#I had this date saved in my calendar in all caps so I wouldn’t forget it

[stoneshipper]

It’s the five year anniversary of the world turning to stone!!

[aliterarydumpsterfire]

The Crash, or The House That YouTube Built

It’s quiet this morning. It’s been quiet for weeks. Or maybe it’s been months? The calendar on the wall has been used more in the last seven months than probably any calendar we’ve owned. It hangs next to the fridge with a little post-it note that hovered over the twenty first that read in all caps “Dr. Theisen, 8AM!” From my spot at the kitchen table I squinted to find the date. The smell of coffee wafted through but it hadn’t quite kicked in for me. Today’s the tenth. It’s been exactly nine months. I’ve never been a good judge of the passage of time, especially without all of my automatic synced calendar alerts from before The Crash.

At first it was a crisis. Not to me, but to my wife Vanessa. I’ve always had a healthy aversion to the internet but to her the panic from the sudden loss of the invisible network that wove us all together was palpable. In the hours following The Crash it seemed easy for her to distract herself with shopping and admiring herself in the mirror but after the twentieth hour her efforts were something more…. Desperate. She asked me to take her phone so she wouldn’t obsessively check it, then took a melatonin and lain in bed, staring at the ceiling. She dreamt about hitting 3 million followers on Instagram. When she woke to the still-same status of The Crash she was crushed.

I remember how she put on that fake high voice she uses when she’s not okay. “Oh! Well, I’ll just… go for a run I guess”. She hadn’t actually ‘gone for a run’ since senior year for P.E. exams, though her feed would tell a different story. So many photos of her in running gear. So many hours meticulously feigning a runner’s sweat with glycerin and posing in athleisure for the camera. Her announcement to go on a run was cautious, and almost nervous. I didn’t laugh at her. I simply nodded and tried to keep my eyebrows from betraying my surprise. Be cool. Don’t make it a thing. “Okay, babe. Don’t forget your water bottle.” For a moment she perked up. She was cheered by the reminder of the branded posh water bottle, an item she’d received only the week before as a PR package. I went back to my book as I heard her fill the bottle in the kitchen and left out the front door. She came back in a better mood to proudly show off the most genuine selfies I’d ever seen from her, but her overall antsiness continued. Those small pick-me-ups as reminders of her importance grew fewer and more distant as The Crash became a greater reality.

Vanessa Moore is the beautiful woman I have called my wife these past seven years. I don’t remember quite how or when she became fully attached to her fame or phone, but it happened slowly. First she Marie Kondo’d all her favorite souvenir national park t-shirts, then the spare room became a filming room, then she went blonde, and then one day I found myself picking her up an outpatient clinic for a procedure she swore would make her happy. It all seemed so linear to me now, how I lost my wife to the internet personality she’d rather be. The word they use for someone with that great of a following is ‘influencer’ but I cringe to think of my Nessa like that. She used to be so different. I didn’t used to be an Instagram Husband. I couldn’t have been more relieved that The Crash happened, to be honest it probably saved my marriage. My wife wouldn’t share my opinion. I held that secret thought as bitterly as my coffee tasted in my cooling mug.

The first six months were rocky for us. I couldn’t conceal my annoyance at being constantly asked to take photos for an audience that was lost in the ether. More importantly, Nessa discovered something that rocked her world– her sudden loss of connection to the sycophants she called fans and community left her lonely and depressed. Somewhere along the way her self confidence had been replaced by relying on validation from faceless interactions. I bet that even that some of those interactions came from bots, but she missed them all the same. It’s been hard. She still has dreams about hitting 3 mil. Her therapist says she has PTSD and FOMO, the second of which I cannot help but doubt is a technical term. As baffling as it was, we’re still coming to terms with what that means. For Vanessa that means she has to find meaningful things to do, and learn new skills. She’s enrolled in school for a real degree…. .. this is where I have to stop myself. Reframe. She has a real degree– Online Influence Marketing. She’s just getting one that is more relevant to the post-Crash economy now. I can hear Dr Theisen’s voice in my head correcting me. “Mr. Moore, despite benefiting for your wife’s influence you don’t really respect her, do you?” That question still felt like a punch to the gut, followed by deep and immediate shame. I benefited from the free vacations, home that YouTube bought, the brand spokesperson discounts, the random PR boxes that arrived on our doorstep. I couldn’t deny that my wife had worked hard to paint a picture on her social media of a… ‘bossbabe’. That word still makes me shudder. It all seemed so vapid and empty to me. If The Crash hadn’t happened, would I still be here? I constantly asked myself that question, steeped in guilt.

Nessa’s voice in the hall broke me out of my shudder. “Babe?” “Yeah, hon?” I raised my head to look her direction. Morning rays from my nook window played on her face. Her eyes were heavily lidded, her blonde hair and dark roots a mess, but still a welcome sight after all these months. She wore a long tee with GLACIER emblazoned across the front in faded letters. I could’ve sworn that used to be my shirt, though I hadn’t seen it in years. Her voice came again, this time softer. “I had a dream.” Dr. Theisen said that was common after devastating loss. Recurring dreams that haunted the broken. I stretched out my hand to her and she took my hand, folding herself into my arms to perch on my lap and curl into me. Her heart beat felt unsteady through my shirt. “The three million again?” That’s the only dream she ever had. Her head shook slightly against my shoulder. Her voice was so quiet I strained to hear her before the silence of the kitchen swallowed it up. “You left me.” The guilt came back to me again with a roaring vengeance. “Oh, Nessa. No, honey. I’m right here”. I held her tight. The pain in my gut was visceral, twisting and searing up a rebuke at me. The smell of coffee drifted through the kitchen but was completely forgotten. The wetness from her cheeks smeared against my shoulder and that twisting deep in my chest amplified. “No, no, no. Sssshh. You’re ok,” I whispered to her. Now I could hardly get the words out. You bastard. You coward. You would have. I croaked out another reassurance and I felt a tear fall from my face too, my breath caught on the lump in my throat. She dreamt of you. I lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. With a thumb I wiped away her tears. I nearly lost you. “Vanessa Moore, I have not left you. Shhhh baby, I’m right here.” I hugged her tight again. You’re still in there. I’m still here. I nearly lost you, but I’m still here. The Crash ruined so many lives but it saved mine. I couldn’t ever tell her. I couldn’t ever tell her that The Crash may have left her nothing… but it had given me back everything.

[rosy-cheekx]

Or, if you're more in the mood for something fluffier, “It’s too cold for you to come out here without a jacket on” from the protective sentence starters!

Combined this prompt with your “ for the holiday fluff prompts, how about any combination of one or more of these: ❄️ ☃️ ☕️ 🥘 🧩 ~ “ and went with flurries + holiday coffee date. hope you don’t mind it being a little derivative!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370325

--

It had been a few years since there had been a white Christmas. Snow in London didn’t last long anyway; it would be snowplowed off the streets and turn gray and slushy or melt under the trampling boots of passerby on their way to work or school. This meant that even when it did snow, no one held out much hope for it to last longer than a day, two at most.

All this to say that Jon didn’t think much of the snow when he saw the flurries drifting outside his bedroom window. It had clearly just started snowing– didn’t even seem like it was sticking. He really didn’t think he’d need a coat. His bus route took him less than a block away from the institute and he resented the way his puffy winter coat made him feel: bulky and heavy, restricted at his joints. His thick white woolen sweater, made with oversized yarn and thrown over his collared shirt, would work fine. He thought he looked rather fit like this, hair half-knotted and curling over his shoulders. Tim would give him shit for having an “academia” aesthetic but, he “worked in academics, Tim. Every aesthetic I have is an academia aesthetic.”

Jon was, as usual, the first person to arrive at the archives. Diligently, he began his workday ritual, cranking up the thermostat and pulling the day calendar on his office wall to reveal the 23 December and chuckling to himself at today’s cat: all grey and massive, green eyes staring at the observer innocently. Sasha was next, blustering in her red peacoat, calling a greeting, and shaking it off before hanging it on the coat hook in the bullpen. Then came Martin and Tim, who had begun carpooling after realizing they lived less than two blocks away from each other. Greetings from the pair, “Happy Early Christmas”es. Now, the quiet, empty archives hummed with life and warmth. Jon, now seated his desk in his small office, could hear the chatter taking place in the main office space, the electric kettle humming in the breakroom, the Christmas music being argued over from the small speakers. All felt right. The Archivist smiled to himself and settled into work.

-

“What the hell? Tim!”

“That wasn’t me, Sash! I’m right here!”

“Calm down, you two. It was just the lights.”

The commotion outside his office confirmed to Jon that he wasn’t the only one whose office lights had suddenly blinked once and cut out. For just a moment he was reminded of Julia Montauk’s story about Mr. Pitch, but shook his head. They were fine. He stood and made his way to the breakroom, eyeing the also dark room, now lit by three phone torches. Being the underground section of the Institute meant they didn’t have much by way of windows, save for the single squat one high up in the breakroom, and Jon could see from here something was blocking the light that usually streamed through.

“I think it’s the whole Institute,” Jon offered unhelpfully. “Can one of you ring Rosie and check?” He turned and wandered absently into the breakroom to investigate the window. It was covered with snow. Frowning, Jon grabbed a chair and dragged it beneath the pane, climbing and pushing on the window.

“I think you need to unlatch it.”

“Jesus Christ, Martin!” Jon swayed and recovered his balance. How could he not hear such a large man come up behind him? He did try the latch though and pushed again. Once, twice, th-

“Fuck! Cold, cold, cold!” The snow that had piled up against the window had shifted and fallen through the gap Jon had so helpfully created; his face, glasses, and sweater generously dusted with cold and white. He sputtered and brushed it off himself, feeling dot of cold seep into his skin. The pane had been cleared though, and Jon could see, as he shoved the window closed again, blustering snow sweeping through the alleyway the window looked out on to. Jon turned back, seeing Martin’s face red with the effort of suppressing a laugh. “It’s snowing. Hard.”

“Yeah,” his voice wavered, lips parting in a warm smile. “I-I guessed that.” Even so, Martin offered Jon a hand and he took it, stepping off the now-wet chair with little grace. “Let’s see if there’s word from Rosie. Sasha was calling her when I came in.” Jon nodded wordlessly, holding Martin’s a little too long (it was so warm! And he was so cold) before letting go and leading Martin into the bullpen.

Sasha was lounging in her office chair, a finger curled in her thick hair, with her legs on her desk and her free hand holding her mobile to her ear. She was nodding, brow furrowed, and kicking Tim idly, who was perched on her desk, feet perched on the handles of one of her desk drawers and shining his torchlight in her eyes while she scowled at him. “Alright, brilliant Rosie. Tell Elias we send our warmest, fondest regards. Especially Tim. Oh—What’s that, Tim?” She eyed her perched friend mischievously; his eyes were wide, and he shook his head vigorously. “Oh. Tim says to tell Elias that he’s deeply in love with him and has been since the day he started.” She listened for a moment and nodded gravely. “Mmhmm. Thank you Rosie. I’ll let him know. Happy Christmas!”

“You little-”

Jon cleared his throat and Tim snapped his head up, eyes alight with mirth. “Bossman, I’m being slandered! You can’t expect me not to defend myself.” Jon chose to ignore his comment, though his expression was soft.

“Sasha, any word from Rosie?”

“Mhmm. Two things. Firstly, power’s out in the whole building. Apparently there’s a bit of a blizzard. Elias said we can have the day off. Secondly, Elias said he’s promoting Tim to his personal ass-isstant.” Tim howled and lunged at Sasha, who was giggling madly. Martin had lost it now too and was chuckling behind his hand at the scene of the taller woman scooting away on her rolling office chair from her dear friend. Even Jon scoffed, eyes following the pair affectionately. Jon didn’t notice he was shivering until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the silhouette of Martin.

“Are you cold? I’m feeling it too. I think the heat’s off with the power.”

Jon shrugged noncommittally, turning his eyes back to the vague forms of Sasha and Tim, who had given up on their wrestling and were sharing the office chair, Tim lounging across Sasha’s lap and scrolling on his phone. At this, Sasha perked up, nudging Tim. “If it’s gonna get cold in here and we have the day off, we should go get coffee! There’s a cute new place across the street from the park. Steamed Beans or something.”

“Beaned Steams,” Tim mumbled under his breath, extricating himself from Sasha’s lap and getting to his feet, smoothing back his hair before refluffing it expertly. “I’m game. But Sasha’s buying my drink because she’s being a bully.”

Martin nodded, rocking on his toes behind Jon. “I’m in. But the snow is intense. Bundle up if you don’t want frostbite.”

Silence stretched in front of Jon. Of course he hadn’t thought to bring a coat today. There was no way his sweater could weather the snowstorm going on outside. He’d have to say no and wait it out, hope the snow dies down. Or he could just embrace it. The park wasn’t that far away…Four or five blocks. Not far enough to call a cab and too far to walk unprotected. Shit.

He’d been quiet for too long. The other three were poised, waiting for his response. “I don’t think you would let me say no if I tried,” he relented. Tim whooped and clapped Jon on the shoulder as he passed him, grabbing his coat and winding a scarf around his neck.

“That’s the spirit, Sims! C’mon, get your coats and we’ll leave before the weather gets worse.” Jon meandered into his office, the chill hanging in the air, and searched the room for any abandoned coats he may have left behind. He was a bit forgetful (and a bit of a packrat) but he was pretty sure he’d taken home his forgotten clothes before Halloween, when Tim was threatening to dress up as him for the archive party Sasha had hosted. The only thing he found was a pair of fingerless gloves, abandoned in his desk drawer. He slipped them on, flexing his hands against the knit fabric, and shrugged inwardly. It would have to do.

Jon closed the door to his office, locking it as he did so, before turning to see his assistants standing in the hallway, wincing at the lights they shone at him. “Jon? Where’s your coat?” Sasha’s voice was equal parts accusing and patient, like reminding a child to wash their hands.

“I-well, I didn’t bring one today,” Jon flushed like he had been caught in a lie. “The snow wasn’t that bad when I left the house. And I, I don’t like the way it feels to wear one.” He held up hands helplessly. “I have these.”

Martin crossed his arms over his vested chest and the tails of his scarf. “It’s too cold for you to go out there without a jacket on. Too windy. You’ll catch pneumonia and die or something.”

“You can’t catch pneumonia like that, Martin. It’s a wives’ tale.” “You get what I mean! You can’t just wear a sweater and button up and fingerless gloves of all things and call it winter gear.”

Tim was stroking his chin thoughtfully, head cocked. “Would the old married couple shut up? I think I have something.” He took off his coat and unzipped the inside, extricating a fleece lining from the waterproof shell. “Here,” he draped it over Jon’s shoulder when he refused to take it. “If you don’t wear it, Martin has to buy all our coffees. You wouldn’t want to do that to sweet ol’ Marto, would you?”

Jon shrugged on the coat, grateful for the dark to hide his scowl and blush.

Sasha let out a noise of realization. “Oh! I have something too.” She disappeared and returned in less than a minute, holding out a knitted cap of some kind. “I keep a spare for when it’s too cold down here.” The inside was soft, lined with silk or satin or something, and Jon could feel some sort of applique on the side. Realizing there was no way he was going to win this fight, he tugged on the hat, frowning at the way it squished down the knot of hair he had so carefully arranged to be just the right amount of messy and structured.

Martin was stepping forward now as well, stooping slightly to wind a scarf around Jon’s neck and gently tucking the ends into the neck of the fleece. “Uh, here.”

“I-hm,” Jon struggled for words, feeling warm from more than just the new apparel. “Thank you, all of you, I suppose. I’ll-ah, I’ll give them back to you after.”

“No rush!” Tim nudged Jon with his shoulder as he grabbed Sasha’s hand, pulling her through the hallway to the stairwell. “Come on, I need the most expensive drink they sell in my belly, pronto!”

As the Archival staff left the Institute, they waved goodbye and wished a Happy Christmas to Rosie, who was packing up her own desk. They pushed themselves through the rotating door, immediately bowing their heads against the blinding white snow and the buffeting wind.

“Shit,” Martin said, pocketing his glasses. “No point in having these out. The one day I don’t bother with contacts. Are we sure we shouldn’t cab?” Jon glanced at the road, somewhere between slush and ice.

“I don’t trust lorry drivers on a good day.” Martin hummed an agreement.

Sasha led the way, the four keeping tight together against the wind and cold, the whirling of the snow drowning out all conversation, save for Tim’s occasional directions via his smartphone. Jon removed his own wire-rimmed glasses eventually, tired of them fogging up and of the snow melting into blurred spots, obscuring his vision even more. Martin held out his hand and Jon passed them over for Martin to put in his pocket. There was no one else out on the streets, no cars, no people. Jon imagined as they walked that they were the only four left in London, cursed to wander alone forever. His theory was proven wrong, however, when eventually the warm orange lighting of the coffee shop beckoned, the name Bean Village painted on the window.

“I think Sash’s name was better,” Tim declares in a low voice as they stamp their feet against the welcome mat and shake off snow from their hair and clothes. Jon removes the knitted cap to see the faux leather flower applique and the embroidered “S” he hadn’t been able to see in the dark, chuckling to himself and stuffing the mauve hat in his pocket. Their faces were all various toned shades of pink and the heavy heat of the air of the café, smelling strongly like coffee beans, vanilla, and cinnamon, made Jon’s once-numb nose and cheeks tingle as they were brought back to life.

Jon squinted at the chalk-written menu, moving to push up his glasses only to feel his hand falter when he found the nosepiece not there. “Oh-uh, Martin. Can I have my glasses?”

Martin frowned. “Ah, huh? Oh! Yes-yes, of course, sorry!” He fumbled for Jon’s glasses, drying the remaining melted snow on the hem of his shirt before handing them back.

The Magnus Institute’s archival staff were the only four customers in the store at present and made a point to order probably more than necessary, scones and muffins (blueberry for Martin and Sasha, cinnamon for Martin, a pumpkin muffin for Jon) in addition to the teas and coffees (chai lattes for Jon and Martin, a caramel latte for Sasha, and some sort of ridiculously sweet mocha for Tim), despite it being barely eleven in the morning. Jon saw Martin make a point to slip some extra money into the tip jar as well, feeling warmth bloom in his chest as he decided to do the same.

Honestly, this, squeezed into a booth, leaning into Martin’s side, with Tim and Sasha across from him, chatting, swapping stories, and sharing some institute-related memes Tim had drawn up on his phone, was the best Christmas gift Jon could have imagined.

[maniibear]

Photo Quest | On AO3 Word Count: ~7000 Warnings: None

Summary: A ficlet based on an old Imzy prompt. Steve loses a wallet, where he keeps a secret picture of Tony. His team of heroes is of no help, but hey, Thor's roommate Daryl has some strangely insightful advice about ham. 

Also for STONY Bingo Square S4 - ‘Pining’

Captain America didn’t panic. Serum-enhanced national treasures usually didn’t, and good for them because Steve Rogers⸺soldier, punk, plucky kid from Brooklyn⸺definitely was. Panicking, that is.

He thumbed tensely through the video feed on his Starkpad. A panoramic view of every common area in the Tower was right there at his fingertips, and some not-so-common areas were just a passcode away. In addition, he had access to satellite feeds and other methods of surveillance that walked a thin line Constitution-wise, but none of them really solved his problem.

“Anything?” he asked FRIDAY.

'Negative,’ replied the AI.

“Oh jeez, still?” Steve asked in a voice that might have been called a whine if someone who was not him were describing it.

“Captain, I’m doing my best,” FRIDAY protested. “A full building scan takes time, y’know?"

“Limit it to my recorded locations.” he commanded brusquely. “Last 48 hours."

“You didn’t authorize me to record your movements within the Tower,” said FRIDAY, and Steve figured he probably deserved the smug undertone behind her serene professionalism.

He closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat anyway. “Goddamn it."

“Woah, language.”

Steve snapped his eyes open at the wry tenor, instantaneously flipping the Starkpad over. He found himself face to face with Tony, much like a deer in headlights. It was not a good look on him, and Tony’s brow rose in predictable confusion.

“What are you doing?” Tony asked, and lightweight that he was, Steve could already feel his face grow warm.

He made a valiant effort nonetheless. “Nothing.”

“Oh, because it totally sounded like you were arguing with my AI,” Tony folded his arms now. He loomed, and Steve really had no other choice but to notice how he was dressed to spar— cutoff shirt, hand wraps, trunks that hugged his waist just right... “And losing."

While Steve battled his sudden case of dry mouth, Tony continued. “Come on, what’s making America’s golden boy swear in the presence of a disembodied lady?”

“I lost my wallet,” Steve admitted.

Tony looked skeptical, but didn’t actually say anything about it. He rattled commands off to his AI instead, “FRIDAY, order replacements for Cap’s charge cards and report his IDs as lost.”

“Already done, boss,” FRIDAY replied, more pleasantly than she’d done for Steve.

“Done,” Tony echoed. He flashed Steve a thumbs up. “Mission accomplished?”

Steve tapped his fingers on the Starkpad. “My wallet is still missing, so no.”

“Then, let’s order a wallet. You ok with leather?”

“Tony, no.” Steve shook his head. “I don’t want a new wallet, I’m going to find my old one.”

“Why?”

And that’s the thing about Steve: he may be a terrible casual liar, but he was made to get out of potentially ruinous situations that might threaten the very structure of the team.

He stood and clasped Tony’s shoulder. “Because I’m a weird old man, remember? Let me live.”

Steve managed to pull off a mostly casual stroll to the elevator to head up to his suite. He smiled genially at Tony through the doors while pressing the button to his floor, and Tony stared back at him with undisguised suspicion.

Steve held his smile for the eternity it took for the elevator doors to close, and slumped back against the wall as soon as they did. Why was he like this?  

The next morning, when his wallet was officially missing for 12 hours, Steve commandeered the Avengers weekly standup to enlist some help. It was perfect cover since Hawkeye and Bruce weren’t phoning in; there was no weird raven reporting on Thor’s behalf, and most importantly, no indication that Iron Man was going to break his perfect record of never attending a single one of these. Hiding in plain sight⸺this is why Steve was a master tactician.

Also, since he would be asking them to cancel whatever plans they had at eight o’clock in the morning, Steve let Natasha pick refreshments and agreed to meet in a place of Sam’s choice. Naturally, he found himself wedged between the two in Stark Tower’s rooftop jacuzzi, sharing a box of donuts and drinking sangria before noon.

Sam wiggled his toes and squinted at the sun from behind his sunglasses. “More missing persons?” he asked. “This guy got a metal arm and an attitude, too?”

“Not a person,” Steve corrected. “My wallet.”

“Your wallet,” Sam echoed. “Slow crime day, if the Avengers are assembling for a wallet.”

“No,” Steve replied abruptly, then more calmly. “No assembling; we keep this between us. Need-to-know only.”

“Ok…” Sam grabbed the last Boston creme from the box and licked it to protect it from Natasha. “Hey, do you still carry that picture of Stark around with you?”

Steve sunk a fraction deeper into the jacuzzi so the warm, foaming water lapped at his throat. “Kind of.”

Natasha laughed. “That’s cute. So last century, but cute.”   

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “You don’t even have a copy saved on your phone?”

“I do,” Steve grumbled back. “But the one in my wallet is still out there somewhere, where anyone can find it. Look, I’m not forcing you guys to help⸺”

“Come on, man, don’t mope,” Sam nudged at Steve’s calf with his foot underwater. “We’re just wondering, as friends do, why you haven’t told Stark how you feel. He’s single, you’re single; and now that you guys aren’t measuring dicks anymore, it can’t hurt to go out on a date or two.”

Steve stalled behind a long sip of his sangria. It was a good drink even if it wouldn’t get him buzzed, but it didn’t have a magic answer to Sam’s question, either. 

“We’re not fighting,” Steve agreed slowly. “But it’s touch and go, y’know? Last thing I want to do is throw off the team...balance.”  

Sam didn’t look convinced. “You know it’s creepier to carry a picture around like that, right?”

“Only if Tony finds out,” Natasha said, which Steve gratefully followed up with, “Which is why I need to find my wallet before someone else does!”

They didn’t need to see behind the shades to know Sam was rolling his eyes. 

“You two are...so well-adjusted,” he sighed, diving back into the safety of booze and donuts. “Seriously, if I ever call you guys for advice, assume I’m a Skrull.”

“Good morning, kids!”

Everyone startled at the voice coming from the far side of the jacuzzi. Iron Man hovered into view and the faceplate flipped up, so Tony stared back at them in open curiosity. He eyed the nearly empty box of donuts on the hot tub rim, the pitcher of sangria tucked into an insulated floating drinks holder, and finally at the three Avengers. Steve suddenly became hyper-aware of his splayed posture, but naked except for swimshorts and his favorite neck floatie didn’t exactly lend an air of professionalism.

“Tony!” he greeted instead. “What are you doing here?”

“I showed up for the weekly,” Tony replied. “but the conference room was empty and FRIDAY mentioned you all were here.” He smirked at Steve. “Forget how to update the calendar, Captain, or is this not that meeting?”

“Oh no, we’re still meeting,” Sam replied quickly before Steve could make up something painfully unconvincing. Then, traitorously, he moved away from Steve and nodded at the newly cleared space. “Take a seat.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Natasha confirmed smoothly. “We were just going over cyber security protocols.”

Tony grinned. “Oh, just my thing,”

The armor touched down on just beyond the hot tub, and the shining carapace unfurled. Tony stepped out of it with the usual seamless grace that only came from supreme confidence in his own creation. Not for the first time, Steve found himself marveling at the sheer genius, but then to his aroused consternation, Tony began to strip.

His shirt came off first, revealing a tanned torso, one definitely more cut and powerful than it looked under his clothes. Steve understood this because he was an artist, of course, with an eye for form and mass, although that didn’t explain his sudden, perverse curiosity as to whether Tony would be wearing underwear once he shuffled out of his yoga pants.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried on that end. Tony was wearing briefs. Tight black ones, certainly, but they were there, thank god, because master tactician or not, Steve didn’t have a plan for dealing with a naked Tony lounging beside him in a hot tub.  

As it is, he was fighting a blush and the butterflies in his stomach when their team genius stepped in next to Steve with an ironic little greeting of, ‘Capsicle’. 

Completely to oblivious to the effect he was having, Tony made himself at home in his own jacuzzi, curling his arms over the rim so his right extended behind Steve’s back and his left behind Sam’s. If Tony didn’t stop squirming so blissfully under the warm water, Steve thought frantically, he was going to have a hard time in more than one sense of the phrase.

Luckily in the meantime, Nat had actually launched into a spiel about secure comms and text messages, which kept everyone’s libido pretty well in check. The problem only arose when she brought up the topic of government email servers and Tony got all up in her face for daring to compare their shoddy security to his.

He did this by leaning over Steve to gesticulate wildly, flinging water everywhere and letting his bare body bump up against Steve’s equally bare flank in the throes of passionate argument. Natasha argued back, but given the lack of conviction in her tone, Steve suspected she wasn’t trying to win more than she was trying to get a rise out of Tony.

Ok, maybe that wasn’t the best phrase to use, but it wasn’t inaccurate as Steve helplessly stared at the side of Tony’s head, where small droplets clung to the dark hairs at the nape of his neck and occasionally slipped down his shoulder and heaving pecs…

“Calm down,” Steve interrupted, hysterically unsure whether he was telling Tony or his own dick. “I think you’ve made your point. Government routers don’t make downloading any safer.”

“Finally!” Tony said. He didn’t sound pleased, but at least he wasn’t practically draped over Steve’s lap anymore, so the chances of a real boner were—

“But what about VPN?” Sam piped up innocently.

Steve stared at his friend in disbelief as Tony swallowed the bait and whirled the other way with an indignant, “Wilson, you know that’s not how it works!”

Another farcical debate began and this time, Steve felt his breath hitch as Tony’s ass directly wedged against this bare thigh and, wow, those were some really form-fitting underwear...

While he suffered in silence, Natasha reached around Steve’s elbow and took the last donut. Behind her, the Iron Man stared back in impassive judgement.

On Tuesday evening, Steve signed into his weekly conference call with Thor and Bruce. There was an interesting friendship. Nobody had been surprised when Tony whisked Bruce away to bond over science, but it quickly became apparent that Thor not only had better insight into the kind of science that Bruce liked, but also lent a broad and supportive shoulder when it came to the whole uncontrolled rage monster aspect. A couple stories about berserkers casually slipped in at the right time, and Bruce discovered the one Avenger he didn’t have to worry about Hulk-ing out and hurting.

As he listened to Bruce talk, Steve thought about how, for all that he knew about the longevities and loyalties of friendship, he’d underestimated the virtues of plain old peace of mind.

Behind Bruce, Thor rolled into the frame on a razor scooter, followed by a doughy, defeated-looking man holding a small golden urn. Thor beamed when he caught sight of Steve.

“Aha!” he declared, and pulled a 180 on the scooter so fast that the man trailing him nearly smacked into Thor’s broad chest. “You say I do not have a job? Explain that!”

“My friend from work, whom you know as the Incredible Hulk,” Thor pointed at Bruce first, then he jabbed his finger at the screen. “and that is our fearless leader, Captain America. Steve Rogers, meet my roommate, Daryl. D, Steve Rogers.”

Steve raised a brow, and mimicked Bruce’s tentative wave. So this was Daryl. When Thor first mentioned a flat and roommate in Australia, of all places, Steve admittedly hadn’t given it much more thought than he did stories about wild bilgesnipes or the Ginnungagap, but now, well, it was nice to put a face to the email address from which he’d been receiving irregular and rambling updates about Thor’s life down under.

He should go to Australia, Steve mused, travel for something other than work. He felt himself smile as he pictured leaving the shield to Sam, and foisting Wanda and Vision on Natasha, while Fury and Hill howled in protest at Captain America trading in his uniform for board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He’d book a flight with a decent civilian airline and dream about crystal clear waters and beachy sunsets while his Avengelings’ waved their handkerchiefs in farewell.

Of course, the only problem was that he’d be leaving Tony behind, too. Steve’s brow wrinkled at the thought of Tony rattling around in Stark Tower by himself. Who’d bring him snacks in the lab and treats for his bots? Butterfingers especially was growing fond of getting bits of arcane, analog tech whenever Steve visited...

“You took troubled, my friend,” Thor stated. “Your lips are drawn, and your face, pinched like a squalling babe. Is there something amiss in New York?”

Steve watched Thor’s imitation of his face in mild alarm, and considered denying that anything was wrong, but then, Bruce also chimed in. “Not the way I’d have put it, but he’s not wrong, Cap. You’d call us if we need to assemble, right?”

“Of course, I would,” Steve assured them quickly. “And no need to assemble, I just lost my wallet the other day and I’ve had a hell of a time looking for it.”

“That sucks,” Bruce sympathized. “FRIDAY can replace your cards and IDs, right?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, but that’s not the point, really.”

“It is your cash, then,” Thor guessed. “Worry not, if you require rent money, I shall send you some.” He upended Daryl’s urn so bright golden coins spilled across the desk. “Asgardian gold; each of these is worth a gazillion of your human dollars.”

Daryl looked pained. “I told you, nobody will exchange that.”

Steve made a frustrated noise of his own, not because he was particularly invested in the exchange rate between US Dollars and Asgardian space gold, but because his woes had nothing to do with money.

He said as much, and Bruce put on his thinking face. “I mean, what else is in a wallet?”

“Condoms!” suggested Thor. The coins jumped when he smacked his fist on the table. “A loyalty card for the bar of blow drys? Or a snack of cheese and savory ham!”

“Let’s go with that,” Steve quickly agreed before the suggestions became any more outlandish. Truth be told, he could use a fresh perspective on his missing item, but he knew better than to ask outright. Daryl was listening, and while it was one thing for their close-knit team to know he carried a torch for Tony Stark, but he wasn’t about to spill his business to a stranger and make work for SI’s PR team.

“So, let’s say this ham...has sentimental value.”

At that, Bruce and Thor exchanged a knowing look. Daryl’s expression compounded to pained and baffled.

“You’re gaga over a ham?” he asked in a tone which made Steve suspect he was quite over the myth of superheroes.

“Have a care how you speak to our friend, Daryl,” Thor warned mildly. “Captain America carries a ham in his wallet, true, but he does not eat it because he is afraid that though the ham is delectable and a very fine cut indeed, it still might disagree with him.”

“How…” Daryl wet his lips. “How does he know that?”

Steve watched Bruce scratch his head. “Well, he and the ham kinda disagreed before.”

“So, you’re just going to leave it there?” Daryl frowned. “Won’t it go bad?”

Steve figured the metaphor had gone too far at this point. Thor just shrugged. “We are immortal,” he said. “The pain of…disagreeable ham smarts a long time. Perhaps, it is best to wait for it to cure some more.”

Ok, the metaphor had definitely gone too far. Even Bruce was making his experiment-failed face, but before Steve could change the subject to something less stressful, Daryl stared fiercely into the webcam.

“Actually, even if I were an immortal, I reckon I wouldn’t wait,” he said, then steamrolled on because yeah, fuck superheroes. “Look, it sounds like you’re pretty attached to this...ham, and yeah, you might find another ham at the market tomorrow, but it won’t be the same as this one, will it? I guess what ‘m sayin’ is: life goes on, but you don’t find a good ham everyday. So, best get your act together before someone else takes this one; isn’t Captain America s’posed to be brave and what not?”

“Um.” Steve stared back speechlessly. Bruce took his glasses off to clean them, which he often did when he witnessed something impressive. Thor beamed proudly, but he still took pity and offered, “And if that fails, friend Bruce has been working on a way to travel back in time.”

Steve must have looked pretty eager, because Bruce was quick to deny it. “Theoretically,” he said. “There is currently no feasible way to actually time travel.”

Bummer.

A notification at the edge of his computer caught Steve’s attention. Someone was requesting access to his office and FRIDAY helpfully tilted the entryway camera to reveal Tony. Steve smiled while granting access, feeling a usual surge of glee at the prospect of spending time with Tony, even if he’d spent the last few minutes referring to the man as a ham.

“Guys, good talking to you, but I have to go,” he told the webcam. Then, Steve smiled kindly at Daryl, “And about the Asgardian gold...contact your local SHIELD office, son.”

The Avengers had been a team for the better part of two years, yet Steve could only count a handful of times he’d seen Tony completely relaxed. The man had a sixth sense for being observed, and he could go from zero to PR masterpiece in no time at all, so it was a rare thing to catch him in ‘off-mode’.

Steve spared one eye to the latest proposal to upgrade his shield, and kept the other on Tony. He was laid out over the length of Steve’s couch--one of those microfiber numbers that didn’t look comfortable to sit on, but was good for a power nap or two. His dark tanktop was wrinkled and his hands were grease-stained as he scratched thoughtfully at his beard.

When he sensed Steve watching, he turned and asked, “Really, a roommate? What, did Thor take an ad out on Craigslist or something? Why didn’t he just ask me to arrange a place?”

“He wants to experience Earth,” Steve replied, swiveling back and forth on his office chair because Tony’s mood was catching. “What so bad about that? He’s not living in the trenches.”

Tony rubbed his eyes momentarily. “It’s bad PR,” he complained. “Thor’s an Avenger, not a broke grad student. And what kind of a name is Daryl? Anyone do a background check on the guy?”

“I did,” Steve answered immediately, unable to help the proud uptilt in his voice. “Daryl buys a few more lottery tickets than he really should, but no signs that he’s a HYDRA sleeper.”

Tony looked skeptical. “Trust no one without a dark side, remember?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I forwarded it to Nat for a double check,” he said, and wondered if he should be insulted at how quickly Tony brightened again.

“That’s a relief,” Tony said, then shrugged. “No offense, Cap, but FRIDAY tells me you rage quit the CyberSec module I prepared for you.”

“I didn’t rage quit,” Steve countered. “I just...we had emergencies.”

Tony smirked. “You know, there’s no shame in asking for help, Capsicle. There’s a trick to these newfangled encryptions.”

Steve fiddled with a nearby pen and pretended to consider, even if he welcomed the chance to spend more time with Tony in close quarters. “You’d do that?”

“Of course, I would,” Tony replied. “Tell you what, I have a few hours open tonight, so if you wanna come by at 8…”

Steve winced. “I’ve plans tonight. Dinner with Sharon.”

“Oh,” Tony nodded and sat up on the couch. He scratched at an oily smear on his wrist. “Another time then, just have your people talk to my AI.”

He was smiley enough, but seemed more subdued than before. Steve nearly offered to cancel his plans when Tony looked up again.

“Hey, you find your wallet?”

Steve resisted the urge to fidget nervously. “No, I’m still looking.”

“Ok, why?” Tony demanded, pitching forward curiously. “What’s so special about a wallet? Brooklyn diner won’t give you the early bird special without your AARP card?”

“Hilarious,” Steve deadpanned. “I have other important things in there.”

“Like what?”

“Analog stuff; not quite up your alley,” Steve gave what he hoped was an easy grin, and stretched in his chair to relieve the jitters. God help his team if their lives ever depended on him keeping a secret under direct pressure from Tony.

For his part, Tony was staring back at him, expression strange. If Steve didn’t know better, he might have called it appreciative, but he did know better, so he braced instead for a retort from a man offended.

But Tony just exhaled through his nose and ventured to ask, “Is it, uh, anything to do with Peggy?”

Steve raised his brow, taken mildly aback. “No,” he replied softly. “It’s nothing like that, Tony, I meant it’s sentimental.”

“So, you can replace it,” Tony prodded.

“I guess,” Steve allowed, biting his lip. “But this is something I got right the first time I went for it-- that makes it rare. Um, for me.”

“Wow, I’ve got shivers,” Tony heaved himself off the couch and ran a hand through his hair. “Literally zero clues, but shivers.”

Steve bowed his head in a laugh, then looked up fondly. “I know, but I do appreciate that you care, Tony.”

“Yeah yeah,” Tony muttered, albeit indulgently, and tapped Steve’s shoulder on his way out. “Stay weird, old man.”

-

Later that night, Steve met Sharon in a modern speakeasy that was somewhat busy for a week night. Still, they’d managed to find a quiet spot in the corner and were hunched over a couple of beers, a basket of fries, and the ugliest mugshot ever taken. Seriously, how was HYDRA still claiming to be a master race when their latest lieutenant looked like a syphilitic thumb with tiny eyes?

Steve dutifully glanced at the entrance, nevertheless, because they were here on good intel and taking this asshole down would make his otherwise shitty week.  

“I’m impressed,” Sharon was saying as she munched on a fry. “I mean, yeah, it’s “wrong", but someone successfully pickpocketed Captain America⸺I should be offering them a job.”

“You don’t have proof that I was pickpocketed,” Steve told her sullenly, chasing a bit of sriracha mayo on his fingers. “I probably just misplaced it while distracted.”

“Distracted,” Sharon snickered. “Was a certain billionaire philanthropist flexing in the vicinity?”

“Genius billionai⸺,” Steve started to correct her without thinking, then closed his mouth in panic. Quickly, he inventoried people entering the bar: two guys in sports jerseys, a goth kid, and three women wearing identical red saris and flowers in their hair. Not a thumb among them, thankfully. But still!

“Sharon, you can’t just say that here!”

She shrugged. “And you can’t commandeer SHIELD resources for stuff you just misplaced.”

That...was a fair point, but nobody ever said Captain America never came prepared. “What if the situation compromises the Avengers?”

“How does a crush on your teammate compromise the Avengers?”

“It was one thing when I had Peg’s picture inside my compass; a soldier keeping his best girl close was normal, not a thing wrong with it,” Steve mopped up the last of the sauce with his fries and thought while he chewed all six of them at once. “But with Tony, there’s PR to think about, and you know how little information it takes to ruin someone these days.”

He shook his head as images of lurid web articles and plummeting stocks charts did a macabre sort of conga through his brain. “Tony’ll hate me. The team splits, taking sides, and it’ll be too weird to work together anymore and poof⸺ no more Avengers.”

Steve raised his brow pointedly, only to catch Sharon staring back at him baffled. “What the actual hell, Rogers?”

Before Steve could respond, however, the door to the speakeasy slammed open and The Thumb walked in, flanked by two henchmen.

“Confirming by facial recognition,” Sharon said crisply. “But this is not over, Steve. Wherever you’re getting these batshit ideas⸺ “

“Batshit?!” Steve protested, surreptitiously reaching under the table for his shield.

Sharon readied her gun. “You know what, Aunt Peg always told me two things: don’t put things off, and don’t think for others.”

Steve watched as the Thumb seated himself at a barstool in front of the TV, and sighed fondly to himself, because yeah, Peggy believed in giving people a choice, even if she ended up with the short straw sometimes.

Still, he glanced dryly at Sharon and asked, “Is this where you encourage me to confess my feelings?”

Sharon smirked, hand on her gun and eyes on the Thumb, who was now snarling at the news. “Actually, I can appreciate you being cautious,” she said. “But, Steve. Neighborino. You’d better not be holding back because you already made Stark’s decision for him.”

As if on cue, the TV switched to an image of Tony speaking into a mic. The Thumb shouted something obscene and threw his beer bottle at the screen, which resulted in surprisingly less chaos than Steve anticipated. Mostly because almost all the other patrons had also drawn weapons.

“Stand back!” Sharon barked first. “I’m Agent 13, with SHIELD!”

“You stand back!” the goth kid from earlier countered over his Sig 226. “CIA!”

“Homeland Security,” announced one of the three sari ladies, flowers tumbling over her shoulder. “Sorry, kid, this one’s ours.”

“Like hell,” Sports Jersey man snapped. “FBI’s been on this for months!”

Steve wearily turned to the bartender, “And you?”

The bartender steadied his own pistol and shrugged. “Sir, I am a private, tax-paying business owner with second amendment rights…”

Of course. Steve closed his eyes and cursed inwardly. So much for a satisfying night.

Even after pulling rank, affiliation, and feigning hanger to slip out of the ensuing battle over jurisdiction of the Thumb, Steve still only managed to get home at around three in the morning. The fact that he was already in civvies saved him a trip to the armory, but he did run into Tony as he made his way to the suite elevators.

They stared at each other for a bit, obviously trying to extrapolate where the evening might have taken them. Tony was dressed in expensive business casual⸺ dark jacket and slacks accented with certain pastels he seemed to favor these days. Steve, on the other hand, felt self-conscious in sweat-stained sports bar get-up and messy hair. The skirmish with the Thumb had also left him with bruises, which were still healing in pink splotches across his jaw and neck.

Tony gave him a once over and commented, “I take it dinner was good?”

 Was it? Steve thought about his evening, and bristled at the implication of four intelligence agencies blindly converging on one throwaway henchman and tipping off actual high profile targets in a hundred mile radius.

“It was certainly something,” he said with a rueful smile. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love the action. And Sharon, she’s...well, she and I happen to be very good at action. 

Tony raised a brow just as the elevator slid open. “Uh-huh...”

“But call me old fashioned, and you know, you do,” Steve playfully bumped Tony’s shoulder with his own. “but I wish we’d all sit down and talk about what this means in the long-term.”

Tony raised his brow as the elevator doors slid open. “I...that’s,” he took a deep breath while they stepped inside and punched the buttons to their respective floors. “So, it’s really serious?”

Steve snorted, because after his disaster of an evening? Yeah. “I’d say it’s pretty damn serious, Tony. We can’t live divided like this.”

Tony immediately folded his arms across his chest, looking troubled.  “Wh...um, what about the Avengers?”

 Steve considered. Outwardly, it did look like the Avengers tagged along with SHIELD. Their status was pretty ambiguous internally as well, which meant SHIELD would try to make decisions on their behalf and Tony was right to be concerned about that.

“Absolutely, I’ll have to think about it,” he agreed. “We all know SHIELD’s definition of liaisoning is a bit skewed.”

At the moment, the elevator opened to Steve’s suite. He gave Tony a quick salute as he stepped out, but Tony still held the doors open. “Listen, Steve,” he called, and Steve turned back. “Not saying it won’t be hard, but nobody’ll stand in the way of a good thing. We trust you and, y’know...we’ll be there for you. And all that jazz.”

 He couldn’t help it, Steve positively beamed at the thought of seeing to his team’s best interests with Tony at his side. Now more than ever, he was determined to do what it took to clear their path, so Tony’s sharp wit and genius could build great things on it.

“Thank you, Tony,” he said breathlessly. “Have a good night.”

 Tony stepped back into the elevator. His smile was lopsided and jerky when he whispered back, “Night, Steve.” 

When Wednesday morning rolled around, Steve didn’t see hair nor hide of Tony. He ate breakfast alone and went to debrief with Phil only to find out that Tony had emailed his update instead of attending. Three texts went unanswered, and when he asked FRIDAY to make a call, the AI informed him that her boss was on lockdown in his lab and that a huge chunk of Steve’s own day was blocked off for an outreach engagement.

At 11 o’clock, Steve found himself struggling into his old uniform, which he he was sad to discover had not been mercilessly burnt months ago. It made him look like a cartoon, but the production team deemed it ‘child-and-adolescent-friendly’; not like his current uniform, which was just proficiently hostile, Captain Rogers, we’re talking to kids, not terrorists.

Fine. He’ll wear it, Steve decided, but he wasn’t going to like it, even if nobody seemed particularly concerned about his opinion anyway. As Steve fumbled with his zipper behind the scant privacy screen, producers, technicians, and PA’s scurried about the studio in a chaotically organized swarm that made the air thick with tension.

On a nearby folding chair with his codename emblazoned on it, Hawkeye lay back, sipping cucumber water through a crazy straw. He turned and peeked over his shades when Steve came out.

“How do I look?”

“You’re asking me?” Clint feigned shock and awe. “Captain America wants my opinion? Gol-ly!”

“Clint.” Steve rolled his eyes and plopped into his own chair. The uniform fabric squeaked and strained, but valiantly held together. “I said I was sorry.”

“Still hurts, Cap,” Clint replied and sipped more cucumber water. “How do you get advice from Thor’s weird roommate before you come to me? I’m an actual retrieval specialist!”

“To be fair, I didn’t ask for Daryl’s advice,” Steve pointed out. “But I am asking you: Hawkeye, can you please get my wallet back?”

Clint made a face. “I didn’t say that.”

Steve sighed and took a sip from his own water bottle, carefully so he didn’t ruin his makeup. “Great, back to Plan A, then.”

“What’s plan A?”

“Praying for it to turn up?” Steve sniffled lightly, and wiggled his fingers inside stiff, scarlet gloves.

Clint aimed a kick at his calf. “Ah, don’t mope, Rogers,” he said. “You asked if I was going to get your wallet back, and the answer to that is no. But I’ll tell you where it is.”

Steve cast a suspicious glance to the side. “How do you know where it is?”

Clint whistled. “So many questions, and all of them wrong. Listen, just promise you’ll go in and get it yourself. No hiding behind ‘Tash or Sam, none of that sneaky-sneaky.”

“I’m not negotiating till I know the intel’s good, Clinton.”

“You had twenty dollars and fifty-nine cents, a visa credit card, a picture of Stark from the Expo last year, and about ten receipts from Fro-Yo Mama,” Clint smugly rattled off the contents of Steve’s wallet, then leered knowingly. “That’s interesting; wouldn’t have pegged you for such a fan of frozen yogurt.”

Steve pursed his lips. “Where is it?”

Surprisingly, Clint replied without extra commentary. “It’s in the Tower, Cap. Go home after this and find today’s copy of the Times. In it, there’s an article by a Ms. Huggenkiss. Read every third word and follow the clues.”  

“Seriously?” Steve groaned. “Why do this?” 

Clint shrugged. “You’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”

Before Steve could rattle off all his disappointments, however, somebody called out from the middle of the set. “We’re ready for you, Mr. America.”

Steve leveled a last, displeased look at Clint and took up his cowl. God, he looked even stupider with his glorified stocking pulled over his head. Still, he quickly managed to school his features, paste on a winsome smile and straddle the chair provided because he’d been assured this was how the kids did it these days. 

“So,” he compassionately said to the camera. “Your bodies are changing...”

It took a special kind of writer to create a teleprompter spread equating the super soldier experiment to puberty. Steve was impressed, learned a few new things, and yet he still left the studio in polite haste because there were whispers about USCIS wanting in on the PSA action, and he was in no mood to stand before a backdrop of the Statue of Liberty and talk about being an ‘immigrant of time’.

Steve went straight back to the Tower and parked his motorbike in the expansive garage. “Is Tony out yet?” he asked hopefully.

“Sorry, Captain, but no,” FRIDAY replied.

Steve mumbled a disappointed thanks and took the elevator up to the communal floor. As he zoomed up to the topmost floors of the Tower, he wondered if he’d missed something during their conversation last night. Steve had never asked Tony about his evening; he’d been too caught up in the idea of them settling the future of the Avengers together. The thought made him smile even now, but he couldn’t imagine why Tony would go into lockdown all of a sudden.

For a brief, wild moment, Steve wondered if it was because of the wallet situation; if Tony was insulted at Steve keeping petty secrets from him all while proposing that they co-lead the team. His gut clenched uncomfortably, because Tony Stark wasn’t stupid, and he would have noticed Steve whispering with the rest of the team. Somehow, he managed to alienate Tony with the very strategy he was following to not alienate Tony.

Stepping out of the elevator, Steve scratched nervously at the back of his neck. The living room was empty, but bright with natural light, and immaculate from a recent visit by the maintenance staff. Couch cushions were rearranged tastefully, coasters replaced in their holder, and on the coffee table was a neatly folded copy of the Times.

Steve flipped through it skeptically, but lo and behold, there was indeed an article by the person Clint mentioned. Amanda Huggenkiss, hilarious. And to top it all off, it was a critic’s review for a movie about⸺ Steve checked the title twice⸺ mobile phone emojis. Incredible.

Following Clint’s increasingly ridiculous clues led Steve to Tony’s lab, right after a useless tour through the helipad, a server closet, and a trophy room he hadn’t even known existed. Once down there, he stood desperately at the entrance, pawing and waving until Tony himself told him to piss off over the intercom.

“I’m really busy, Steve.”

“That’s ok,” Steve replied quickly. “I’m here to see Butterfingers. Won’t bother you at all.”

Tony didn’t reply, but a good 15 seconds later, the doors whooshed open and Steve hurried in. He spared a smile for Tony, who was watching him curiously, but true to his word, he made a beeline for the bot in question. Butterfingers greeted him with happy, inquisitive chirping. Its arm swiveled enthusiastically in Steve’s direction, clearly hoping for a treat.

“Not today, fella,” Steve told it. “I have it on good authority that you took something of mine the other day.”

Butterfingers actually jerked like it was taken aback at the accusation. Then, Tony chimed in to ask, “You accusing my robot of theft, Rogers? Do I need to get his lawyer on the phone?”

“No, I’m sure it was an accident,” said Steve. He turned back to Butterfingers and looked into the blinking panel that he thought of as its eye. “I didn’t bring you anything when I was here to discuss upgrades last week, so you thought my wallet was a treat, right?”

A moment passed in which nothing happened. In the corner of his eye, Steve saw Tony push his goggles up onto his head to observe, and he really hoped he didn’t look like a complete tool, bantering with a robot.

Luckily, Butterfingers retreated to a corner of the lab and extricated something from a pile of other textile scraps. It came back with Steve’s wallet clutched carefully in its arm, and dropped it in his hands with a series of sad beeps.

“Sorry,” Steve said soothingly. “but stuff in my pocket’s off limits, ok? Promise, and I’ll bring you some nice original transistors next time.”

Butterfingers chirped excitedly at that, and Tony snorted. “You’re a sucker for nostalgia, you know that?” he told the bot.

Steve laughed softly and triumphantly waved his wallet. Tony made an ironic gesture of applause. “Great job, detective Capslock. Guess life goes back to normal now.”

Steve caught sight of his forced smile and deflated. “About that,” he ventured. “Tony, can we talk? I’ve been an ass this week, and I’m sorry, but believe it or not, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Tony frowned. “What?”

Taking the question as an invitation, Steve wandered closer and lay his wallet on the table between him and Tony. He flipped it open and slowly slid out the polaroid nestled in an inner pocket. It was slightly faded, but it was unmistakably a picture of Tony in a bespoke suit, leaning over to watch something obviously fascinating because his eyes were wide with wonder, and his expression almost loving.

“Is that me?” Tony asked, voice nearly a whisper.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah, um, Stark Expo 2016. You were watching a demo and it was the first time I’d seen you look so..I don’t know, open. I mean, you’re usually watching out for cameras or the paparazzi, but not here and I couldn’t help it, I…um.”

Tony dropped his face into his hands and Steve trailed off. Perfect. He was a creep and Tony was embarrassed. Steve just began to contemplate finding the nearest block of ice to crawl back into when Tony looked up, eyes wide and mildly haunted.

“I thought you were leaving the Avengers to be with Sharon.”

Steve startled. “What? Why would I⸺” he began, then remembered the night in the elevator. Ok, yes, he could see how that might have been misconstrued. He hurriedly shook his head and said, “No, Tony, that was something else. Something we need to talk about, sure, but it has nothing to do with me leaving the Avengers for Agent 13.”

Tony took a deep breath, like a drowning man taking his first gulp of air. He scrubbed his face again and said, “Good. Good, ‘cause I was...not taking that well.”

For the first time, Steve looked out over the workbench where Tony gestured. It looked like a tornado had gone through the place; fragments of tech strewn everywhere, prototypes lay buried under their own electric viscera like someone messily gutted them to painstakingly rebuild again. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “Turns out it hurt more than I thought. I mean, do you ever feel something, but you let it lie because why not, you have time. But then, life moves on, and next thing you know, you’re in the fucking elevator at 3AM and the guy you want to build a team with is giving you his 2-week notice, and⸺”

“Tony,” Steve breathed in to steady his own breath, because his brain was having trouble reconciling what Tony said to what he’d convinced himself Tony would say. Nevertheless, he placed his hand over their engineer’s on the table, and felt it shake under his palm. “It’s ok. Really. I understand.”

Tony narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What, you have a weird obsession with this group of misfits too?”

“Do I⸺ you have no idea!” Steve exclaimed, unable to stop the sheer happiness inside him bubble up as delirious laughter. “The Avengers are my home, Tony, all I want is to make this team the best it can be. With you. God, especially with you.”

Tony stared back at him, possibly for the first time, speechless. “Well, shit,” he managed to sigh. “How did we miss that?”

“Because I’m an idiot!” Steve declared, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been mooning over a picture when I should have been listening to the real deal.”

“And I hid in here to lick my wounds instead of fighting for you,” Tony mumbled. He slid his hand out from under Steve’s and intertwined their fingers together instead. “We’re both hopeless, but we got this far, somehow.”

Steve looked up and met warm, brown eyes that shone just as hopefully as his own. “We did,” he agreed. “We did, and I can’t wait to see how much further we can go, but…well, you should also know that I don’t carry your photo ‘round cause I admire you.”

Tony made a strange noise. “Admire me?”

“I like you too,” Steve admitted. “Very much. I know it’s a lot, even in this day and age, and you’re a public figure, too.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony said. “But let’s get back to the part where you like me...and want to raise the Avengers with me?”

Steve felt his lips pull into a stupid grin again, like this thought would forever fill him with joy. ‘Raise the Avengers’, god, did Tony have a way with words.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “That about sums it up.”

Tony held his gaze and leaned forward just imperceptibly. “And you’re willing to kiss on it?”

Steve immediately felt his cheeks heat. Barely hearing himself over the sound of his own pounding heartbeat, he said, “Yes, Tony, I will kiss on⸺”

Ah. Steve’s breath caught when Tony’s lips touched him, and he closed his eyes, savoring their proximity, the stubble scratching his mouth. Instinctively, he bought one hand up to caress the side of Tony’s cheek. It was a chaste kiss by any standards, but it was happening. At long last, it was happening.

Steve leaned his forehead against Tony’s when they parted, unwilling to give up the touch he’d spent so long pining after. He thumbed at the hairs at the nape of Tony’s neck, then leaned up to kiss the crown of his head.

Tony drew his fingertip down the photo of himself, which had started this whole thing in the first place. “What was I even looking at?”

Steve examined the lines of fascination and reverence etched into the picture. “The future, if I had to guess.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be something,” Tony replied casually.

When he met Steve’s eyes again, however, his skepticism had already melted into something softer, more wondrous and promising.

Whatever it was, Steve was charmed to note that it matched the photo.

[ecotone99]

[MF] The Crash - Coming To Terms With the Social Media Crash As An IG Husband

It’s quiet this morning. It’s been quiet for weeks. Or maybe it’s been months? The calendar on the wall has been used more in the last seven months than probably any calendar we’ve owned. It hangs next to the fridge with a little post-it note that hovered over the twenty first that read in all caps “Dr. Theisen, 8AM!” From my spot at the kitchen table I squinted to find the date. The smell of coffee wafted through but it hadn’t quite kicked in for me.

Today’s the tenth. It’s been exactly nine months. I’ve never been a good judge of the passage of time, especially without all of my automatic synced calendar alerts from before The Crash.

At first it was a crisis.

Not to me, but to my wife Vanessa. I’ve always had a healthy aversion to the internet but to her the panic from the sudden loss of the invisible network that wove us all together was palpable. In the hours following The Crash it seemed easy for her to distract herself with shopping and admiring herself in the mirror but after the twentieth hour her efforts were something more…. Desperate. She asked me to take her phone so she wouldn’t obsessively check it, then took a melatonin and lain in bed, staring at the ceiling. She dreamt about hitting 3 million followers on Instagram. When she woke to the still-same status of The Crash she was crushed.

I remember how she put on that fake high voice she uses when she’s not okay. “Oh! Well, I’ll just… go for a run I guess”. She hadn’t actually ‘gone for a run’ since senior year for P.E. exams, though her feed would tell a different story. So many photos of her in running gear. So many hours meticulously feigning a runner’s sweat with glycerin and posing in athleisure for the camera.

Her announcement to go on a run was cautious, and almost nervous. I didn’t laugh at her. I simply nodded and tried to keep my eyebrows from betraying my surprise. Be cool. Don’t make it a thing.

“Okay, babe. Don’t forget your water bottle.” For a moment she perked up. She was cheered by the reminder of the branded posh water bottle, an item she’d received only the week before as a PR package. I went back to my book as I heard her fill the bottle in the kitchen and left out the front door. She came back in a better mood to proudly show off the most genuine selfies I’d ever seen from her, but her overall antsiness continued. Those small pick-me-ups as reminders of her importance grew fewer and more distant as The Crash became a greater reality.

Vanessa Moore is the beautiful woman I have called my wife these past seven years. I don’t remember quite how or when she became fully attached to her fame or phone, but it happened slowly. First she Marie Kondo’d all her favorite souvenir national park t-shirts, then the spare room became a filming room, then she went blonde, and then one day I found myself picking her up an outpatient clinic for a procedure she swore would make her happy. It all seemed so linear to me now, how I lost my wife to the internet personality she’d rather be.

The word they use for someone with that great of a following is ‘influencer’ but I cringe to think of my Nessa like that. She used to be so different. I didn’t used to be an Instagram Husband. I couldn’t have been more relieved that The Crash happened, to be honest it probably saved my marriage. My wife wouldn’t share my opinion. I held that secret thought as bitterly as my coffee tasted in my cooling mug.

The first six months were rocky for us. I couldn’t conceal my annoyance at being constantly asked to take photos for an audience that was lost in the ether. More importantly, Nessa discovered something that rocked her world-- her sudden loss of connection to the sycophants she called fans and community left her lonely and depressed. Somewhere along the way her self confidence had been replaced by relying on validation from faceless interactions. I bet that even that some of those interactions came from bots, but she missed them all the same.

It’s been hard. She still has dreams about hitting 3 mil. Her therapist says she has PTSD and FOMO, the second of which I cannot help but doubt is a technical term. As baffling as it was, we’re still coming to terms with what that means. For Vanessa that means she has to find meaningful things to do, and learn new skills. She’s enrolled in school for a real degree….

.. this is where I have to stop myself. Reframe. She has a real degree-- Online Influence Marketing. She’s just getting one that is more relevant to the post-Crash economy now. I can hear Dr Theisen’s voice in my head correcting me.

“Mr. Moore, despite benefiting for your wife’s influence you don’t really respect her, do you?”

That question still felt like a punch to the gut, followed by deep and immediate shame. I benefited from the free vacations, home that YouTube bought, the brand spokesperson discounts, the random PR boxes that arrived on our doorstep. I couldn’t deny that my wife had worked hard to paint a picture on her social media of a… ‘bossbabe’. That word still makes me shudder. It all seemed so vapid and empty to me. If The Crash hadn’t happened, would I still be here? I constantly asked myself that question, steeped in guilt.

Nessa’s voice in the hall broke me out of my shudder. “Babe?”

“Yeah, hon?” I raised my head to look her direction. Morning rays from my nook window played on her face. Her eyes were heavily lidded, her blonde hair and dark roots a mess, but still a welcome sight after all these months. She wore a long tee with GLACIER emblazoned across the front in faded letters. I could’ve sworn that used to be my shirt, though I hadn’t seen it in years.

Her voice came again, this time softer. “I had a dream.” Dr. Theisen said that was common after devastating loss. Recurring dreams that haunted the broken.

I stretched out my hand to her and she took my hand, folding herself into my arms to perch on my lap and curl into me. Her heart beat felt unsteady through my shirt. “The three million again?” That’s the only dream she ever had.

Her head shook slightly against my shoulder. Her voice was so quiet I strained to hear her before the silence of the kitchen swallowed it up.

“You left me.”

The guilt came back to me again with a roaring vengeance. “Oh, Nessa. No, honey. I’m right here”. I held her tight. The pain in my gut was visceral, twisting and searing up a rebuke at me.

The smell of coffee drifted through the kitchen but was completely forgotten. The wetness from her cheeks smeared against my shoulder and that twisting deep in my chest amplified. “No, no, no. Sssshh. You’re ok,” I whispered. Now I could hardly get the words out.

You bastard. You coward. You would have. I croaked out another reassurance, a tear falling, breath caught on the lump in my throat. She dreamt of you.

I lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. With a thumb I wiped away her tears. I nearly lost you. “Vanessa Moore, I have not left you. Shhhh baby, I’m right here.” I hugged her tight again.

You’re still in there. I’m still here. I nearly lost you, but I’m still here.

The Crash ruined so many lives but it saved mine. I couldn’t ever tell her. I couldn’t ever tell her that The Crash may have left her nothing... but it had given me back everything.

___

See more bittersweet endings and hot smoking dumpster fires over on my subreddit: r/aliteraldumpsterfire

submitted by /u/aliteraldumpsterfire [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2DExW3d

[flauntpage]

DGB Grab Bag: A Wedgie for Wedgewood, Inflamed Calgary Fans, & Espo's Night

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: This Hawks/Panthers glitch – I won't lie, I've probably watched this three dozen times and I enjoy it more each time through.

The second star: This Coyotes fan – Apparently she likes Scott Wedgewood? I really hope that's what this means.

(Needless to say, he was thrilled.)

The first star: Jozy Altidore – He's a soccer player, for MLS champions Toronto FC. That's what got him invited to handle the ceremonial faceoff before the next Maple Leafs game. And, uh, the handshakes did not go well.

Altidore was too busy on his phone to notice that he left Maple Leafs alternate captain Leo Komarov hanging on a handshake. (He later apologized, and it was accepted.)

Trivial Annoyance of the Week

The NHL is celebrating the 100th anniversary of the league's first ever games this weekend. The main event is in Ottawa, where the Senators will host the Canadiens in the season's first outdoor game. It's a rematch from that very first opening night back in 1917, when the original Senators hosted the Habs and George Vezina outdueled Clint Benedict in a 7-4 Montreal win.

It's a pretty cool. There's just one minor problem: Saturday isn't actually the 100th anniversary. That would be December 19, which is Tuesday.

You can understand what the league is doing here, of course. They want these outdoor games to have as big an impact as possible, and that means holding them on weekends. Sure, you'd make the history purists happy by holding the event a few days later, but you lose out on ratings and revenue. Besides, as everyone who lives here could tell you, Ottawa is closed on Tuesday nights.

So yes, of course you have the big outdoor game a few days early. But check out the schedule for the league's official anniversary on Tuesday. Do you notice anything unusual?

Neither do I. It's basically a typical Tuesday night slate. And that's kind of odd, right?

The league's only other surviving original team, the Maple Leafs, are at home that night, but it's against the Hurricanes. The Senators are hosting the Wild. And even though the league launched with half its teams in Montreal, the Canadiens are on the road, in Vancouver. They couldn’t have given us a Leafs/Habs game as a nod to the other opening night matchup from 1917 that saw Toronto beat the Wanderers in the league's very first game? They didn't even do that NHL thing where they pretend that history started with the Original Six and give us one of those matchups.

It's not like the league hasn't spent the last year bathing itself in history. They've done ceremonies and fan votes and Top 100 lists dating back to last season. And for the most part, it's been great. I'm the last guy who'll ever complain about a league celebrating its history.

But when it comes to the two anniversary dates on the calendar that really matter—the formation of the league on November 26 and the first games on December 19—the NHL just kind of shrugged. It's weird. It's like your annoying friend who tries to turn their birthday party into a week-long event, then forgets to schedule anything for the actual day.

Throw us a bone, NHL. At least make the Leafs play by 1917 rules, with no forward passes or backup goalies and three-minute minors. Have half the Senators sit out the first period in a contract dispute. Burn down the Montreal arena. Something.

Or we could just have a few pre-game ceremonies on an otherwise typical Tuesday. I guess that works too. It just seems a little anti-climactic after all this buildup, no?

Obscure Former Player of the Week

Other than the 100th anniversary, the NHL's other big news this week is that it now seems inevitable that Seattle will be getting a team at some point in the next few years. Let's combine those two stories with this week's obscure player: goaltender Harry "Hap" Holmes.

Holmes isn't necessarily all that obscure in the big picture sense, or at least he shouldn't be—he's in the Hockey Hall of Fame. But it's probably fair to say that most modern fans don't know him. After all, he played a century ago, and his name isn't often remembered in the same tier as stars from the era like Joe Malone or Cy Denneny that at least some of today's fans may recognize.

In fact, most of Holmes's success as a pro came before the NHL existed. He won his first Stanley Cup in 1914 as a member of the Toronto Blueshirts of the NHA, the predecessor of the NHL. But it was his second that made history, as he backstopped the Pacific Coast Hockey Association's Seattle Metropolitans to a 1917 win, the first time the Cup had ever been captured by an American team. (Feel free to see how many of your hockey expert friends know that Seattle won a Stanley Cup long before places like New York, Chicago or Detroit.)

That 1917 Cup also marked the last one before the NHL arrived, and Holmes initially joined the new league's Toronto franchise. (That team didn't have a formal name, although they'd later be known as the Arenas.) That team went on to win the league title as well as the Stanley Cup, Holmes's third. He'd play just two more games for the team the following year before heading back to the Metropolitans, and later joined the Victoria Cougars of the Western Hockey League. He made some history there too, winning his fourth Stanley Cup in 1926 by beating the NHL's Montreal Maroons. It was the last time that the Cup was won by a team outside the NHL, who gained exclusive control of the trophy beginning in 1927.

That made it four Cups for Holmes with four different teams; to this day he remains the only NHL player to ever do that. (His former teammate and fellow Hall-of-Famer Jack Marshall did it too, but never appeared in the NHL.)

Holmes eventually returned to the NHL for a two-season stint beginning in 1926 when the Cougars moved to Detroit and joined the league after the WHL disbanded. In all, he played 103 games in parts of four NHL seasons, one of the five major pro leagues of the day he suited up for.

And perhaps my favorite Hap Holmes fact of them all: According to Wikipedia, he sometimes wore a cap when he played to protect him from objects thrown from the stands by the era's fans, who found that "his shining bald dome presented a tempting target."

Outrage of the Week

The issue: With expansion to Seattle looking like a done deal, the Flames seem intent on making Calgary fans think that a move to Houston is looming unless a new arena deal gets done. The outrage: Nobody seems to believe them, and fans aren't happy that the subject is coming up at all. Is it justified: The idea that the Flames could move if they don't get an arena deal isn't new—Gary Bettman suggested as much a few months ago, although he was vague on specifics. That was part of an effort to turn Calgary fans and voters against the city's mayor, who was seen as an obstacle to an arena deal. It didn't work.

The story resurfaced this week thanks to a column from Eric Francis of the Calgary Sun that skipped the subtleties and went straight to outright predicting that the Flames would be in Houston within three years. We don't know how much, if any, of that piece was based on information coming directly from the Flames. But even if Francis was simply presenting his own views, the fact that the Flames didn't immediately push back on the report suggests that, at the very least, they don’t mind having this stuff out there. (Full disclosure: Francis and I both contribute to Sportsnet.)

Seeing such a bold prediction of an imminent move had to make Flames fans nervous. But plenty of others took issues with the Francis piece, with Kent Wilson posting an in-depth takedown at The Athletic. Wilson's argument, in a nutshell, is that a move just doesn't add up, financially or otherwise. Calgary is a great market, and it wouldn't seem to make sense for the Flames to abandon that for an unknown market like Houston. And as Wilson points out, plenty of teams have played this game before that we now know were bluffing.

And that's the big problem here. Even if the Flames really are eying a move and trying to send warning signals to their fans before it's too late, this ground has just been trod too many times. NHL fans have heard this before—in Pittsburgh, in New Jersey, in Raleigh, and in just about every market that ever wanted a new area and didn't get it right away. It's a game that's playing out to varying degrees right now in Ottawa, Brooklyn, and (as always) Arizona. Once those situations are resolved, it will be someone else's turn.

This certainly isn't an NHL problem, and if anything the league has been more stable when it comes to franchise movement in the last two decades than the NFL or NBA. But when it comes to dropping threats, the NHL seems to view them as just part of how business is done in this league.

And that gets exhausting. The Flames aren't going anywhere unless this whole situation is misplayed by all sides so badly that it goes completely off the rails, and they'll end up with a new arena that will be partly funded by taxpayers. And within a few years, most of us will have forgotten all about this.

Most, but not all. Because you have to wonder how many diehard Flames fans, who've been with the team through good times and bad, are feeling just a little less enthusiasm for the team right now. The NHL is a business, as we're constantly reminded. But it's a business that charges a lot of money for an inconsistent product, and that means it relies on an awful lot of loyalty. Putting even a fraction of that at risk is a dangerous game.

That would be worth thinking about for NHL teams. It might already be too late for Calgary. If so, we'll have to wait and see whether their current threats come with a cost. And if so, whether the next teams in line learn any lessons

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

Last week marked the 30-year anniversary of one of my favorite moments from the 1980s. It didn't involve a goal or a save or a fight, or anything else that had anything to do with the game being played. But it did take place on the ice, and you won't hear a building get much louder than the old Boston Garden did back on December 3, 1987.

Yes, it's the legendary Phil Esposito jersey retirement. Our clip begins with Ray Bourque being called on to "make a presentation." That's fitting, since not only has he assumed Esposito's mantle as the Bruin's best player, but he wears the same #7 that's being retired. For a few more seconds, at least.

By the way, if you're thrown off Bob Wilson announcing Bourque as the Bruins captain but wearing an "A," he shared the duties with Rick Middleton that season. Middleton wore the "C" at home, while Bourque got it on the road.

It was always kind of weird that the Bruins gave Esposito's number to Bourque as a rookie. But it was even weirder that they also gave it to guys like Bill Bennett and Sean Shanahan in between. Remember, there was some bad blood between Esposito and the team after he was traded to the Rangers in 1975, which might explain why it took six years after his retirement for the Bruins to get around to officially honoring his number.

But to their credit, they eventually do it right. Bourque skates over and shares a few words with Esposito, then hands him a No. 7 jersey. You kind of sense Esposito accepting the gift with a "Yeah, thanks, I already have dozens of these" sort of vibe, but it's just the setup for the bigger moment to come.

With Esposito momentarily distracted, Bourque yanks his own No. 7 jersey off to reveal a second one underneath, this one bearing what would become his iconic No. 77. It takes a second for everyone to realize what just happened—Esposito didn't know this was coming, and seems genuinely stunned—and the crowd goes nuts once they clue in.

The back story here is that apparently Esposito thought Bourque was going to keep wearing No. 7, and was fine with that. But Bourque had never wanted the pressure that came with the number, so he jumped at the chance to swap it out while honoring an all-time great.

I feel like we don’t give Bourque enough credit for (literally) pulling this off so smoothly. You put me on live TV in front of 20,000 people and tell me to take a sweater off, there's a 100 percent chance it's going to end with me showing my bare tummy to the world for an awkwardly long period of time. Not Bourque. He sheds his jersey with near-Baumgartner speed, and still remembers to do a little pirouette so everyone can see what just happened. He wasn't one of the all-time greats for nothing.

Esposito throws on the jersey and starts his speech. Man, Phil was as cool as they'd come. How cool? Oh, roughly "wears tinted shades at his own retirement ceremony even though it's being held indoors" cool.

He thanks Bourque, and then mentions the Rangers, who are the visitors for this game. At the time, Esposito was their general manager, and whoo boy was that ever a fun time. I'm pretty sure that this two-minute speech is the longest period of time he managed to go as Rangers GM without making at least one trade.

Espo gets the cheap pop from a Bobby Orr mention, mentions exactly nobody from management or ownership, and then thanks the fans. We end with a shot of his number going up to the rafters. It's helpfully labelled "Philip A. Esposito," just in case some other Philip Esposito came along and everyone got confused.

At one point, the number is going up so crooked that it's nearly sideways, but they get it straightened out by the end. Near miss there. That would have been right up there with the night the Canucks honored Markus Naslund, shone a spotlight through his No. 19, and turned it into a giant frowny face.

To this day everyone's favorite Bourque memory is the Cup handoff from Joe Sakic, and rightly so. But the Esposito number swap should absolutely be a close second. If Gordie Howe gets to be Mr. Hockey, Bourque might have to start going by Mr. Ceremony. He's like the polar opposite of this guy.

Years later, Esposito would be on hand when the Bruins retired Bourque's #77, although he did not disrobe during the ceremony. At least as far as we know.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at nhlgrabbag@gmail.com and follow him on Twitter @DownGoesBrown.

DGB Grab Bag: A Wedgie for Wedgewood, Inflamed Calgary Fans, & Espo's Night published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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DGB Grab Bag: A Wedgie for Wedgewood, Inflamed Calgary Fans, & Espo’s Night

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: This Hawks/Panthers glitch – I won’t lie, I’ve probably watched this three dozen times and I enjoy it more each time through.

The second star: This Coyotes fan – Apparently she likes Scott Wedgewood? I really hope that’s what this means.

(Needless to say, he was thrilled.)

The first star: Jozy Altidore – He’s a soccer player, for MLS champions Toronto FC. That’s what got him invited to handle the ceremonial faceoff before the next Maple Leafs game. And, uh, the handshakes did not go well.

Altidore was too busy on his phone to notice that he left Maple Leafs alternate captain Leo Komarov hanging on a handshake. (He later apologized, and it was accepted.)

Trivial Annoyance of the Week

The NHL is celebrating the 100th anniversary of the league’s first ever games this weekend. The main event is in Ottawa, where the Senators will host the Canadiens in the season’s first outdoor game. It’s a rematch from that very first opening night back in 1917, when the original Senators hosted the Habs and George Vezina outdueled Clint Benedict in a 7-4 Montreal win.

It’s a pretty cool. There’s just one minor problem: Saturday isn’t actually the 100th anniversary. That would be December 19, which is Tuesday.

You can understand what the league is doing here, of course. They want these outdoor games to have as big an impact as possible, and that means holding them on weekends. Sure, you’d make the history purists happy by holding the event a few days later, but you lose out on ratings and revenue. Besides, as everyone who lives here could tell you, Ottawa is closed on Tuesday nights.

So yes, of course you have the big outdoor game a few days early. But check out the schedule for the league’s official anniversary on Tuesday. Do you notice anything unusual?

Neither do I. It’s basically a typical Tuesday night slate. And that’s kind of odd, right?

The league’s only other surviving original team, the Maple Leafs, are at home that night, but it’s against the Hurricanes. The Senators are hosting the Wild. And even though the league launched with half its teams in Montreal, the Canadiens are on the road, in Vancouver. They couldn’t have given us a Leafs/Habs game as a nod to the other opening night matchup from 1917 that saw Toronto beat the Wanderers in the league’s very first game? They didn’t even do that NHL thing where they pretend that history started with the Original Six and give us one of those matchups.

It’s not like the league hasn’t spent the last year bathing itself in history. They’ve done ceremonies and fan votes and Top 100 lists dating back to last season. And for the most part, it’s been great. I’m the last guy who’ll ever complain about a league celebrating its history.

But when it comes to the two anniversary dates on the calendar that really matter—the formation of the league on November 26 and the first games on December 19—the NHL just kind of shrugged. It’s weird. It’s like your annoying friend who tries to turn their birthday party into a week-long event, then forgets to schedule anything for the actual day.

Throw us a bone, NHL. At least make the Leafs play by 1917 rules, with no forward passes or backup goalies and three-minute minors. Have half the Senators sit out the first period in a contract dispute. Burn down the Montreal arena. Something.

Or we could just have a few pre-game ceremonies on an otherwise typical Tuesday. I guess that works too. It just seems a little anti-climactic after all this buildup, no?

Obscure Former Player of the Week

Other than the 100th anniversary, the NHL’s other big news this week is that it now seems inevitable that Seattle will be getting a team at some point in the next few years. Let’s combine those two stories with this week’s obscure player: goaltender Harry “Hap” Holmes.

Holmes isn’t necessarily all that obscure in the big picture sense, or at least he shouldn’t be—he’s in the Hockey Hall of Fame. But it’s probably fair to say that most modern fans don’t know him. After all, he played a century ago, and his name isn’t often remembered in the same tier as stars from the era like Joe Malone or Cy Denneny that at least some of today’s fans may recognize.

In fact, most of Holmes’s success as a pro came before the NHL existed. He won his first Stanley Cup in 1914 as a member of the Toronto Blueshirts of the NHA, the predecessor of the NHL. But it was his second that made history, as he backstopped the Pacific Coast Hockey Association’s Seattle Metropolitans to a 1917 win, the first time the Cup had ever been captured by an American team. (Feel free to see how many of your hockey expert friends know that Seattle won a Stanley Cup long before places like New York, Chicago or Detroit.)

That 1917 Cup also marked the last one before the NHL arrived, and Holmes initially joined the new league’s Toronto franchise. (That team didn’t have a formal name, although they’d later be known as the Arenas.) That team went on to win the league title as well as the Stanley Cup, Holmes’s third. He’d play just two more games for the team the following year before heading back to the Metropolitans, and later joined the Victoria Cougars of the Western Hockey League. He made some history there too, winning his fourth Stanley Cup in 1926 by beating the NHL’s Montreal Maroons. It was the last time that the Cup was won by a team outside the NHL, who gained exclusive control of the trophy beginning in 1927.

That made it four Cups for Holmes with four different teams; to this day he remains the only NHL player to ever do that. (His former teammate and fellow Hall-of-Famer Jack Marshall did it too, but never appeared in the NHL.)

Holmes eventually returned to the NHL for a two-season stint beginning in 1926 when the Cougars moved to Detroit and joined the league after the WHL disbanded. In all, he played 103 games in parts of four NHL seasons, one of the five major pro leagues of the day he suited up for.

And perhaps my favorite Hap Holmes fact of them all: According to Wikipedia, he sometimes wore a cap when he played to protect him from objects thrown from the stands by the era’s fans, who found that “his shining bald dome presented a tempting target.”

Outrage of the Week

The issue: With expansion to Seattle looking like a done deal, the Flames seem intent on making Calgary fans think that a move to Houston is looming unless a new arena deal gets done.

The outrage: Nobody seems to believe them, and fans aren’t happy that the subject is coming up at all.

Is it justified: The idea that the Flames could move if they don’t get an arena deal isn’t new—Gary Bettman suggested as much a few months ago, although he was vague on specifics. That was part of an effort to turn Calgary fans and voters against the city’s mayor, who was seen as an obstacle to an arena deal. It didn’t work.

The story resurfaced this week thanks to a column from Eric Francis of the Calgary Sun that skipped the subtleties and went straight to outright predicting that the Flames would be in Houston within three years. We don’t know how much, if any, of that piece was based on information coming directly from the Flames. But even if Francis was simply presenting his own views, the fact that the Flames didn’t immediately push back on the report suggests that, at the very least, they don’t mind having this stuff out there. (Full disclosure: Francis and I both contribute to Sportsnet.)

Seeing such a bold prediction of an imminent move had to make Flames fans nervous. But plenty of others took issues with the Francis piece, with Kent Wilson posting an in-depth takedown at The Athletic. Wilson’s argument, in a nutshell, is that a move just doesn’t add up, financially or otherwise. Calgary is a great market, and it wouldn’t seem to make sense for the Flames to abandon that for an unknown market like Houston. And as Wilson points out, plenty of teams have played this game before that we now know were bluffing.

And that’s the big problem here. Even if the Flames really are eying a move and trying to send warning signals to their fans before it’s too late, this ground has just been trod too many times. NHL fans have heard this before—in Pittsburgh, in New Jersey, in Raleigh, and in just about every market that ever wanted a new area and didn’t get it right away. It’s a game that’s playing out to varying degrees right now in Ottawa, Brooklyn, and (as always) Arizona. Once those situations are resolved, it will be someone else’s turn.

This certainly isn’t an NHL problem, and if anything the league has been more stable when it comes to franchise movement in the last two decades than the NFL or NBA. But when it comes to dropping threats, the NHL seems to view them as just part of how business is done in this league.

And that gets exhausting. The Flames aren’t going anywhere unless this whole situation is misplayed by all sides so badly that it goes completely off the rails, and they’ll end up with a new arena that will be partly funded by taxpayers. And within a few years, most of us will have forgotten all about this.

Most, but not all. Because you have to wonder how many diehard Flames fans, who’ve been with the team through good times and bad, are feeling just a little less enthusiasm for the team right now. The NHL is a business, as we’re constantly reminded. But it’s a business that charges a lot of money for an inconsistent product, and that means it relies on an awful lot of loyalty. Putting even a fraction of that at risk is a dangerous game.

That would be worth thinking about for NHL teams. It might already be too late for Calgary. If so, we’ll have to wait and see whether their current threats come with a cost. And if so, whether the next teams in line learn any lessons

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

Last week marked the 30-year anniversary of one of my favorite moments from the 1980s. It didn’t involve a goal or a save or a fight, or anything else that had anything to do with the game being played. But it did take place on the ice, and you won’t hear a building get much louder than the old Boston Garden did back on December 3, 1987.

Yes, it’s the legendary Phil Esposito jersey retirement. Our clip begins with Ray Bourque being called on to “make a presentation.” That’s fitting, since not only has he assumed Esposito’s mantle as the Bruin’s best player, but he wears the same #7 that’s being retired. For a few more seconds, at least.

By the way, if you’re thrown off Bob Wilson announcing Bourque as the Bruins captain but wearing an “A,” he shared the duties with Rick Middleton that season. Middleton wore the “C” at home, while Bourque got it on the road.

It was always kind of weird that the Bruins gave Esposito’s number to Bourque as a rookie. But it was even weirder that they also gave it to guys like Bill Bennett and Sean Shanahan in between. Remember, there was some bad blood between Esposito and the team after he was traded to the Rangers in 1975, which might explain why it took six years after his retirement for the Bruins to get around to officially honoring his number.

But to their credit, they eventually do it right. Bourque skates over and shares a few words with Esposito, then hands him a No. 7 jersey. You kind of sense Esposito accepting the gift with a “Yeah, thanks, I already have dozens of these” sort of vibe, but it’s just the setup for the bigger moment to come.

With Esposito momentarily distracted, Bourque yanks his own No. 7 jersey off to reveal a second one underneath, this one bearing what would become his iconic No. 77. It takes a second for everyone to realize what just happened—Esposito didn’t know this was coming, and seems genuinely stunned—and the crowd goes nuts once they clue in.

The back story here is that apparently Esposito thought Bourque was going to keep wearing No. 7, and was fine with that. But Bourque had never wanted the pressure that came with the number, so he jumped at the chance to swap it out while honoring an all-time great.

I feel like we don’t give Bourque enough credit for (literally) pulling this off so smoothly. You put me on live TV in front of 20,000 people and tell me to take a sweater off, there’s a 100 percent chance it’s going to end with me showing my bare tummy to the world for an awkwardly long period of time. Not Bourque. He sheds his jersey with near-Baumgartner speed, and still remembers to do a little pirouette so everyone can see what just happened. He wasn’t one of the all-time greats for nothing.

Esposito throws on the jersey and starts his speech. Man, Phil was as cool as they’d come. How cool? Oh, roughly “wears tinted shades at his own retirement ceremony even though it’s being held indoors” cool.

He thanks Bourque, and then mentions the Rangers, who are the visitors for this game. At the time, Esposito was their general manager, and whoo boy was that ever a fun time. I’m pretty sure that this two-minute speech is the longest period of time he managed to go as Rangers GM without making at least one trade.

Espo gets the cheap pop from a Bobby Orr mention, mentions exactly nobody from management or ownership, and then thanks the fans. We end with a shot of his number going up to the rafters. It’s helpfully labelled “Philip A. Esposito,” just in case some other Philip Esposito came along and everyone got confused.

At one point, the number is going up so crooked that it’s nearly sideways, but they get it straightened out by the end. Near miss there. That would have been right up there with the night the Canucks honored Markus Naslund, shone a spotlight through his No. 19, and turned it into a giant frowny face.

To this day everyone’s favorite Bourque memory is the Cup handoff from Joe Sakic, and rightly so. But the Esposito number swap should absolutely be a close second. If Gordie Howe gets to be Mr. Hockey, Bourque might have to start going by Mr. Ceremony. He’s like the polar opposite of this guy.

Years later, Esposito would be on hand when the Bruins retired Bourque’s #77, although he did not disrobe during the ceremony. At least as far as we know.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you’d like to see included in this column? Email Sean at nhlgrabbag@gmail.com and follow him on Twitter @DownGoesBrown.

DGB Grab Bag: A Wedgie for Wedgewood, Inflamed Calgary Fans, & Espo’s Night syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

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DGB Grab Bag: A Wedgie for Wedgewood, Inflamed Calgary Fans, & Espo's Night

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: This Hawks/Panthers glitch – I won't lie, I've probably watched this three dozen times and I enjoy it more each time through.

The second star: This Coyotes fan – Apparently she likes Scott Wedgewood? I really hope that's what this means.

(Needless to say, he was thrilled.)

The first star: Jozy Altidore – He's a soccer player, for MLS champions Toronto FC. That's what got him invited to handle the ceremonial faceoff before the next Maple Leafs game. And, uh, the handshakes did not go well.

Altidore was too busy on his phone to notice that he left Maple Leafs alternate captain Leo Komarov hanging on a handshake. (He later apologized, and it was accepted.)

Trivial Annoyance of the Week

The NHL is celebrating the 100th anniversary of the league's first ever games this weekend. The main event is in Ottawa, where the Senators will host the Canadiens in the season's first outdoor game. It's a rematch from that very first opening night back in 1917, when the original Senators hosted the Habs and George Vezina outdueled Clint Benedict in a 7-4 Montreal win.

It's a pretty cool. There's just one minor problem: Saturday isn't actually the 100th anniversary. That would be December 19, which is Tuesday.

You can understand what the league is doing here, of course. They want these outdoor games to have as big an impact as possible, and that means holding them on weekends. Sure, you'd make the history purists happy by holding the event a few days later, but you lose out on ratings and revenue. Besides, as everyone who lives here could tell you, Ottawa is closed on Tuesday nights.

So yes, of course you have the big outdoor game a few days early. But check out the schedule for the league's official anniversary on Tuesday. Do you notice anything unusual?

Neither do I. It's basically a typical Tuesday night slate. And that's kind of odd, right?

The league's only other surviving original team, the Maple Leafs, are at home that night, but it's against the Hurricanes. The Senators are hosting the Wild. And even though the league launched with half its teams in Montreal, the Canadiens are on the road, in Vancouver. They couldn’t have given us a Leafs/Habs game as a nod to the other opening night matchup from 1917 that saw Toronto beat the Wanderers in the league's very first game? They didn't even do that NHL thing where they pretend that history started with the Original Six and give us one of those matchups.

It's not like the league hasn't spent the last year bathing itself in history. They've done ceremonies and fan votes and Top 100 lists dating back to last season. And for the most part, it's been great. I'm the last guy who'll ever complain about a league celebrating its history.

But when it comes to the two anniversary dates on the calendar that really matter—the formation of the league on November 26 and the first games on December 19—the NHL just kind of shrugged. It's weird. It's like your annoying friend who tries to turn their birthday party into a week-long event, then forgets to schedule anything for the actual day.

Throw us a bone, NHL. At least make the Leafs play by 1917 rules, with no forward passes or backup goalies and three-minute minors. Have half the Senators sit out the first period in a contract dispute. Burn down the Montreal arena. Something.

Or we could just have a few pre-game ceremonies on an otherwise typical Tuesday. I guess that works too. It just seems a little anti-climactic after all this buildup, no?

Obscure Former Player of the Week

Other than the 100th anniversary, the NHL's other big news this week is that it now seems inevitable that Seattle will be getting a team at some point in the next few years. Let's combine those two stories with this week's obscure player: goaltender Harry "Hap" Holmes.

Holmes isn't necessarily all that obscure in the big picture sense, or at least he shouldn't be—he's in the Hockey Hall of Fame. But it's probably fair to say that most modern fans don't know him. After all, he played a century ago, and his name isn't often remembered in the same tier as stars from the era like Joe Malone or Cy Denneny that at least some of today's fans may recognize.

In fact, most of Holmes's success as a pro came before the NHL existed. He won his first Stanley Cup in 1914 as a member of the Toronto Blueshirts of the NHA, the predecessor of the NHL. But it was his second that made history, as he backstopped the Pacific Coast Hockey Association's Seattle Metropolitans to a 1917 win, the first time the Cup had ever been captured by an American team. (Feel free to see how many of your hockey expert friends know that Seattle won a Stanley Cup long before places like New York, Chicago or Detroit.)

That 1917 Cup also marked the last one before the NHL arrived, and Holmes initially joined the new league's Toronto franchise. (That team didn't have a formal name, although they'd later be known as the Arenas.) That team went on to win the league title as well as the Stanley Cup, Holmes's third. He'd play just two more games for the team the following year before heading back to the Metropolitans, and later joined the Victoria Cougars of the Western Hockey League. He made some history there too, winning his fourth Stanley Cup in 1926 by beating the NHL's Montreal Maroons. It was the last time that the Cup was won by a team outside the NHL, who gained exclusive control of the trophy beginning in 1927.

That made it four Cups for Holmes with four different teams; to this day he remains the only NHL player to ever do that. (His former teammate and fellow Hall-of-Famer Jack Marshall did it too, but never appeared in the NHL.)

Holmes eventually returned to the NHL for a two-season stint beginning in 1926 when the Cougars moved to Detroit and joined the league after the WHL disbanded. In all, he played 103 games in parts of four NHL seasons, one of the five major pro leagues of the day he suited up for.

And perhaps my favorite Hap Holmes fact of them all: According to Wikipedia, he sometimes wore a cap when he played to protect him from objects thrown from the stands by the era's fans, who found that "his shining bald dome presented a tempting target."

Outrage of the Week

The issue: With expansion to Seattle looking like a done deal, the Flames seem intent on making Calgary fans think that a move to Houston is looming unless a new arena deal gets done. The outrage: Nobody seems to believe them, and fans aren't happy that the subject is coming up at all. Is it justified: The idea that the Flames could move if they don't get an arena deal isn't new—Gary Bettman suggested as much a few months ago, although he was vague on specifics. That was part of an effort to turn Calgary fans and voters against the city's mayor, who was seen as an obstacle to an arena deal. It didn't work.

The story resurfaced this week thanks to a column from Eric Francis of the Calgary Sun that skipped the subtleties and went straight to outright predicting that the Flames would be in Houston within three years. We don't know how much, if any, of that piece was based on information coming directly from the Flames. But even if Francis was simply presenting his own views, the fact that the Flames didn't immediately push back on the report suggests that, at the very least, they don’t mind having this stuff out there. (Full disclosure: Francis and I both contribute to Sportsnet.)

Seeing such a bold prediction of an imminent move had to make Flames fans nervous. But plenty of others took issues with the Francis piece, with Kent Wilson posting an in-depth takedown at The Athletic. Wilson's argument, in a nutshell, is that a move just doesn't add up, financially or otherwise. Calgary is a great market, and it wouldn't seem to make sense for the Flames to abandon that for an unknown market like Houston. And as Wilson points out, plenty of teams have played this game before that we now know were bluffing.

And that's the big problem here. Even if the Flames really are eying a move and trying to send warning signals to their fans before it's too late, this ground has just been trod too many times. NHL fans have heard this before—in Pittsburgh, in New Jersey, in Raleigh, and in just about every market that ever wanted a new area and didn't get it right away. It's a game that's playing out to varying degrees right now in Ottawa, Brooklyn, and (as always) Arizona. Once those situations are resolved, it will be someone else's turn.

This certainly isn't an NHL problem, and if anything the league has been more stable when it comes to franchise movement in the last two decades than the NFL or NBA. But when it comes to dropping threats, the NHL seems to view them as just part of how business is done in this league.

And that gets exhausting. The Flames aren't going anywhere unless this whole situation is misplayed by all sides so badly that it goes completely off the rails, and they'll end up with a new arena that will be partly funded by taxpayers. And within a few years, most of us will have forgotten all about this.

Most, but not all. Because you have to wonder how many diehard Flames fans, who've been with the team through good times and bad, are feeling just a little less enthusiasm for the team right now. The NHL is a business, as we're constantly reminded. But it's a business that charges a lot of money for an inconsistent product, and that means it relies on an awful lot of loyalty. Putting even a fraction of that at risk is a dangerous game.

That would be worth thinking about for NHL teams. It might already be too late for Calgary. If so, we'll have to wait and see whether their current threats come with a cost. And if so, whether the next teams in line learn any lessons

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

Last week marked the 30-year anniversary of one of my favorite moments from the 1980s. It didn't involve a goal or a save or a fight, or anything else that had anything to do with the game being played. But it did take place on the ice, and you won't hear a building get much louder than the old Boston Garden did back on December 3, 1987.

Yes, it's the legendary Phil Esposito jersey retirement. Our clip begins with Ray Bourque being called on to "make a presentation." That's fitting, since not only has he assumed Esposito's mantle as the Bruin's best player, but he wears the same #7 that's being retired. For a few more seconds, at least.

By the way, if you're thrown off Bob Wilson announcing Bourque as the Bruins captain but wearing an "A," he shared the duties with Rick Middleton that season. Middleton wore the "C" at home, while Bourque got it on the road.

It was always kind of weird that the Bruins gave Esposito's number to Bourque as a rookie. But it was even weirder that they also gave it to guys like Bill Bennett and Sean Shanahan in between. Remember, there was some bad blood between Esposito and the team after he was traded to the Rangers in 1975, which might explain why it took six years after his retirement for the Bruins to get around to officially honoring his number.

But to their credit, they eventually do it right. Bourque skates over and shares a few words with Esposito, then hands him a No. 7 jersey. You kind of sense Esposito accepting the gift with a "Yeah, thanks, I already have dozens of these" sort of vibe, but it's just the setup for the bigger moment to come.

With Esposito momentarily distracted, Bourque yanks his own No. 7 jersey off to reveal a second one underneath, this one bearing what would become his iconic No. 77. It takes a second for everyone to realize what just happened—Esposito didn't know this was coming, and seems genuinely stunned—and the crowd goes nuts once they clue in.

The back story here is that apparently Esposito thought Bourque was going to keep wearing No. 7, and was fine with that. But Bourque had never wanted the pressure that came with the number, so he jumped at the chance to swap it out while honoring an all-time great.

I feel like we don’t give Bourque enough credit for (literally) pulling this off so smoothly. You put me on live TV in front of 20,000 people and tell me to take a sweater off, there's a 100 percent chance it's going to end with me showing my bare tummy to the world for an awkwardly long period of time. Not Bourque. He sheds his jersey with near-Baumgartner speed, and still remembers to do a little pirouette so everyone can see what just happened. He wasn't one of the all-time greats for nothing.

Esposito throws on the jersey and starts his speech. Man, Phil was as cool as they'd come. How cool? Oh, roughly "wears tinted shades at his own retirement ceremony even though it's being held indoors" cool.

He thanks Bourque, and then mentions the Rangers, who are the visitors for this game. At the time, Esposito was their general manager, and whoo boy was that ever a fun time. I'm pretty sure that this two-minute speech is the longest period of time he managed to go as Rangers GM without making at least one trade.

Espo gets the cheap pop from a Bobby Orr mention, mentions exactly nobody from management or ownership, and then thanks the fans. We end with a shot of his number going up to the rafters. It's helpfully labelled "Philip A. Esposito," just in case some other Philip Esposito came along and everyone got confused.

At one point, the number is going up so crooked that it's nearly sideways, but they get it straightened out by the end. Near miss there. That would have been right up there with the night the Canucks honored Markus Naslund, shone a spotlight through his No. 19, and turned it into a giant frowny face.

To this day everyone's favorite Bourque memory is the Cup handoff from Joe Sakic, and rightly so. But the Esposito number swap should absolutely be a close second. If Gordie Howe gets to be Mr. Hockey, Bourque might have to start going by Mr. Ceremony. He's like the polar opposite of this guy.

Years later, Esposito would be on hand when the Bruins retired Bourque's #77, although he did not disrobe during the ceremony. At least as far as we know.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at nhlgrabbag@gmail.com and follow him on Twitter @DownGoesBrown.

DGB Grab Bag: A Wedgie for Wedgewood, Inflamed Calgary Fans, & Espo's Night published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv