda broadcast that encouraged “Allied soldiers of German and Italian descent” to desert. Dino says of this that, “I guess Axis Sally figures there’s lots of Joes like me in uniform! Guys with names like Dino Manelli, or Garibaldi, or Schultz, or Erhardt! She doesn’t realize that we can love our European heritage and still be ready to die fighting tyranny!” Later in the story, on a mission, Nick orders Dino to pretend to desert in order to get critical information they need about the Nazi’s weaponry. Nick tells him, “You called yourself an actor in civvie life… Now go prove it, soldier!” Dino explains his motivation to the Nazis as that, “I wanna be able to act again when this show ends… and that means I wanna be on the winning side! Besides, since Hitler and Mussolini are partners, I figure I’m one of ya now!” The Nazis recognize him from his films and think, “What a propaganda coup this is for us! Wait till the world learns one of America’s most famous screen stars has defected to the Nazis!”

The rest of the Commandoes are allowed to believe that Dino really did desert so that their reactions will seem genuine. They’re devastated, and the idea is raised that “Since Dino deserted, none of us will ever fully trust the other!” Unfortunately, Nick is soon separated from the group and captured. When Dino completes his mission and makes his way back to Britain, he’s immediately taken prisoner. With no way to prove that he didn’t genuinely desert under fire, he’s set to be killed by firing squad. During Dino’s trial, Dum Dum Dugan says, “Maybe he went nuts! He’s always been a crack Commando! If I hadn’t seen it myself…” Afterwards, Dum Dum says, “He’s only gettin’ what’s comin’ to him!!… So how come I feel so blamed low??” Meanwhile, Dino thinks, “I can take the firing squad… Nobody lives forever! But, if I’m not cleared… the Howlers will never trust each other again the way we used to! They’ll start havin’ doubts… They’ll suspect everything each one does- It’ll be awful!” As he’s about to be shot, he thinks, “If only I didn’t have to see the Howlers… the way they’re lookin’ at me… the hurt, and the pain in their eyes! If only I could convince ‘em of the truth…!!… But, I can’t! No more than I could convince the court martial! Well, perhaps when we meet again… somewhere else… I’ll make ‘em understand!” Nick manages to escape and make his way back to Britain and interrupts them literally right before Dino’s about to be shot.

Strangely, we don’t get to see the Commandoes reaction, which would surely have a lot more genuine emotion than they usually display. It’s explained,“You’ll have to imagine the relief, and joy, and back-slapping that follow, because we’ve plumb run out of space! But, we do have time to show you just one more scene, exactly two hours later, as our sentimental Sarge addresses his squad…” This final panel is of Nick aggressively yelling at his Commandoes, as he usually does. This reminded me of the ending of The Avengers (1963) #14, where the whole issue the Wasp’s life had been in danger, and at the very end the rest of the Avengers learn that she’s going to live. And rather than depicting their reaction, the narration says, “Let us now leave the Avengers! Strong men should not be seen with tears in their eyes! Nor should they be disturbed as they lift their faces heavenward, in solemn, grateful Thanksgiving!” Multiple writers worked on this issue, but it’s known that Stan Lee wrote that page.

Timely Publications:

the Captain America stories in Captain America Comics (1941) #7-9 and All-Winners Comics (1941) #2

In this batch of 10 stories I went from October 1941 to December 1941, according to the issue cover dates. The stories ranged from 11 to 18 pages.

The story “The Strange Case of the Ruby of the Nile and its Heritage of Horror” (written by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby; penciled by Jack Kirby; inked by Joe Simon) in Captain America Comics #8 had Betsy Ross be the one to solve the mystery of who was trying to steal the ruby, and killing people in the process. Betsy Ross is involved in the situation as a friend of the daughter of the man who purchased the reportedly cursed ruby and was murdered first. Captain America and Bucky are largely outside the situation by snooping around outside the house, sneaking inside secretly or rushing in when they hear or see that something’s amiss. When the first murder happens, it’s said that, “Being a trained government agent, Betty Ross takes over.” She does detective work and also acts normally, comforting people in distress. At one point she sneaks off to call F.B.I. headquarters to check on someone’s background, then gets a call back that confirms her suspicions. The disguised murderer realizes that she’s onto them and attacks her, and Captain America and Bucky save her, and then she tells them who’s under the mask before they check for themselves.

The story “Captain America in the Case of the Black Talon” (written by Otto Binder; penciled by Jack Kirby; inked by Syd Shores) in Captain America Comics #9 had a uniquely racist premise. The villain, the Black Talon, was once an ordinary person and talented painter, until his right hand was destroyed in an accident, seemingly ending his career. A sympathetic doctor made an arrangement with a strangler set to die in the electric chair, described as a “gigantic and ferocious-looking African,” who “consented to donate his hand as a final decent gesture.” The painter was originally horrified at the prospect of “those cruel black fingers- part of me” but agreed for the sake of being able to paint again. The painter was warned about the possible side effects of him having “wild, new blood coursing through your veins,” which soon manifested as that the “black hand moved with a life of it’s own- painting gruesome pictures depicting unimaginable horrors!” The painter, driven mad by his “black taloned hand,” became the Black Talon, a serial killer that brutally murdered other painters and then painted their horrified expressions from their final moments. At one point during his fight with Captain America, the black hand is described as “moving with the speed of a striking cobra.”

the Human Torch stories in Marvel Mystery Comics (1939) #2-5

With these stories I went from December 1939 to March 1940, according to the issue cover dates. All are signed by Carl Burgos, who is known to have both written and drawn these stories. The stories in issues #2-3 were 16 pages and the stories in issues #4-5 were 12 pages.

At the end of the Human Torch’s first ever appearance in Marvel Comics #1 he ran away from his creator, declaring, “So!- Even you’ve been touched by the possibility of making a fortune in me, eh Horton? No Horton, I’ll be free, and no one will ever use me for selfish gain- or crime!” An excerpt from Professor Horton’s notes at the beginning of his second story in Marvel Mystery Comics #2 phrases his declaration as, “No one shall ever use me for personal gain, or have me confined to any one place. I shall always be free to protect those on whom others inflict themselves for selfish purposes.” Horton also says that the Human Torch “misunderstood my views” as he “saw possibilities to make a legitimate fortune,” but I don’t think that Jim mistook Horton’s aspirations as being criminal, like the racketeers who tried to use the Human Torch’s fire for an insurance scheme earlier in the first story, but that he was against both legal and illegal profiting off of him. Also at the beginning of that second story, we see a woman reading a newspaper and saying, “I say it was an awful crime for the Torch to burn up Horton’s home and kill him!” Jim, nearby dressed like a human, says, “Perhaps it was his own fault, ma’am- He saw possibilities of making a fortune for himself… Obviously the Torch didn’t approve!” That Jim apparently went back to his creator’s home and killed him after the end of his first story isn’t brought up again in this batch of stories. I like this early established central principle for this character, that he’s against selfish exploitation. The opening narration to his story in Marvel Mystery Comics #5 refers to him as “master of all flame, whose powers are dedicated to help those on whom others inflict themselves for selfish purposes.” Jim’s first story had him taking revenge on a criminal gang that tried to use him, but in these stories we see him purposely involve himself in situations in order to help people.

The Human Torch’s powers greatly developed in these stories. In his first story he learned how to turn his fire on and off, so that he wasn’t just stuck being on fire all of the time, and how to throw fire balls. In the story in Marvel Mystery Comics #2 he chases criminals into racing track stands, which promptly catches on fire. Jim says, “My gosh- the people will be burnt to death in there!… That must never be!” and lets out a loud yell, making the fire suddenly dissipate, of which he says, “Those flames know their masters voice…” In the story in Marvel Mystery Comics #5, when Jim and his friend are unconscious in a crashed plane, the fire caused by the sabotage doesn’t touch them, the narration saying, “the blistering hot flames form a protective circle around their master.” Later in this story the Human Torch whispers into his hands before throwing fire balls, and then the fire they form moves in an unnatural way of his design.

It’s a recurring thing throughout these stories that Jim has to be careful with where he goes and what he’s doing, lest he accidentally light things he doesn’t mean to on fire, which I think is a nice touch. Also, another thing is that throughout the story in Marvel Mystery Comics #2 Jim repeatedly has to get new regular clothes after he uses his powers, which inevitably destroy them. At the beginning of the story he’s wearing a suit. At one point the narration explains, “Days later we find the Torch dressed shabbily.” Later, after his clothes were burned once again, we see him say, “Lucky I found these overalls- makes me less conspicuous for the time being…”

DC Comics:

Superman (2023) #10

This issue was published in January 2024. It was written by Joshua Williamson, penciled by Bruno Redondo, and inked by Caio Filipe.

Superman in the old wild west was fun, but I’m glad it didn’t stretch out for more issues. At the end of the issue it seems that Mercy and Lois were captured off-page, and Superman gets captured, leaving only Lena left. (Lex is still in prison.) I’m thinking that the next issue will provide something interesting on Lena’s perspective on her father, as its a group of people that Lex wronged that have captured everyone, and the story will be titled “Lena Luthor vs. The Revenge Squad.” And since she’s the only one left to fight, we’ll see what this version of her’s fighting capabilities are. There wasn’t anything on Lena getting information she shouldn’t from the AI of her father that’s at Supercorp in this issue.

Supergirl (1996) #13-23

These issues were published across July 1997 to May 1998, according to the Grand Comics Database. Issue #13 was written by Darren Vincenzo. Everything else, issues #14-23, were written by Peter David. All were penciled by Leonard Kirk. Issues #13-20 were inked by Cam Smith, with the exception that Doug Hazelwood assisted with the inking of issue #19. Issues #21-22 were inked by Prentis Rollins. And issue #23 was inked by Robin Riggs.

Issue #13 had Supergirl have to fight a demon that was visiting teenage girls in their sleep, described as “attractive in a repulsive kinda way” by the only girl who doesn’t feel entirely negatively about it. The visits are said to be as that there’s “a kind of pressure. Like someone’s holding me down or sitting on me,” and then “the pressure becomes a pleasant kind of rippling,” then the demon becomes visible and talks to them seductively in Latin, “he’s everywhere at once and the rooms spins- and it’s hard to catch your breath and you feel kinda tingly and your mouth goes dry” before the girls suddenly wake up. They were looking to get religious help on the downlow, believing that their parents would punish them if word got back to them about the dreams. Upon learning about this, Linda remembers that her ex-boyfriend Buzz had some kind of deal with this demon, where he would entrance girls and make them fall asleep at his parties so the demon could enter their dreams, and that Buzz told her that they were “living a storybook romance.” When Linda comes face-to-face with the demon, he pointedly asks her if she misses Buzz. The talk about faith in this issue wasn’t very interesting, but what was interesting to me was the teenage girls’ belief that their mere dreams were something that reflected badly on them, that the dreams themselves were a kind of punishment for some unknown sin and that they would be punished if people found out about it, and the connection made between that and Linda having been seduced by a demon herself when she was a young girl.

In issue #14 Supergirl finally tells her parents, both the Kents and the Danvers, about the fusing of Mae and Linda. The Kents respond to it very well. Ma says, “What you did… it was so brave… Giving a poor lost soul a second chance. Saving that girl…” In response she’s told, “It’s more than ‘saving,’ Ma. I’ve become that girl. I’m as much Linda as Supergirl.” And she asks the Kents to call her Linda from now on, which surprised me because I didn’t think her identification with Linda went so far as to not consider herself Mae anymore.

The Danvers take it completely differently. It’s explained to them as, “I was, like, dying? And Supergirl found me, and we merged. We’re… We’re one person now, and I wanted to tell you. I felt dirty keeping it from you.” But then when she demonstrates her shapeshifting from Linda’s appearance to Supergirl’s, the Danvers react with horror, with Sylvia crying and Fred asking asking where their daughter is and what she’s done with her and calling Supergirl a freak. In issue #15 Supergirl tells them, “I… I wish I could tell you how I feel. How… How wonderful it is to be us…” Fred reacts with anger when she calls him “daddy” and says, “‘Absorbed’ our daughter? Who the hell else have you got in there with you?!” When she shapeshifts from Supergirl’s appearance to Linda’s, Sylvia screams, “Stop it! Stop doing that!! Putting on her face like it’s… it’s a mask…! Stop it!!”

In issue #17 Fred tells Supergirl, “I just don’t understand why you’re doing this to us.” Supergirl responds, “Would.. Would you rather I was just dead?” Fred tells her, “I want everything back the way it was.” And Supergirl says, “And what way was that, huh? When I was angry, eaten up inside? Self-destructive and unwilling to give you the time of day? That ‘way it was’? Why can’t you admit things are better than they’ve been in years?” And Fred’s answer is, “Because I… I don’t know if it’s a put-on! If it’s real! If you’re real!” What ultimately convinces Fred, in issue #18, to accept her as his daughter, and not as an imposter usurping his daughter’s life, is being told that Supergirl is a “genuine angel of mercy” and “everybody knows that,” which he recognizes as true. He expresses his change of heart to Supergirl by telling her, “You’d make any father proud.” Sylvia questions in issue #23, “How do you know you’re really her?” Supergirl says, “I know it! I feel it,” and Sylvia points out that she’s a shapeshifter and says, “Linda could just be another shape you’ve imitated.” Sylvia says that she wants to believe her, that she wants her to prove it, and Supergirl tells Sylvia that she has to take it on faith, tying into the discussion of faith throughout this batch of issues.

I liked the approach to the fallout of the reveal of Mae and Linda’s fusing. The Kent’s easy acceptance is simple in a boring way, but that’s fine. That Fred is convinced not because he recognizes some of who his daughter was before the incident in Supergirl now, or by any demonstration of that Supergirl has most of Linda’s memories, but that who she is now is acceptable as a daughter is interesting. And that Sylvia, previously emphasized as a Christian with a lot of faith, is ultimately more critically-minded and cannot accept the situation on faith, going through some of the concerns that Supergirl herself had at the start of this, is interesting, too. I think that this works well as reflective of how there is genuine ambiguity to the situation. I’m expecting that when Clark finally learns about all this he’s going to fall somewhere in the middle.

I’m not so into the religious parts of the book. In issue #21 we learn that, “An Earth-born Angel is believed to be created under very specific circumstances, when one person selflessly sacrifices himself or herself for the purpose of saving one who is, in every way, beyond hope.” I think that I may be more sympathetic to Linda’s situation than I am meant to be. I didn’t consider her evil when that opinion of her was raised and I don’t now think that she was beyond hope. And I don’t think that Mae, for her part, has handled this whole situation selflessly. But I’m not necessarily dismissing the writing as biased just yet, because it’s largely been working well for me so far.

Adventures of Superman (1987) #500-501 and Action Comics (1938) #687 and Superman: The Man of Steel (1991) #22 and Superman (1987) #78

All of these issues were published in April 1993, according to the Grand Comics Database. The main story of Adventures of Superman #500 was written by Jerry Ordway, penciled by Tom Grummett, and inked by Doug Hazelwood. The 4-page ‘first sighting’ of the Eradicator story in Adventures of Superman #500 and Action Comics #687 were written by Roger Stern, penciled by Butch Guice, and inked by Denis Rodier. The 4-page ‘first sighting’ of Steel story in Adventures of Superman #500 and Superman: The Man of Steel #22 were written by Louise Simonson, penciled by Jon Bogdanove, and inked by Dennis Janke. The 4-page ‘first sighting’ of Cyborg Superman in Adventures of Superman #500 and Superman #87 were written by Dan Jurgens, who also drew the layouts, which were finished by Brett Breeding. And the 4-page ‘first sighting’ of Superboy story in Adventures of Superman #500 and Adventures of Superman #501 were written by Karl Kesel, penciled by Tom Grummett, and inked by Doug Hazelwood.

This is the beginning of the Reign of the Supermen storyline, which was more interesting than I expected it to be. The 2019 animated movie adaptation did not portray the different Superman-replacements in a way that really sold to me that people could actually believe that they were the real Superman, but all of them were believable to me that people would think they were really Superman from an in-universe perspective in these issues.

In Steel’s first appearance he’s shown to be a Black man that emerges from the rubble left behind from the fight between between Superman and Doomsay, saying, “Doomsday! Gotta stop Doomsday!” Rather than leaving it ambiguous as to if this is somehow Clark reincarnated, his very next appearance reveals Henry Johnson/John Henry Iron’s backstory. He had once been saved by Superman, so he felt that he owed him, then when he saw the fight he believed very strongly that he had to help Superman defeat Doomsday, but then the building collapsed on him, “And all I could think was… This can’t happen. I can’t die. I owe my life to Superman!” His later attempt at fulfilling that “Metropolis needs a Superman” is stylized after the moniker ‘the Man of Steel.’ His silver metal super-suit completely covers his body, and after he saves a psychic, she goes on TV and claims that he is Superman’s spirit possessing another body since his was fatally injured.

Superboy is definitively a clone created by Cadmus, which had already taken Superman’s body and tried to clone him once before, and Superman’s body is revealed to be missing once again in the main story of Adventures of Superman #500. It’s explained that Superboy was resisting his mental implantations, which were meant to be commands and I think also mental impressions of Superman from a telepath who’d met him, when the Newsboy Legion broke him free from the tube he was being grown in, early. A ripped piece of red fabric with Superman’s logo on it, like Superman’s cape, is found on the tube, clearly making Guardian think that this was an attempt as cloning Superman. The Newsboys explain their actions to Superboy as that, “Us Newsboys kinda belong at the project, but you…” Later Superboy explains on TV that he’s a “clone of Superman! I don’t have my memories ‘cause there was no living brain but- Hey! Less mental baggage!” It’s my understanding, from Guardian, that a clone of a person is considered in-universe to be essentially that person if their memories are able to be carried over. Lois was originally dismissive of Superboy, but upon seeing his powers in display, starts to take the idea that he could be a clone of Clark seriously. Though there’s already been two instances where it’s made clear to readers that his powers work differently than Clark’s: one where he punches something and it’s noted afterwards that it wasn’t as damaged as it should have been, and one where it’s noted that he didn’t use X-ray vision when it would have been practical to do so. Of course, I already know that it’s going to be revealed that he’s not actually a clone of Superman, and that years later it’s going to be retconned that he is actually partially a clone of Superman. Also, regarding his superheroics, Guardian tells Superboy, “I disagree with almost everything about you, son… But you did okay out there today.”

Both the Cyborg Superman and the Eradicator have internal monologues that demonstrate that they genuinely believe that they are the real Superman. The Eradicator is the one that I think is the most convincing, from my perspective, not knowing a lot about Kryptonian lore. He wakes up as an immaterial being made of energy at Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, seemingly having been rescued by Superman’s Kryptonian technology. And he seems to be recovering Superman’s memories, going from “But… Where am I? I remember… a battle…” to “I… I know this place! This is… my fortress!” before he’s helped along by watching the news reports of Superman’s death and funeral. Upset that he can’t become corporeal, he declares, “The body! The real power must still be in the body!” Then he seems to travel to the tomb in only seconds. The way he speaks doesn’t really sound like Clark, for example, his phrasing of his concern about “if I am unsuccessful in regaining physical substance.” It’s made explicit that at this point Clark’s body is still in the casket. The Eradicator thinks, “The body is definitely in there. I can feel the raw power stirring within. Over thirty years of bio-converted solar energy is stored in this body.” He absorbs it and becomes corporeal, but the artwork doesn’t show if this process destroyed Superman’s body or if it’s still in the casket at this point. The Eradicator is very grateful, declaring, “Bless Krypton and the House of El! Their legacy… the technology of this fortress… has given me new life! This glorious regeneration matrix has insured that the heart of Krypton’s last son keeps beating!” And he thinks of the differences between his powers and Superman’s powers as that he has changed. I think the main reason why you wouldn’t think he’s the real Superman is that he kills the criminals he fights. His explanation for this to Lois is that, “I have changed. Kent is gone. There is only Superman now.” He also knows that Clark was secretly Superman and that Lois, Clark’s fiancé, was aware of this.

The Cyborg Superman’s first sighting is him destroying the plague commemorating the spot where Superman died and telling onlookers, “I’m back.” The non-cyborg parts of him look exactly like Clark. When Lois questions how he could have come back part-machine, he says, “I can’t remember so much of my past… My memories… are a haze…” But he’s able to communicate that he vaguely remembers that a farm in Kansas and the name Kent are significant to him, though he’s frustrated that he ‘remembers’ so little. Lois takes him to Professor Hamilton, who had previously run scans on Superman when he was still alive and studied Kryptonian technology. Professor Hamilton determines that the Cyborg Superman’s cyborg parts are Kryptonian technology, and for his non-cyborg parts, “All DNA matches up with the true Superman’s! There isn’t the slightest bit of deviation!” Hamilton’s determination is, “I would say with great probability- that this man is Superman come back to life!” Again, the Cyborg Superman believes that he’s really Superman. When he sees Doomsday, he thinks, “They never even bothered to wash my blood off you, butcher. Even in death you wear it like a badge of honor.” But I find him unconvincing, both because of the lack of an explanation as to how he could have come back like this, which we got with the Eradicator, and because his amnesiac perspective just comes across as phony to me in a way that the Eradicator’s perspective doesn’t. To be clear, I’m already aware that none of these characters are Clark.

#comics read this past week #my posts

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ndragoon · 2 years ago

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Ah yes, the infamous sexual content of 1984, Holocaust history, superhero comics, and the Gettysburg Address

Books are being banned and removed from library shelves. This is a very bad thing. I was one of the authors who protested. I would have protested even if my book hadn't have been one of the books banned.

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dankusner · 7 months ago

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Good ol’ boy from Tuna, Texas

Joe Sears ain't just some queen who wears dresses

TUNAMAN: Tony-award nominee Joe Sears says only a few of his characters — like Aunt Pearl Burras — are based on people he knows. The rest are created from his studious work as a serious actor.

By DANIEL KUSNER | Oct. 19, 2001

He's one-half of the comic duo that invented "Tuna" — Texas’ third-smallest town.

And when he slips on gowns, he becomes some of the most twangy women ever grace a stage.

Including...

• Aunt Pearl Burras, who poisons stray dogs; • Inita Goodwin, the shoot-from-the-lip Tastee Kreme waitress; • Bertha Bumiller, the mother who perfumes herself with a scent called Omaha Nights; • and Star Bird-Feather, a retrograde hippie chick who moved to Lubbock for spiritual enlightenment.

With all the eccentric women he's portrayed, one might expect Joe Sears to exhibit an unconventional personality.

But deep-down, he's ol’-skool.

And when it comes to labels, Sears ain't overtly queer.

"I was never 'openly’ gay. I just quit participating. I come from a ranch-and-farm people. The Code of the West thing is — we don't wanna know. I've always respected that. Because they've always respected me. It's really a family thing," Sears explains.

The Sears Family dates back to 1860 Indian territory in Bartlesville, Okla.

He's part Cherokee. And his relatives presently live within five miles of that original settlement.

He believes the Sears kinfolk would rather Joe eschew detailing his sexy affairs.

"But they're not stupid," Sears points out. "I'm just very dedicated to an old way of life. I come from a happy family. And I never wished to upset that. Because it wasn't important for me to tell them. I'm not ashamed of that. And not everybody understands how I feel. Of course, I'm not the only one who feels this way."

However, Sears ain't shy about his loving admiration for the Bush family.

Back when George Senior was our 41st President, Sears and his creative partner, Jaston Williams, gave a Command Performance in Washington, D.C.

"When we toured the White House with Mrs. Bush, she took us to the Lincoln Bedroom. And over in the corner is the handwritten pages of the Gettysburg Address. It's got a hunter-green cloth over it, which only the President and the first lady are allowed to remove. I think they're really cool people," he says.

Sears describes Barbara Bush as a "campy" individual, who’d get a twinkle in her eye when she talked about decorating one of her husband's White House offices.

"She had gone downstairs in the basement and rummaged through the Eisenhower curtains and put them in his upstairs office. And she had a chair reupholstered to match it. It was just the perfect Mamie Eisenhower-green with a 1950s floral design," Sears gushes.

"I was so impressed, I told her, 'Can I go down there and look in that thrift store?' The first lady had access to anything in that basement. And I just thought: Puh-leeze. Let's not go to the Lincoln Bedroom. Let's go to the basement!"

Sears shares the same affection for our current President.

Dedication of Stars to Joe Sears and Jaston Williams: May 7, 1998.

"They put a star — my star — out on Congress Avenue in front of the Paramount Theater. At that time, he was Governor Bush. And he dedicated the star. It was fun. Because he scolded me for making fun of his mother. I used to tease Barbara Bush a lot," Sears says. "He was real funny. So I've liked the man from the very beginning."

Before Sears was giving performances for our nation’s leaders and coveting White House drapery, the performer — who's now in his 50s — paid his dues.

After graduating from North Eastern State University, Sears moved to New York and landed scads of acting roles.

In the early '80s, while performing Shakespeare in San Antonio, he met Jaston Williams.

Eventually, Sears and Williams teamed up and started working late-night comedy clubs and cabaret lounges on Sixth Street in Austin.

That's where many of the affectionate Tuna characters started to emerge.

"Sixth Street was started by the hippies. It's where everybody hung out. The early clubs down there were laid-back. And full of poetry and Stevie Ray Vaughn... All the sudden we had a hit play running down there. And we kept expanding it. And we took it on tour," Sears remembers.

Only a few of Aunt Pearl’s mannerisms are reminiscent of one of Sears' relatives.

The rest of the Tuna residents evolved from his studious work as a serious character-actor.

Over the years, Sears has been received plenty of acting offers. But he doesn't accept many.

He's even been slated to work in film projects with Tommy Lee Jones and Robert De Niro.

"I have no film training. I can only do stage work. So if someone sees me able to do something, and I trust that, I might do it. Several producer friends of mine have asked me about contemporary films. And I've declined. But I tell them, 'You can call me when you have a period costume-piece, like Gladiator. Because I'm a classically trained actor," he confidently says.

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"I think that's a good career move. Because I enjoy the stage work more. I make more money onstage. And it's okay. Because when I get to be an older man, maybe then someone’ll need a Wilford Brimley type. You never know."

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Ever since his 1995 Tony Best Actor nomination (which Ralph Fiennes won for Hamlet), Sears says he's not going back to Broadway until he feels the right project crosses his path.

Another tempting offer that he turned down was to play Divine's role in the musical version of Hairspray.

"If I have to go back to Broadway in a dress, I'm going to do it for a Tuna play. But to go back in a dress as someone else? It says some- thing about your career and where you're going. And we don't do that as actors. We're very careful about that. So I didn't want to be associated as an actor who only played women. But I'll do it with Tuna," he says.

He does have at least one return-to-Broadway dream.

"One of my goals is to maybe talk Kathy Bates into doing Come Back Little Sheeba. It's about a lonely housewife and her drunken husband. And I want to play the drunken husband to Kathy Bates playing Little Sheeba. She's perfect for it," Sears says. "I've always wanted to play the husband who's a gentle, loving alcoholic who turns mean. It's a powerful role. Those are the kinds of things I want to do. And 'doing Divine' was just not a stretch for me on Broadway. Once you're invited to be a part of that family up there, you have to take care of it."

Joe Sears and Jaston Williams perform Red White and Tuna Oct. 23-29 with performances at 8 p.m. Tuesday-Saturday and 7 p.m. on Sunday at the Majestic Theatre, 1925 Elm St. Tickets $16- $42. 972-298-3110.

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Laughing at ourselves through ‘Greater Tuna’

If you wanted to bottle small-town Texas, while refining all its peculiarities into the biggest laughs, perhaps the purest product would be “A Tuna Christmas,” the best of the “Greater Tuna” tales.

Born as improvised Austin party skits, the loosely structured “Greater Tuna” grew into an alternative theater phenomenon, followed by tours of the state’s biggest and grandest theaters, with a village of characters made flesh by Jaston Williams and Joe Sears, who also penned much of the series.

The second show, “A Tuna Christmas,” tightened the story, deepened the characters, and gave audiences, now accustomed to its loving, yet razor-sharp parodies of small-town life, a chance to openly giggle and guffaw at the denizens tiny Tuna, Texas.

When it played Broadway, Sears was nominated for a Tony Award for Best Actor in a Play.

The following two scripts in the series, however, did not live up to the project’s promise.

Independently, Williams and Sears have gone on to explore other aspects of Southwestern culture, as well as plays that have little to do with Texas, but those of us who remember the waves of love and joy that visited each sold-out performance of “A Tuna Christmas” will count ourselves lucky to have been there — and to understand our state just a bit better

#Youtube

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trans-xianxian · 3 years ago

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I found an etsy shop that sells tiny dollhouse sized books because they have a miniature copy of the little prince but they have a like. Comically large selection of books in mini form. I'm talking classics. I'm talking religious texts. I'm talking ancient literature. I'm talking the fucking communist manifesto and the gettysburg address

#they literally have itty bitty the art of war and itty bitty the odyssey. obsessed #also like. every single sherlock holmes book???#absolutely enamored by this #ghost posts #text

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papermoonloveslucy · 4 years ago

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HOOSIER ‘DANCE’ GIRLS: MISS HARA & MISS O’BALL

September 14, 1940

On September 14, 1940, Lucille Ball and Maureen O’Hara reached the end of their whirlwind press tour to promote their new RKO film Dance, Girl, Dance. Ball and O’Hara made four personal appearances between screenings of the film, introduced by local radio star Roy Brandt of WFBM.

On September 1, 1940, The Indianapolis Sunday Star is already reporting the possibility of Ball and O’Hara appearing live at the Circle.

Before arriving in Indianapolis, the final stop on their tour, the pair were in Washington DC, and posted for this photograph. Lucille and Maureen became inseparable while shooting this film, and remained lifelong friends until Ball's death in 1989. O'Hara was having lunch with Lucy during the filming (June 1940) when Ball first saw her future husband Desi Arnaz. On November 30, 1940, the couple were married in Connecticut.

The film had premiered two weeks earlier, August 30, 1940. It was directed by one of Hollywood’s only female directors, Dorothy Arzner (above), who was also a lesbian. The film employed a young film editor named Robert Wise, who would go on to direct the iconic films West Side Story (1961) and The Sound of Music in 1965. Gowns were credited to Edward Stevenson, who would do wardrobe design on all Lucille Ball’s sitcoms.

The film opened in Indianapolis, Indiana at the Circle Theatre. The theatre was given its name because it is on Monument Circle. It was built in 1916 as a "deluxe movie palace." In 1984, after extensive renovation, it reopened as home to the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra. In December 1996, it was renamed the Hilbert Circle Theatre after being endowed by philanthropist Stephen Hilbert. The theatre holds 1,660 seats and is home to a Wurlitzer theatre organ.

“[They] will sing, dance and do dramatic bits during their four appearances.” ~ Indianapolis News, September 14, 1940

In 1940, Lucille Ball was still claiming Butte, Montana, as her birthplace. She felt it was more exotic than Jamestown, New York.

“Miss Ball has a joyous spirit that frequently breaks out into deep-throated, hearty laughter.” ~ Indianapolis News, September 14, 1940

This article notes that Lucy continued on to Chicago to meet up with the cast of George Abbott’s Too Many Girls. This was undoubtedly to meet Desi Arnaz, who she met while shooting the RKO film version back in Hollywood. In 1940, the stage version was still touring and a hit Chicago’s Grand Opera House. A romantic rendezvous was doubtless planned.

~ Louella Parson, September 25, 1940

The article also states that Lucille will do a film with Charles Laughton titled Mr. Pinky. No such film was ever made and Ball and Laughton never acted together, although she did work several times with his wife, Elsa Lanchester. In real life, Mr. Pinky was the name of Charles Laughton’s cat! It is possible that this project refers to the film Brighton Rock (1947), which was based on a 1938 novel and a 1940 West End play about a young mobster named Pinkie Brown. The article notes that Laughton will soon be in Chicago doing his famous readings of the Gettysburg Address and the 23rd Psalm.

O’Hara states that she “has a grudge against Hitler.” World War II was in full force and travel restrictions prevented O’Hara from visiting her native Ireland. The darkest days of the London blitz dominated the headlines worldwide.

~ Philadelphia Enquirer, August 19, 1940

The article also references Ball’s beginning to film the (yet untitled) Harold Lloyd film. The famous silent film comic was a great influence on Ball. He became a film producer and the movie was eventually titled A Girl, a Guy, and a Gob (1941). Lucy was the “Girl”, George O’Brien was the “Guy” and George Murphy played the “Gob” (a slang word for sailor).

The Indianapolis papers reviewed the film, describing Lucille Ball as “pert and mercenary”.

At the Circle, Dance, Girl, Dance was a double feature with Flowing Gold, a 1940 Warner Brothers release starring John Garfield, Frances Farmer and Pat O’Brien.

At a previous stop on the tour in Chicago on September 8, the film was on a double feature with Men Against The Sky, a 1940 RKO action / adventure film.

The film featured Donald Briggs, who would play the recurring character of Eddie Collins (Viv’s boyfriend) on season one of “The Lucy Show.”

On September 5, the pair met Cincinnati, Ohio, Mayor James Garfield Stewart, in advance of their appearance at the Palace Theatre.

#Lucille Ball #Maureen O'Hara #Dance Girl Dance #1940 #Cincinatti #Circle Theatre #Robert Wise #Dorothy Arzner #Flowing Gold #A GIrl A Guy and a Gob #Men Against the Sky #World War II #Harold Lloyd #Washington Monument #Charles Laughton #Elsa Lanchester

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msclaritea · 4 years ago

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Upon the Clear Distinction Between Fandom and the Baker Street Irregulars

BY LYNDSAY FAYE

November 30, 2012

In light of the ever-expanding popularity of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries in conjunction with recent adaptations including the Warner Brothers films, the BBC series, and the CBS reimagining, it falls to me to discuss certain disturbing tendencies on the part of new devotees to refer to that venerable institution, the Baker Street Irregulars, as a “fandom” when it is actually a literary society. The youth of the Sherlockian world will be excused for making this dare I say elementary error, since the case for the distinction has not been hitherto laid out. Following the summation of this article, however, fans and traditional Sherlockians alike will have reached a much clearer understanding, and the unfortunate misnomer of referring to the present Irregulars as a “fandom” will doubtless cease and be swiftly forgotten.

(Note: for the purposes of this intellectual exercise, the possibility that the BSI may potentially be a storied and erudite literary society and a happily thriving fandom simultaneously will be ignored. This decision was made in light of the fact that a noun cannot be two things concurrently, the way the Empire State Building is not both a functioning office tower and a tourist destination, and the way Bill Clinton is not both a former president and a saxophone player. Arguments that the BSI is peopled by both cultured readers and by eager fans would only muddy the issue, and therefore will not be entertained here.)

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word fandom dates from 1903 and is defined simply as “the realm of avid enthusiasts.” Although undoubtedly a positive, even a flattering definition, already we can see that this is an inaccurate way of describing the Baker Street Irregulars, founded in January of 1934 by Doubleday editor Christopher Morley and later permanently established as the premier Sherlockian society by Edgar W. Smith. While the BSI was conceived as a group of congenial, clubbable men who admittedly shared an avid enthusiasm for the Great Detective, no mention whatsoever is made in the definition of fandom of a taste for adult beverages, and the drinking of toasts to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s characters, which is of such import to the group as to be codified in the BSI’s by-laws. As a matter of fact, the words “Sherlock Holmes” appear nowhere in this document, while the words “drunk,” “drink,” “round,” and “toast” occur six times in the brief record. Describing the BSI as a fandom is thus clearly a counterfactual practice, and should be treated as such.

Of note, because the dates could potentially lead to confusion, is the fact that the Irregulars were founded in 1934 in New York City, at very close to the identical time period when the science fiction fandom was forming convivial societies of “avid enthusiasts” in order to discuss space travel, interplanetary colonization, their whip-smart literary contributions, and large-chested alien females. The Futurians, according to Frederik Pohl’s autobiography, were founded in 1934 in New York City; the Scienceers were founded in 1929 in New York City; the Los Angeles Fantasy Society was founded in 1934 in Los Angeles; and the National Fantasy Fan Federation was founded in 1941 in Boston. These societies in no way resembled the BSI, however, for their purpose was to discuss speculative, fictional adventures, while the BSI’s purpose (apart from toasting) was to discuss Sherlock Holmes. The Grand Game, as it’s called, a form of meta-scholarship, bears but scant resemblance to the doings of folk who pen Middle-Earth chronologies and dictionaries of the Klingon language. Those who suggest the BSI is a fandom will also note that, as a literary society, the BSI has always been peopled with thinkers and literary luminaries such as Isaac Asimov, while the Futurians boasted as one of their members Isaac Asimov, who was undoubtedly a different Isaac Asimov to the deservedly admired creative philosopher invested in the Irregulars.

One of the most self-evident differences between the Irregulars and those involved in fandom is the latter’s tendency to memorize an enormous amount of trivia regarding their specific preoccupations, be those preoccupations Battlestar Galactica or fiction featuring anthropomorphized dragons. A member of the Star Trek fandom, for instance, could readily inform an outsider that when Captain Picard was captured by the Cardassians, he insisted despite being cruelly tortured that the number of lights shown to him numbered four; such remarkable displays of knowledge are all too common among fandom enthusiasts. Invested members of the BSI could undoubtedly inform non-Sherlockians that Sherlock Holmes’s ancestors were country squires, that John Watson was an invalided member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and that Holmes is on record as having possessed three dressing gowns (blue, purple, and mouse), but as these are matters of historical fact, knowledge of them is much more akin to familiarity with the Gettysburg Address. I say again: do not succumb to lazy terminology and misidentify the BSI as a fandom. The one is concerned with an exceedingly popular series of crime stories, and the other is concerned with pop culture.

The activities of fans vs. traditional Sherlockians are hugely divergent. While fans come together to discuss their favorite sci-fi stories, television shows, and films, Sherlockians confine their conversation (and toasts) exclusively to the sixty stories, referred to as the “canon.” No mention is made of adaptations of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries; indeed, it is safe to say that the BSI as a whole is unaware of such bastardizations of the original writings, if indeed such things as movies and television shows based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle exist, which is doubtful. In addition, fandom engages in a pastime termed “cosplay,” defined by Wikipedia as “a type of performance art in which participants don costumes and accessories to represent a specific character or idea.” Such behavior would be anathema to a Baker Street Irregular, some of whom have been photographed dressing in Victorian garb and deerstalker hats.

Denizens of the fandom community fail to confine their “avid enthusiasm” to mere discussion of hobbits and tribbles; they also, as a group, have a marked tendency to collect memorabilia relevant to their favorite characters, spending precious funds in pursuit of items such as action figures and animation cells. A comic book collector would think absolutely nothing of paying triple digits for a prized mint-condition issue of Spider-Man, for example, while my copy of the 1892 issue of the Strand Magazine…no, strike that, I beg your pardon, the comparison is similar but ultimately misleading. Irregulars of my acquaintance have amassed collections of Sherlock Holmes art, Sherlock Holmes books, Sherlock Holmes knickknacks, Sherlock Holmes pins, Sherlock Holmes translations, Sherlock Holmes reference volumes, and Sherlock Holmes talismans such as magnifying glasses or pipes, but as these are clearly objets d’art, they find no equivalency within the realm of fandom.

It is of particular importance to note that fandom participants often write what is termed fanfiction, fictional works featuring their beloved characters in various situations of the fan’s own imagining, defined as “stories about characters or settings written by fans of the original work, rather than by the original creator.” Whenever a writer pens a story about a character created by another author, that tale falls under the umbrella of fanfiction, a practice that the Baker Street Irregulars would find both mystifying and vaguely distasteful. In fact, the mere concept of writing new stories starring characters not belonging to the author would strike dismay into the hearts of the BSI, who very often write and read pastiches featuring Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (a pastiche is defined as “a work of art, literature, film, music, or architecture that openly imitates the work of a previous artist”). As you have already recognized, no doubt, pastiche is entirely different from fanfiction, as fanfiction is specified as being penned by fans, and as I have argued previously, the Baker Street Irregulars are not fans but rather a literary society, and thus are categorically incapable of writing fanfiction. The notion that they could be both we have already dismissed as specious.

One must bear in mind as well the ironclad argument that the BSI was founded in the tradition of the great metropolitan men’s clubs of the 1930s, and thus bears no resemblance whatsoever to fandoms, which are largely concerned with grown men and women wearing tights. I find this line of reasoning particularly compelling, since it is common knowledge that once a group forms around a certain idea, it remains always the identical entity, indistinguishable in its modern incarnation from its origins, free from growth, change, or adaptation. Admittedly the BSI is no longer exclusively for men, but that is an admirable mark of progress and should be considered accordingly. Just as the company Apple Inc. sells small personal circuit boards hand-crafted by the artist Steve Wozniak (keyboard and screen not included), the BSI is emphatically not a fandom. And please stop referring to them by such blatantly fallacious terminology.

Lastly, a word upon the subject of respect for the gentleman who made our literary society possible, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There are some who take mild offense to those who speak of the BSI as a fandom, but I am not of their number, though it is worth mentioning out of deference that Doyle would certainly be outraged by the term. So beloved a character was Sherlock Holmes to Doyle that he spoke of him always with the soft light of adoration in his eyes and a flush upon his cupid’s cheeks, joy suffusing his features whensoever the subject of his masterful sleuth was raised. Were Doyle to be reanimated and exposed to the neophytes who ignore all discrepancies and insist upon wrongly identifying the BSI as a fandom, his mighty love for his hero would so overwhelm him, and his fury at the misidentification swell into so vast a storm cloud of righteous rage, that he would probably decide to remain alive simply for the pure, unadulterated pleasure he derived from writing the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and would deliver unto us sixty more cases. And lo, global warming would be reversed, and he would find a cure for herpes.

I trust that this article clears up any remaining confusion regarding the word fandom, and its woeful inexactitude when characterizing the Baker Street Irregulars. I likewise hope I have assured the reader the BSI cannot be both a respected literary society and a fandom, any more than Australia can be both a continent and an island. One earnestly hopes that this will settle the matter for good and all, and we can move on to other, better topics. In the meanwhile, I am going to don my deerstalker and write a story in which Sherlock Holmes fights the Cardassians, that being the sort of activity relevant to my interests. Thank you.

1. Am I wrong or is this a bit rude?

2. Why don’t we hear more stories about how Doyle actually loved Holmes? It’s as though people want the character to be remembered as hated.

Lyndsay Faye is the author of Dust and Shadow and The Gods of Gotham from Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam. She tweets @LyndsayFaye.

@elwinglyre @sarahthecoat @sussexbound @fellshish @artfulkindoforder @johnlockedness @ebaeschnbliah @tjlcisthenewsexy @madzither

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#What the hell #Lyndsay Faye #Fandom vs BSI #Squee vs the REAL #Sherlock Holmes #Arthur Conan Doyle #ACD

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sgreffenius · 4 years ago

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I read a book by Scott Adams almost twenty years ago - I think it was The Dilbert Principle - where he presented the world view outlined in this article. He talked about human beings as emotion-driven, unreasoning schmucks in a business context, rather than a political context. I became so tired of his position that I didn't finish the book. I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now.

The two political figures who come to mind right away, to contradict this analysis, are Jefferson and Lincoln. Lincoln's attack on slavery involved some emotional appeals, but mostly he appealed to abstract, natural law concepts about equality and property. You can't own people. Even if people are unequal in fact, because slaves exist, they are not unequal in theory.

Jefferson laid out these ideas at the beginning of the Declaration of Independence. The principles are about as abstract any political theory you can find. Lincoln's elaboration of this philosophy led people to fight a long civil war. We see the Gettysburg address as a masterful appeal to patriotic resolve, but without the Jeffersonian principles underneath, it would have no persuasive force at all.

On the other side, I've said for a long time, "I'll never accept that Mark Twain is right," even though I enjoy Twain's writing about people a lot. Mark Twain was an especially able exponent of Adams' view. More than once, during the last ten years or so, I've started to think perhaps Twain had something on his side. I haven't conceded much, though, as I don't take current politics as a good case for proving one side or the other.

Dilbert is often an intelligent strip. To appeal to people's emotions in politics, though, you have to be a poet, like Lincoln, not an egotistical braggart like Trump. We'll see how far his persuasive techniques take him.

#Donald Trump

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

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Tripping Over the Blue Line (30/45)

It’s a transition. That’s what Emma’s calling it. She’s transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she’s definitely not worried. Nope. She’s fine. Really. She’s promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She’s fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She’s got a job to do. And she doesn’t care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He’s done. One more season and he’s a free agent and he’s out. It’s win or nothing for Killian. He’s going to win a Stanley Cup and then he’s going to stop being the face of the franchise and he’s going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won’t be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That’s the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn’t going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: Casino Night. Caaaaasino Night. Casino Night emotions! I cannot quite believe there are thirty chapters of this story on the internet or that you guys keep clicking on this, but I am so grateful for both. Y’all are the best. As are @laurnorder, @distant-rose & @beautiful-swan who made this better. Living on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr.

She was mumbling.

Or talking to herself.

Definitely talking to herself and that was kind of depressing and just a bit alarming because everything was going to be fine. Mary Margaret had promised it would be and Emma believed Mary Margaret by default. Ruby had promised too and Merida as well and Emma should probably trust Merida the most because she’d been charged with keeping track of the schedule that night and making sure she didn’t have some sort of Casino Night mental breakdown in the back corner of Gotham Hall.

God, this place was enormous.

Emma knew that going in. She knew that when the season started and they told her Casino Night was hers in some sort of professional-possession type of way, but now it didn’t just look enormous, it felt enormous – even chock full of those tables they’d gotten out of storage a few days before and there were fans filing in through the enormous doors with comically large handles and the team was supposed to start getting there in a few minutes, a string of town car arrivals that were listed, in order, on that schedule Merida was carrying around.

“It’s fine,” Emma muttered, leaning against the wall in the far corner of the main room, tugging on the laces around her wrist out of habit. “It’s all going to be fine.” “Are you having some sort of episode?” Ruby asked and Emma jumped when when she met her gaze. “Uh oh, you’re totally talking to yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.” Ruby twisted her eyebrows and even crossed her arm, tapping the toe of one of her undoubtedly expensive shoes. “Yuh uh,” she said, sounding as unconvinced as Emma felt. “You know if you keep using that word, it’s going to lose some of its meaning.” Emma groaned, resisting the urge to sink down the wall she was leaning on until she’d crumpled up into some sort of incredibly unprofessional heap in the corner of this absolutely enormous building.

And Ruby was totally right – she’d used fine so many times in the last two weeks that Emma wasn’t convinced it was actually a word anymore, just an idea she’d come up with as some sort of coping device.

She mumbled under her breath again, sighing softly when her phone buzzed in her hand and Mulan wanted to know if she should be outside waiting for team arrivals or taking pictures of fans and Emma didn’t really want to answer.

She wanted to go home. She just wasn’t really sure where that was – and that might have been even more concerning than the madness she was quite obviously falling into if she kept talking to herself.

She missed the idea of a home and the feeling she’d gotten whenever she’d walked through the door of that apartment on Amsterdam Ave, far too big for just one person, but maybe just big enough for two. She’d lost control of her thoughts.

Fine, it seemed, was a much bigger lie than Emma had even realized it was.

She missed the pillows.

Emma missed Killian. And that was the first time she’d actually allowed herself to think that. She was actually going to slide down the wall.

Ruby was still staring at her, eyes narrowing just a bit when Emma’s thumb tugged on the laces that didn’t match her very fancy, very expensive dress covered in theme-appropriate fringe. Emma sighed again, answering Mulan – because she was a goddamn professional and the guys weren’t supposed to start getting there for another fifteen minutes, at least.

She had fifteen minutes to organize her entire life.

“So,” Ruby said slowly, moving next to Emma to brush her shoulder against her. “On a scale of one to ten how not fine is fine?” “Did those words make sense in that order?” Emma asked.

“The fact that you have to actually ask me that leads me to believe you’re sitting somewhere around one on the fine list.” “I have no idea what you’re saying to me.” “Sure,” Ruby said sarcastically, dragging four letters out until they sounded like the entire Gettysburg Address. “You know I talked to him.” “Jeez, Rubes I can’t do this right now.” Ruby eyed her skeptically, those stupid eyebrows doing something completely stupid again, and Emma groaned loudly, not even caring about the growing crowd of fans and season tickets just a few feet away.

“When exactly would you like to do it?” Ruby asked.

“Not during the biggest charity event this team does every year,” Emma answered and her phone was vibrating again. Mary Margaret and David were there.

“I thought that was your game.” “Oh my God.” “I talked to Regina too,” Ruby continued, seemingly unimpressed with any of the noises Emma was making in protest of this conversation.

“I don’t care.” Emma was getting very good at lying – or at least she thought she was until Ruby actually laughed in her face, a loud, obnoxious sound that probably shook some of the paint off the very fancy walls of that very fancy building.

Fine. Fine. Fine. Everything was going to be fine.

“Yeah,” Ruby laughed, nodding towards Mary Margaret and David when they somehow worked their way towards the other side of the room in a few seconds flat. “That’s absolutely why you keep tugging on those laces or why you haven’t taken those laces off despite the fact that everyone on this stupid team read The Times story.” “It wasn’t true,” Emma reasoned and that seemed to catch Ruby by surprise. “He’s not going to LA.” “Yeah, he said that too. Then what’s the problem here?” Emma didn’t answer, just closed her eyes and shook her head, plastering the same almost-honest smile she’d had on her face for the last two weeks.

They’d swept the western swing – and Killian had points in nine of his last ten games, snapping Robin’s goal drought when he set him up in front of the net against the Oilers. The tabloids were going nuts.

Emma read about it that morning, the back page of The Post claiming Killian Jones was The King of New York just a month out of the trade deadline and the Rangers were still sitting in the first Wild Card, closing in on the Blue Jackets for third place in the Metro.

And she couldn’t remember him playing as well as he had in the last two weeks, some sort of other level talent that had Ruby working overtime with all of the media requests for one-on-one interviews as soon as they got back to New York.

Which might have explained why, the three days they were actually in New York – a home game against the Caps coming in the middle of the road trip – Emma hadn’t actually seen him any more than in passing, a flash of dark hair and blue eyes moving out of the locker room as both Ruby and Regina tugged him from interview to interview.

Or, maybe, Emma was just a giant coward who’d actually overscheduled herself during those three days so she didn’t have some sort of emotional reaction in the middle of Madison Square Garden.

It was fine.

And, well, she’d totally needed to work those days – she had to finish prep for Casino Night and there were an absurd amount of auction items, not to mention another meeting with Hopper at the Piers and a meeting with Zelena about the meeting with Hopper.

Emma was busy. Too busy for emotions. And she was going to pull her laces apart if she kept tugging on them.

“You’re an idiot, you know that,” Ruby said sharply and Emma’s eyes widened out instinct. “I’m sorry, what?” “An idiot. And you’re not going to be able to schedule yourself out of the conversation tonight. You’re going to have to figure this out.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma said quickly and Ruby laughed in her face. “Sure.” The room was starting to fill up and Mary Margaret was rushing towards Emma, eyes scanning her hair to make sure none of the several thousand bobby pins had fallen out of place. “You look incredible,” Mary Margaret announced to no one in particular and her eyes were just a little bit glossy when she met Emma’s gaze.

“Jeez, Reese’s, you saw me a couple of hours ago.” Emma said, not quite able to stop herself from laughing. “You’re the one who did my hair.” “And your makeup.” “And my makeup.” “I know, I know, but your dress fits into the theme so well and your hair hasn’t fallen out of place yet and you look really good.” Emma smiled – and it almost, almost felt legitimate – but then she remembered everything she had to do and everything she definitely didn’t want to do and there wasn’t really a way to avoid either one. Mary Margaret, however, didn’t move, just pulled Emma’s fingers away from her wrist and squeezed – tightly.

“Did Ruby tell you she thinks you’re an idiot yet?” Mary Margaret asked, something that almost resembled amusement flashing across her face.

Emma’s mouth hung open, breath rushing out of her in one quick, vaguely unprofessional exhale, and she didn’t have time for this. Her friends, however, did not seem to care. And maybe she hadn’t been quite as fine as she’d promised.

Maybe she was somewhere in the realm of vaguely terrified and that was vaguely overwhelming.

“Did you guys coordinate on this?” Emma asked, eyes darting between her two friends and the matching looks of not-quite-innocent on their faces. “Oh my God, you did, didn’t you? Was there a schedule? Let Ruby get in there first, get the insults out of the way, the slightly abrasive start so I was more receptive to Reese’s good cop scheme?” “It’s not a scheme,” Mary Margaret muttered and David scoffed under his breath. That earned him a glare from all three of them.

“It’s not really, Em,” Ruby said and Emma got the distinct impression she was being placated. She felt like one of Mary Margaret’s fourth graders. She’d kind of been acting like one. “We just...you know might have talked about it a little bit.” “Sounds like you’ve been talking to just about anyone who will listen,” Emma accused. “Where’s Mer? I need a drink.” Mary Margaret looked disappointed – as if the idea of staging some sort of Emma Swan intervention in the middle of her charity event without alcohol was a good idea. Ruby just kept glaring at her.

“It’s not like that, Emma,” Mary Margaret said softly as David waved down one of the waiters who’d started circling the room. He handed Emma a glass, doing his best to look supportive without Mary Margaret actually noticing and it didn’t really work.

Ruby kicked at his ankles.

“No?” Emma challenged, downing half her champagne in one gulp. Mary Margaret’s eyes widened. “Because that’s absolutely what it feels like.” “Well, you’re being stupid,” Ruby reasoned. She didn’t drink her champagne as quickly as Emma did, but they’d both need refills in a few minutes if they kept going like they were. “I talked to him. I talked to Regina. No one from the Kings has even talked to him.” Her champagne was gone. “David, I need more to drink.”

He tried to move, but Mary Margaret tugged on the back of his tuxedo jacket, pulling him up short before he’d even gotten a complete step away. “No,” she said sharply and Emma made a face, glancing at a suddenly repentant looking David.

“Teacher voice,” Emma mumbled.

“Emma, I’m serious.” “I can tell.” Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but it wasn’t the sarcastic expression it had been on Ruby’s face. And that probably came from four years of college and a decade of being able to read each other’s minds and Emma still hadn’t left the loft, hadn’t even tried to leave the loft because the loft kind of felt like home too.

Fine was somewhere sitting out on the sidewalk at this point – probably getting run over by the players who were scheduled to start arriving at that very moment.

Emma’s shoulders sagged, a fresh glass of champagne pushed into the hand that wasn’t holding an empty glass of champagne and she shot a grateful look David’s direction. He winked at her.

“He wants to stay,” Mary Margaret said softly, but Emma heard them as clearly as if they’d been shouted at her. It kind of felt that way.

“Ok.” “Emma.” “I know, Reese’s. These are all things I’m aware of, painfully so, but that doesn’t mean they’re an option!” Her voice cracked on the last word and Emma felt three pairs of vaguely stunned eyes land on her face. She bit her lip and stared at her shoes – red, they matched her dress. And she absolutely hadn’t bought a red dress because he’d noticed the red dress in the restaurant that very first night.

Emma Swan wasn’t a sentimental fool.

She was just the biggest liar in the entire world.

Mary Margaret’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ and Ruby scuffed her heel along the tiled floor and Emma licked her lips before she could will herself to look back up.

“It’s fine,” Emma whispered and Ruby made a noise that sounded like a mix between a groan and a scoff.

“You tell him any of that?” Ruby asked. “Because I promise he doesn’t know.” “You didn’t need to yell at him for me.” “I didn’t. I just spoke with very direct words and a very specific focus. At least I didn’t punch him in the face and get a five-minute major for it.” Emma rolled her eyes, but that knot of whatever that had been sitting in the pit of her stomach for the last two weeks, three days and, somewhere around, six hours, seemed to loosen just a little bit. She, at least, felt like she could take a deep breath.

That was, however, until the lights in the hall dimmed and the fans that had filed in in the last few minutes exploded into cheers and the TV broadcast crew started announcing players by name and position as they took their predetermined spots on a stage that cost an absolutely ridiculous amount of money to rent.

Mary Margaret’s fingers found Emma’s arm, wrapping tightly around her wrist and pressing the laces against her skin and neither one of them tried to pull away from each other – four years of college and a decade of this, the kind of support Emma hadn’t ever really allowed herself to believe in, appearing just when she needed it the most.

David’s hand fell on her shoulder and Emma almost breathed easily as they continued making their way down the roster, Ruby moving just on the edge of her vision.

And fine didn’t feel like a complete lie.

He was last.

Of course.

Emma gulped the rest of her champagne, appreciating the soft buzz that she felt in the back of her mind and maybe her veins and, God, he looked good.

The tux fit perfectly, but it wasn’t black, it was navy and there was a pocket square and a tie that Emma kind of already wanted to tug off and she probably should have talked to him before Casino Night. He looked nervous, the fingers on his left hand tapping out an impatient rhythm while he stood in front of the crowd and listened to a list of his most recent accomplishments, that back page flashing up on the screen behind him.

“You did that on purpose,” Emma accused, leaning around Mary Margaret to glare at Ruby who just shrugged in response. She’d been in charge of one thing – getting clips and photos for the screen behind that ridiculously expensive stage – and it shouldn’t have surprised Emma that she’d pulled The Post back page from that morning.

“I’m pleading the fifth,” Ruby answered easily.

“Yeah, that’s not how that works,” David laughed and his hand tightened on Emma’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to realize he’d done it.

The TV broadcasters announced the official start of Casino Night – as if it hadn’t been going on this entire time, every single moment of the entire goddamn thing planned by Emma – and the players moved towards the tables they’d been assigned and the crowd was probably going to cheer for the rest of the night.

“Boss,” Merida shouted, jogging towards them with a clipboard in her hand and a headset pressing down on her curls.

“Still on schedule?” Emma asked.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, everything is good. The guys that are supposed to be at the tables are at the tables and then some of them are doing that Instagram thing we set up and the stragglers are auctioning things.”

“Instagram thing?” Mary Margaret repeated and Emma knew she didn’t imagine the note of pride in her voice. “We’re making them pose. You know like they do on the award shows? They’ve all been told to act as ridiculous as possible.” “That’s a really good idea.” “It happens from time to time.” “All the time,” Mary Margaret said, squeezing Emma’s forearm again.

Emma rolled her eyes, but she could still feel that buzz in the back of her head and she was half certain it wasn’t because of the champagne. “So if we’re all on schedule, what’s the problem, Mer?” Merida pressed her lips together and Emma tried not to let her impatience show on her face. “There’s a couple asking for you.” “Who?” “Van...something.” Emma bit her lip tightly and, now, four pairs of curious eyes were staring at her and she could use some more champagne.

She hadn’t forgotten – not really. She’d sent the tickets before the All-Star break, had gotten an actual thank you note mailed to her office from Mrs. Vankald after, but Emma hadn’t really considered the possibility of seeing them during Casino Night, certain, when she sent the tickets, that she’d have a few other things going on.

She hadn’t considered the possibility that she’d come into Casino Night riding two weeks, three days and, now, closer to seven hours, of avoiding Killian Jones. Except for that one phone call, but Emma wasn’t certain anyone else knew about that.

She certainly hadn’t told anyone about that.

“They were wondering if you were around,” Merida continued slowly, staring at Emma like she was some sort of emotional bomb.

It kind of felt that way.

“Ok,” Emma said quickly and maybe a bit breathlessly, but she didn’t pull her arm away from Mary Margaret.

Ruby moved before any of them, shooting Mary Margaret a conspiratorial glare that all but confirmed Emma’s suspicions that they’d planned something, and slung her arm around Merida’s shoulders. “C’mon, Mer,” she said. “Let’s, uh, let’s go shout things at the guys while they try to pose for the internet.” Merida stared at Emma, clearly waiting for further instructions, and she tried to make sure her voice didn’t shake when she spoke. “It’s fine, Mer,” Emma said, wincing slightly at that word. “We’re all on schedule, go see what’s happening out front and I’ll check on the auction after I say hi to the Vankalds.” Mary Margaret actually gasped and Emma’s stomach did something she wasn’t sure was medically possible, pressing her heels into the floor so she didn’t run – again. “It’s fine, Mer,” she repeated. “Seriously.” “If you say so.” “I just did.” Ruby made a face, lower lip sticking out slightly as she pulled Merida back towards the front doors, shouting, “Don’t be an idiot, Emma,” over her shoulder.

Emma still didn’t move. “You invited his parents?” Mary Margaret asked softly, tapping her thumb meaningfully against Emma’s wrist.

“I mean, not technically,” Emma argued.

“Yuh huh.” “And they want to talk to you,” David pointed out.

Emma’s neck cracked when she moved her head back, staring at the ceiling like that would, somehow, help her. “Well, I haven’t seen them since Christmas.” “And haven’t talked to Killian in weeks.” “Rude.” “Honest.” “Have you guys just been plotting these conversations since I got back from LA?” Emma asked and neither one of her friends had moved away from her side. There was a cliché in there somewhere.

“No,” Mary Margaret said and David made a noise that wasn’t quite the disagreement it probably should have been.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. It’s almost nice. Almost.” “It’s super nice, Emma, and you know it,” David said. “And it’s not like you’re the only one who’s upset and just a bit terrified.” His eyes widened as soon as the words were out of his mouth – like he’d just given up state secrets. “Wait, what?” Emma snapped and her head was on a swivel at this point, bouncing between Mary Margaret and David and both of them had squeezed their eyes shut.

“Reese’s,” Emma continued. “What did you guys do?” “I didn’t do anything,” Mary Margaret promised, finally letting go of Emma’s arm so she could hold her hands up in the air, pleading innocence with one, quick movement. “This has all been David.” “Thanks a lot,” he muttered and Mary Margaret didn’t drop her hands. “To be fair, it’s not like I sought him out. He came to me.” Emma’s heart had fallen on the ground and her stomach was there too and maybe her jaw because it had dropped open so quickly it actually was starting to hurt. “What?” Emma whispered.

David smiled sadly at her, pulling her against his chest without a word and he couldn’t really cup the back of her head – Mary Margaret’s quick gasp about her hair making him rethink the movement almost immediately – but he wrapped both his arms around her and held on tightly and that was enough.

“He texted me,” David muttered. “And called and asked what he should do and if you were ok. He’s worried you’re not ok.” “What?” She needed to come up with another word.

“I think you terrified him just a bit, Em.” “But….what? I mean, how?” “Are you serious?”

Mary Margaret made a noise, smacking at David’s shoulder slightly. “Emma,” she said slowly and the teacher voice was back. “He could probably go anywhere in the league, right?” Emma nodded. “He doesn’t want to. You’ve changed that.” And somewhere in the back of her mind, Emma knew Mary Margaret was right – knew Killian had told her the same exact thing in that alley in Los Angeles – but two weeks of feeling like she was walking on the edge of something had left Emma without much confidence in the NHL’s free agent market.

“He looks at you like you are...everything,” Mary Margaret continued. “You just have to believe that.” Emma scoffed and they’d gotten to the center of the issue in a way that she hoped they never would. She did – and that was why she’d run.

Emma didn’t do maybe’s and hopefully’s and max-deal negotiations. She did schedules that she had memorized for the better part of the last two weeks.

She wanted something certain and Killian Jones was far from certain.

“Why didn’t you tell me he called?” Emma asked, staring at David.

He shrugged. “Would it have made much of a difference?” “Probably not.” “You were mad, Em. And so disappointed you practically reeked with it and I know you. You ate an entire box of pop tarts in two days. That’s, like, other level. So he called me and I told him you’d be fine eventually and then they had to go back on the road and he couldn’t really do anything, so there didn’t seem to be much of a point in adding to your pile of very obvious worries.” “I’m fine.” “You are a horrible liar.”

“Is that why you’ve made pancakes every other night? Because you totally knew?” “Obviously.” “And bought that extra box of hot chocolate,” Mary Margaret added.

Emma laughed under her breath and the Vankalds were making their way towards them now – God she was the worst girlfriend in the world. Oh, fuck, was she still a girlfriend? She hoped so.

“How do you guys do this?” Emma asked suddenly, head snapping up almost painfully.

“Do what?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Be so certain...in each other? I mean you guys turned around one day and just knew. How is that even possible?” “That’s not what happened.” “I was there.” “Well, ok,” Mary Margaret admitted. “It kind of happened that way. But you’re forgetting David being a jerk that whole semester and it’s not like it’s perfect. You think I’m just ok with him going out and maybe getting shot every day?” Emma’s eyes widened and she’d never heard Mary Margaret be so blunt in her entire life. “I’m not,” Mary Margaret continued. “I am terrified. I jump every time my phone rings while he’s on patrol. Even when I know he’s sitting at his desk. He could leave and just never come back.” “So what do you do?” “Believe.” “You make it sound so easy,” Emma sighed.

“It’s not. It’s not even in the realm of easy, but if you want this, Emma, the way he seems to, then you’ve got to let yourself believe. It’ll be worth it. Love is always worth it.” Emma’s breath caught in her throat and she blinked quickly so she didn’t actually start showing a ridiculous amount of emotion in the middle of Casino Night, dimly aware of the fans around her and the sounds of roulette tables spinning a few feet away. David’s hand landed on her shoulder again.

“That was one of your better ones, Reese’s,” Emma mumbled, hugging her friend close to her and Mary Margaret chuckled against her.

“That was just off the top of my head.” “What am I going to do?” “Tell him the truth,” Mary Margaret said evenly.

“And maybe introduce us to his parents,” David added. “Vankalds incoming at two o’clock.”

Mrs. Vankald was wearing feathers in her hair and Mr. Vankald’s tux actually had tails on it and Emma couldn’t stop the smile from forming on her face as soon as she saw both of them, something that almost resembled contentment snuffing out the anxiety that had been lingering in the pit of her stomach.

It was all Mary Margaret’s fault – she was far too good at those hope speeches.

“Emma,” Mrs. Vankald said, smiling as she greeted her. Emma’s feet moved before she was quite ready, David’s hand falling away from her shoulder just quickly enough that Mrs. Vankald didn’t inadvertently pull him into a hug as well.

“Hi Mrs. Vankald,” she mumbled, voice stuttering just a bit as she tried to stay upright on her heels. Emma glanced up to smile at Mr. Vankald and his tuxedo tails – or at least try. It felt a bit nervous.

She was a bit nervous.

“It’s so nice to see you,” Mrs. Vankald continued and if she had any idea about the whatever that was going on between Emma and Killian she didn’t show it. Or sound it. She looked genuinely happy to see Emma. Huh.

“This is incredible, Emma,” Mr. Vankald added. David’s hand was back on her shoulder. Older brother, pride mode, activated. “So much better than the one Casino Night we went to before.” “You only remember that because they ran out of appetizers at the one Casino Night we went to before,” Mrs. Vankald muttered and maybe this could be normal if they all kept laughing like that. Emma should probably talk to Killian.

Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope.

Mr. Vankald made a noise in the back of his throat, a scoff that didn’t quite ring true, and Mrs. Vankald smiled at Emma again, glancing at David and Mary Margaret in unspoken question.

“Oh,” Emma started, waving her hands quickly. Mr. Vankald’s head tilted slightly when her laces shifted on her wrist, falling down her forearm slightly and she’d definitely need to get them re-tied at some point because they kept doing that. She should also probably stop tugging on them in emotional moments. “Um, Mr. and Mrs. Vankald, these are my two best friends, David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes did something meaningful at the title Emma so casually dished out and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes – or pull on her laces. David just stuck his hand out, waiting for one or, maybe both, of the Vankalds’ to take it.

Mr. Vankald did.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” David said and everyone in this conversation sounded so sincere Emma wasn’t sure it could possibly be real.

“Are you part of the team as well, David? Front office?” Mrs. Vankald asked and Emma did roll her eyes at that, David’s eyes almost flashing at the question.

“Just a fan,” he answered, disappointment obvious in his voice. “And Emma’s food supplier.”

Mrs. Vankald lowered her eyebrows at that and Mary Margaret wasn’t all that great at conspicuous, very clearly elbowing David in the side.

And it kind of felt like Emma was introducing the Vankald’s to her parents.

“He’s a detective,” Emma supplied and, well, if David could do pride then so could she. And maybe thank him for buying her several boxes of varying pop tart flavors over the last two weeks. “Saves us all, all the time.” Mary Margaret was absolutely going to start crying in the middle of Casino Night – Emma was certain – and David was staring at her like she’d only recently been abducted by aliens, eyes wide and mouth slightly open and he hadn’t stopped shaking Mr. Vankald’s hand yet.

“Swan?”

David pulled his hand back to his side, palm colliding against the side of his tuxedo pants like it had crashed there. Emma wondered if there was any truth to that whole scientific idea that when one of your senses was dulled, the rest seemed to enhance, because she’d absolutely lost the ability to speak, but she could hear everything clearly and her eyesight had suddenly turned 20/20, picking up on every single detail in Killian’s face when he looked at her.

She felt her mouth open, hopeful the words were just on the tip of her tongue and maybe she wouldn’t sound like a complete fool when she actually said something.

No such luck.

“Is your tie...shiny?” Emma asked. Mary Margaret made some sort of strangled noise and Mrs. Vankald’s smile got even wider.

“I’ve been told on very good authority that metallic is in,” Killian said. There was a smirk – of course there was a smirk – but it looked a bit nervous and his eyes didn’t stop moving, tracing across Emma’s face and she knew the moment they landed on her lips.

He rocked towards her, one foot moving in front of the other before, it appeared, he thought better of it, sticking his hands back in his pockets and staying exactly where he was a few feet away from her.

“Doesn’t seem to really go with the theme,” Emma pointed out. She needed to stop talking. Or, at least, stop talking about his tie.

She needed to talk to him – without his quasi-parents there, without her quasi-parents there. No one moved.

“Ah, well, not all of us are as confident in our fashion choices as Mr. V here,” Killian laughed, nodding towards the man next to him. “Where’d you even get a jacket like that?” “Oh, leave him alone,” Mrs. Vankald chided, flicking her finger on Killian’s shoulder. “He’s just excited to be here.” “Ah, well, that makes two of us.” Killian’s shoulders moved when he took a deep breath, eyes flitting back to Emma. She bit her lip and she was totally going to ruin Mary Margaret’s makeup job. “It looks incredible, Swan.” Emma just nodded, far too aware of Mary Margaret’s stare on the side of her head and David’s hand lingering in the general area of her shoulder and when she blinked she was positive she’d imagined that look of frustration on Killian’s face.

“The, uh, the appetizers should start circulating in a couple of minutes,” Emma said, rushing over the words quickly and ignoring how blue Killian’s eyes looked with that stupid, navy suit and shiny tie. “We won’t run out of them this time, I can guarantee that. I’ve just, uh, got to check on the auction stuff and make sure the broadcast guys stick the script we gave them. I’m so glad you all could make it.” Mrs. Vankald just kept smiling at Emma, muttering something about being busy and enjoying yourself when you have some time and Mr. Vankald nodded in approval at the idea of never-ending appetizers.

Mary Margaret and David looked disappointed.

“Alright,” Emma snapped and she nearly tripped over her heels backing away. “I’ll see you all later. Eat, there’s an absolutely ridiculous amount of food.” She moved as quickly as she could, spinning on the spot and her lungs felt tight and her throat felt dry and her vision swam in front of her eyes as she took a few steps forward.

God, there were a lot of fans. They were still cheering – although most of them were cheering for blackjacks and red 22 and someone a couple of feet away yelled about the green square – and the wait staff, all of them with theme-appropriate uniforms that Emma had signed off on weeks ago, was starting to make their way through the crowd. That only made it more difficult to get to the back room, a hallway that, maybe, hopefully, would be just a bit quieter.

And maybe Emma could remember how to breathe.

She got to the hallway and it was, at least, ten degrees cooler there than it was in the main room, but silence, it appeared, was a commodity she couldn’t quite afford.

“Swan,” Killian said and Emma’s head snapped to her side when she heard the edge in his voice. “What are you doing?” He was already closer than he had been during that entire conversation with the Vankald’s and Emma’s lipstick was a lost cause at this point, a casualty of nerves and an attempt at hope.

“Are you following me?” Emma asked.

He blinked, eyebrows low and something that probably could have been a sneer on his face. He was frustrated – again. “What? No, well, kind of, but only in a sense to make sure you’re alright.” “I’m fine.” She’d answered quickly, words falling out of her mouth easily and she hadn’t really looked at him yet, just stared at the opposite wall and tried not to focus how she could feel him standing next to her, lingering just a few feet away like he was nervous to come any closer.

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, a sound that was so familiar now Emma couldn’t stop the smile from forming on her face even if she tried.

He was holding glasses – she hadn’t noticed that before, far too focused on the wall and her shoes – and she heard him exhale softly before he turned on her, nervous smile tugging on one side of his mouth.

“Don’t make a man drink alone,” Killian said softly, tilting one of the glasses towards her.

“I’m not all that interested in a drink. Or a man. I’ve got a job to do. Several, in fact.” “I think the waiters can move trays without your assistance, love.” Emma huffed, rolling her whole head so she could really drive the point home and Killian’s smile wavered. He sighed again, crouching down to put the glasses behind him.

“You’re going to spill those,” Emma said and she was back to staring at her shoes.

“I’ll remember they’re there.” “Ok.” It felt a bit like that phone call – when she’d watched the Vancouver game with her mouth hanging open and her eyes going wide, breath catching in her throat as soon as Graham’s fist landed on the side of Killian’s face. There was still the ghost of a bruise just under his eye, skin slightly more purple just above his cheekbone than it should have been if everything was as fine as Emma kept promising it was.

They’d danced around it then too, stuttering through the conversation in a way they hadn’t since the first set-up and the silence Emma had been so desperate for just a few moments before felt oppressive in the middle of the hallway.

Killian pressed his thumb into the back of his left hand, rocking on his heels and Emma forced herself to look up at him – a mix of disappointment and frustration and hope on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice finding its way into every inch of her. “I know you’ve had the weight of the world on your shoulders and that story couldn’t have come out at worse time, but you’ve got to trust me here, Swan. I want to be in New York. With you.” “Wait, what?” Emma asked, a picture of well-spoken responses.

“I need you to trust me, love.” “I do.” Killian lowered his eyebrows and he was absolutely going to knock over both of those champagne glasses if he kept rocking on his feet like that. “Somehow I’m not getting that,” he admitted.

“You think that’s what this is about?” Emma asked incredulously and Ruby’s voice echoed in her head. I promise he doesn’t know.

“Isn’t it?” “No,” Emma said, half sighing out the word. “I, mean, not now at least. It was in LA, but that was just because I wasn’t expecting the story and Neal was all self-important about you going to the Kings and I kind of lost my perspective a little bit…” “Wait, Neal? Neal showed you the story?”

Emma nodded slowly. “I guess we never got to that part of the explanation.” “We did not.” It wasn’t getting any easier to breathe, particularly when Killian took another step towards her, the toes of his exceptionally polished shoes just a few inches away from her red heels and Emma kept her hands trained at her side so she wouldn’t tug on his belt out of instinct.

“Of course I trust you,” Emma continued. “That’s why I called in the first place. I was...I was worried about you.” “Then why this?” Killian waved his hand through the space between them, eyes widening just a bit when he met Emma’s gaze. And he might be in one of the best scoring streaks of the season, but he didn’t look like he’d slept much during it either. He looked as exhausted as Emma felt. “Why do you keep pulling away from me?” “Because everyone left,” Emma said, nearly shouting the words at him. “Everyone. All those families and the houses and Neal and Walsh and even Reese’s and David will at some point. I’ve got to get my own apartment eventually and they’ll get married and they’ll...they’ll leave. And I can’t.” She paused, closing her eyes and she didn’t see him move before his fingers traced over the back of her hand. “I can’t lose you too.” Killian’s hand twisted, fingers lacing through hers and she felt his thumb come up underneath her chin. “Emma,” he said softly. “Come on, look at me.” She did and she wasn’t entirely ready for everything she saw – nerves and frustration replaced with something Emma was convinced, just a few moments before, only existed in movies and young adult novels. It made her breath catch again and her stomach do something impossible and her heart beat so hard it actually hurt, thudding against her ribs until she was certain it was the only sound she’d ever hear again.

His thumb moved across her cheek, brushing away the tears she didn’t realize she was crying and Emma’s mouth opened when she realized it was his left hand.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Swan,” Killian continued and his voice cut right to the very center of her, lingering there like someone had lit a tiny fire in the pit of her stomach. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He tugged on her hand – fingers still wrapped up in Emma’s – and she all but crashed into him, letting out a soft oof when the beading of her dress hit up against her legs. And then there was just him and his hand on her hip and his lips on hers and Killian sighed against her, like he’d been waiting for her to catch up to the moment.

He probably had.

Emma moved with him, or maybe against him, out of instinct, heels popping out of the back of her shoes so she could reach him better and his fingers traced across the line of her spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

And if she’d been trying to find that feeling of home in the last two weeks, three days and, now, seven and a half hours since the story and the nerves and the fear, Emma had found it as soon as Killian Jones kissed her again.

He lingered in her space when oxygen became more of a necessity than continued making out in another abandoned hallway, hand still moving up and down her back like he was trying to make up for lost time when it came to touching her.

“You can’t promise that,” she mumbled and, someday, she’d find some sense of consistent confidence. “I just did.” “But,” Emma argued, shaking her head and, God, she was still crying. “You can’t. It’s not like you can just demand a contract extension.” Killian shrugged. “I can help my own cause though.” “Is that what this has been about?” “What?” “The scoring streak and King of New York back pages. You’re trying to prove yourself to the New York Rangers front office?” “In part.” “What’s the other part?” Killian grinned, eyebrows doing something wholly unfair for the emotional conversation they were having. “Well,” he said slowly, leaning forward to drag his mouth against the curve of her jaw and Emma could feel every letter of every single word. “There’s this community relations director and she’s kind of thrown everything on its head.” “Was there a compliment in there? And don’t forget fan experiences and events.” “I’m getting there, Swan.” “Ah, of course. Go ahead.”

He chuckled against her neck, both hands heavy on her hip at this point and Emma wasn’t sure when she’d been backed against the wall, but that’s where she’d ended up. “I am one-hundred percent showing off for you,” Killian said.

“That so?” “Unquestionably. How’s it going?” “Better now,” Emma muttered, voice catching when he actually started kissing behind her ear.

“Good.” He kissed her again or maybe she kissed him and they probably moved at the same time because that’s how the night was going, staying in each other’s space even after they’d actually pulled away from each other.

“I do believe you,” Emma said, hands pulling on the front of his tuxedo jacket. “I know you want to stay.”

“More than anything.” He smiled at her and Emma nodded, but she knew what was coming before he even said anything else. “You’re still worried.” “Aren’t you?” “Of course I am. And I know half the reason we’re in this entire situation is because of me and what I wanted and didn’t want, but I’m going to fix this, Swan. I’m going to keep scoring goals and we’re not that far out of first really, if you look at the standings, we could make a run at the President’s again, and then we’re going to win a Cup.” There was no way to argue the conviction in his voice, no way to doubt the certainty in every single word and she let we linger in the air for a few moments before responding.

“You’re almost as good at those motivational speeches as Reese’s.” “That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Or, at least, will. In theory.” “They will,” Emma said, tugging on his jacket for emphasis.

“Confidence, Swan?” She shook her head slowly and Mary Margaret would be disappointed that the bobby pins had given up, a piece of her hair hitting up against Emma’s forehead. “Hope.”

They auctioned off every item Emma had gotten signed and the VIP meet-and-greets for the game at the Piers sold for an amount that would probably make her eyes widen for the rest of her life, the self-satisfied smirk on Killian’s face when she told him the number making her roll her eyes as well.

“Ah, well, who could deny themselves the chance to watch me lead a team to victory?” he asked and Mrs. Vankald flicked at his shoulder again.

“You guys didn’t have to bid on anything,” Emma said for what felt like the tenth time. They’d bid on everything, Vankald seemingly written on every other line of the silent auction when Emma went to check between rounds of appetizers.

They only actually won one thing, however – a signed stick by the Rangers front line and Will had laughed about that for a solid five minutes, appearing after he’d wrapped up his required roulette duties.

Robin asked Killian about it on camera, making sure to jab him about his parents buying his merchandise during the special Casino Night edition of Locked in With Locksley. Killian had thrown his microphone towards the other side of the room.

Mrs. Vankald brushed Emma off – again – and squeezed her hand. “We wanted to,” she promised. “It’ll go downstairs with everything else.” “Just don’t tell Liam how much his stuff sold for,” Mr. Vankald muttered. “Elsa won’t ever hear the end of it.”

Emma nodded seriously and, that time, Killian rolled his eyes, wrapping his arm around her shoulder without a word. She might have leaned into it. “Deal,” she promised.

“And I’m glad you didn’t run out of appetizers this time.” “You and me both.” Mrs. Vankald hugged her again and Mr. Vankald might have winked, clapping Killian on the shoulder before they both made their way to the doors and the street and for as crowded as Gotham Hall had been that night, it was almost as empty then, fans gone and most of the front office gone and there was still an arm wrapped around Emma’s shoulders.

“Did David and Mary Margaret leave yet?” Killian asked and Emma hummed in response, forehead brushing against his jacket when she shifted against him. “And you didn’t go with them?” “I have a key.” “Oh.” “What are you getting at?” He smiled at her and Emma’s stomach flipped. “That I’d very much like you to come home with me. And stay there so I can get some goddamn sleep.” And her stomach might have flopped at that.

“Romantic,” she mumbled and it wasn’t the insult it might have sounded like.

“I sleep like garbage when you’re not there.” “So you said on that message.” “You got that?” Emma nodded and did her best to ignore the way his eyes ducked down when he realized she just hadn’t responded.

“Hey,” she said quickly, resting her palm flat against his chest. “I’m sorry for running. I just...you’ve caught me by surprise and I wasn’t ready to want as much as I do and that was kind of terrifying because there’s no promise this is going to work.”

He lowered his eyebrows and, well, there it was – the admission she hadn't said, too caught up in the kissing in the hallway before. “I trust you, implicitly,” Emma continued, staring at the floor. It was going to take forever to clean this place. “And I believe you want to stay in New York, but what happens if you don’t? There’s no…”

She trailed off and he turned her towards him, hand lingering on her shoulder when he stared at her.

“Yes there is,” Killian countered, clicking his tongue when Emma opened her mouth to argue. “I don’t mean a contract, Swan. I mean you and me. No matter what happens. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded in that giant room.

“Yeah.” She believed him.

“Can we go home?” Emma asked, pulse picking up almost audibly when she used that particular word. “I’d really like to sleep.” “I can’t imagine how tired you must be, love. This was incredible. I actually didn’t hate Casino Night this year.” “That’s not what I meant.” “Hmmm?” “I meant, I sleep like garbage when you’re not there.”

She felt him breathe against her, chest moving slightly as he tugged her tighter against his side and his answering smile was enough to power the generator to several small islands in the Pacific Ocean.

“Yeah, Swan,” Killian said, arm still around her even after they’d found their way into the backseat of a cab. “Let’s go home.”

#cs ff #captain swan ff #ouat ff #cs #csbb #blue line #i cannot possibly overstate how much i love casino night #it's the absolute best

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