#I’m doing this because I don’t know where any of the other presser feet

[londontsukino]

Slowly losing my mind doing a blind stitch hem by hand on approximately 80” of fabric. I’d ask myself why I’m doing this except I know exactly why I’m doing this.

[allisonreader]

A breakdown of different sewing machine brands from my perspective; an incomplete and biased list.

I am not going to go into Singer here, as I think I’ve already made my sentiments clear about the brand. Though, who knows, maybe I’ll feel the need to rant about the cheapness and low warranty on them. Because they have terrible warranty and I just cannot suggest that you buy one. We see too many that come in for repair and it just isn’t worth the amount you pay for it.

Though sewing machines are like cars, their prices depreciate with time.

(Also, I’m not going to mention any prices because they won’t be accurate outside of where I live which is Canada. And sale prices can and do vary by store. Depending on what kind of deals each place gets from the companies.)

Though since I started with the mention of Singer, I’ll go into Husqvarna and Pfaff next. All three brands are apart of the same company (SVP) which merged/was bought in the late 1990′s/early 2000′s. This is what caused the most problems among the brands, was this grand reshuffling. 

Husqvarna/Viking is the newest of our main brands that we carry at my work. As such I don’t know as much about them as I do about the other brands. I can’t claim to know the older machines as well, since we’ve only been servicing them since we started selling them. They are decent machines. Not among my favourites. I find that their computerized interfaces are a bit cumbersome to navigate, depending on the machine. The high ends are a little bit better than the low to mid range. That’s mostly because on the high end machines they���re touch screen and a little more direct to get to you different stitches and settings. They do have some fun decorative stitches on their machines. Though the embroidery machines I do have a bit of an issue with. The stitch quality can be hit as miss at times and in general isn’t as nice as other brands. The biggest problem I have with their embroidery machines though, is how loud they are. When embroidering the machines make an absolute racket. They sound like a galloping horse. Which might be a slight exaggeration, but only just. It is not a machine you want to listen to if you’re sensitive to sound at all, like I tend to be.

It is something that is shared with the Pfaff embroidery machines. Though I do find that in general the Pfaff embroidery machines tend to have better stitch quality in embroidery, less difficulties. I also find their computerized machines in the low to mid range are easier to navigate then the Husqvarna. Though I also do have a clear bias to Pfaff because it is the brand I have used the most and have learned to sew on. Almost all modern Pfaff have a built in walking foot which they call an IDT (integrated duel feed). Which works with the feed dogs of the machine to help keep fabric from shifting. Which is an extremely nice feature to have when it’s not a clunky accessory. I feel like I should have so much more to say about Pfaff, as it’s the brand of machine that I do my alterations on at work, and I do love it and the creative stitches they have on their higher end machines, but I’m just kind of blanking. Oh, one nice thing about Pfaff is that all their presser feet; for the most part, fit almost all of their machines the same, which is more than I can say for some brands (cough, Janome, cough). Though Pfaff (and Bernina) have too many different styles of bobbins. Which is annoying. So depending on the machine, if you up grade, you might have to change bobbin styles. As Pfaff currently has four different bobbin styles.

Janome. Boy do I have a beef with Janome. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with their machines. They’re fine, but they’re very much geared towards quilters (which I am not). I have found their machines over priced for the features that they have (for many years already in comparison to other brands). Though some of that; on some of their machines, could be made up for with the accessories that their machines come with. Part of my dislike/near distain for Janome does not come from them machines themselves, but the fact that customer service from the company can be A STRUGGLE at times. They’re just not my favourite company to work with and dealing with warranty issues with them, can sometimes be like pulling teeth. Not to say that there aren’t issues with other companies, there definitely is, but for certain things, Janome makes me want to pull out my hair the most, in general. Anyways, back to their actual machines, before I start ranting about the company again. Honestly, their machines can be fairly easy to use. Especially their embroidery machines. They have symbols that are easy to understand. Which makes them a bit easier to use than a Pfaff, Husqvarna, or Bernina. All which take a bit more thought to use (particularly the Bernina.) I’m also not a fan that their newest top end machines are flat beds and don’t have free arms. I mean, you don’t absolutely need a free arm, but they do make certain sewing projects easier. (Again, coming from someone who mostly sews garments and mending garments.) They’re not bad for noise, as they certainly aren’t as loud/clackety as the Pfaff and Husqvarna. They also don’t have as fun of stitches as the Pfaff and Husqvarna. Which for most people isn’t that big of a deal, but I like the fun, extra wide stitches that you can get on other machines. I’m not even going to talk about Janome's marketing, where they have machines that you can only get online or in certain countries, which is frustrating to deal with at times. Anyway, the take away you should get from Janome is that they are a good quality sewing machine that will last you well, but has questionable warranty issues when they pop up on the rare occasion. The machines are reliable, if a bit plain and pricey at times for what you’re getting. I could go into more, but I won’t.

Baby Lock, my beloved. (Baby Lock is their own brand, not under an umbrella of another.) Definitely among my favourite brands. They have some of the quietest machines. Have some of the best needle threaders, do some of the nicest buttonholes and lettering, AND personally, has some of the best warranty service (speaking from experience). Again, a bit biased as I OWN a Baby Lock sewing and embroidery machine. I also find that they are among the easiest to use. All their symbols make sense for the most part. Their layout on the machine’s screens makes sense and it gives some of the easiest and most built in editing options for embroidery. Even on the entry level embroidery machines they give you a level of control that you don’t get on most other brands. Basically, if you know how to work a computer, you’ll easily be able to work a computerized Baby Lock. Though they’re not generally the most heavy duty machine out there. Brother also comes out of the same factory as them, so they’re very similar at times, though I really can’t say much about Brother machines as I don’t typically deal with them. Baby Lock also has some of the best sergers. They are the company that first came out with a domestic serger. Their sergers are among the easiest to thread. Because if you know anything about sergers, it’s that those loopers can be a struggle to thread, particularly the lower looper. Baby Lock has two ways of dealing with that. The first is on their most basic serger where the front of the machine opens all the way up so you can easily get to all the points that you have to thread. On their models up from that, they thread with a puff of air. It’s only been in the last few years since their patten on their air threading tech has been up, so now the other brands have it as well, but Baby Lock is still the nicest.

Bernina is in many ways the most expensive brand. You’re on average going to pay at least twice as much for any additional accessories in comparison to the other brands, and probably three times as much for the bobbins. Service on them is more expensive too, as they are extremely complex machines (the higher end ones). They are the Cadillac of sewing machine brands. They are also the most different in computer layout for their machines, so it takes thinking about maneuvering about the screen a little bit more. Their stitch quality is absolutely wonderful and those machines will handle pretty much all of your thick projects like butter. There truly is a quality of machine that is worth the price, if you’re able to handle the price. Because they are so expensive though; in our store, we only carry a couple of the most popular models. Which we sell a lot of to Hutterites, who do A LOT of sewing, as the mainly make all their own clothes. Otherwise I don’t have much more to say about them. Other than they do have a neat embroidery feature where you can place an embroidery design part way out of the hoop on the screen, and it will only sew the part that is in the hoop.

I’m going to leave this there. I’m sure there’s a bunch more that I could of said, but I wasn’t going to go into specific models of each brand. So there is my fairly long ramble about the different sewing machine brands. Just my personal, very biased opinions on the different brands. Which is highly subjective as (to bring up the car comparison again) a sewing machine is like a car, just because one person likes driving a Volvo, doesn’t mean the next person will. Personal preference is a huge thing with the machines. 

[babyspiderling]

Tiny Dancer p.2

"Just stare into space, picture my face in your hands. Live for each second without hesitation"

"Janet, you can't tell anyone about this." Michael tells her, focused on damage control. Janet fires back without hesitation. "The hell you mean I can't tell anyone? Marlon owes me ten bucks now." I roll my eyes, patting Michael on the back. "Mike,I'm sure your brothers are looking for you. I don't think we want anyone else listening in on this conversation anyways. I'll talk to Jan, ok?" He glances back and forth between his younger sister and I, a concerned look deep in his face. He sighs out an "Ok, fine." and heads back to his dressing room. I turn back to the youngest Jackson. "Listen Jan, I only want what's best for Mike. If it were up to him, and if the circumstances were different, you'd be the first to know on purpose. The world may be changing fast, but we've got a long way to go. The media would flip if word got out that The Michael Jackson was with not only his seamstress, but a white chick at that. Not to mention your father. God, he would kill us if he found out. He'd fire me and i'd never see Michael or any of you again." I deflate in front of her eyes, letting myself show vulnerability to the fifteen year old. "I really do love him Janet. I can't lose him, but I can't just let him risk losing his career over me. I'm the reason we're a secret. Michael is a glass half full person, always trusting and seeking out the positive, but I see what is going to happen if we enter the world of the limelight." When I look into her eyes, her head is cocked to the side, studying me. "Alright, I see where you're coming from. I know Joseph, and you're probably right. Just don't hurt Mike. He's my favorite after all." I nod, relieved that she understood where we are coming from. "I promise to tell you everything you want to know later ok? Maybe at the hotel or while I'm patching up something that the boys unsurprisingly ripped up." Janet giggles, and we make our way back to the rest of the group.

I lay down in the linen sheets of the hotel bed, needing to sleep to be able to get up in the morning to fix a couple of loose buttons and worn knees. I hold a pillow close to myself and let myself float away to dreamland.

The creaking of my door opening stirs me from my slumber. I prop myself up on my elbow, turning on the lamp. "Mike? What's going on?" He's in pajamas, and his hair is mussed. He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, and murmurs out a "Couldn't sleep." I huff and fall back onto the bed. "Fine, get in here. You said so yourself that you sleep better with someone than alone. We've both got an early morning and it's already... 2 AM." His bare feet shuffle across the hotel carpet and the bed slightly creaks as he climbs in next to me. Once he's gotten comfortable, I lay my head on his chest and wrap an arm around him, succumbing to the exhaustion filling my bones.

I wake up to my alarm, letting myself give in to Michaels grip and the temptation to hit the snooze button and spend an extra few minutes in the warmth and security his arms provide. I snuggle close to him and doze off. Once again the door opens up, but I shrug it off, thinking it to be Janet. Instead of her girlish squeal of embarrassment, I hear a masculine shout of surprise. The sharp cry from Randy shocks us both awake. The second youngest Jackson wears an expression of both surprise and smugness. "I knew it! I knew something was going on between you two! Mike, my man, congrats. I knew you'd get her eventually. Now tell me, when did this all start out?" As Michael and I rubbed the sleep from our eyes, Randy had made himself comfortable on the small couch nearby, his chin in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Groaning, I pull myself out of the bed, tugging my shirt down so I don't flash Randy. I pat Michaels shoulder and groan out: "You're taking this one. I talked to Janet last night and I have to get ready. Jackie tore his shirt last night and I've got to make him a new one. Who tears their shirt in the middle of their chest like that?" I sit on my heels to grab my things and head to the bathroom to get dressed.

Finished with make-up, I tie my hair back in a high ponytail. Combing through my hair, Michael enters to get ready himself. "So, how'd it go?" He shrugs a little and reaches for the extra toothbrushes the hotel offers. "Randy promised to keep it a secret until we tell everybody else. He was a little surprised that we've been together since Destiny. He thought it was a recent development, not a three year old relationship." Securing my hair one last time, I turn and smile at my lover. "Well, at this rate, Randy only has to keep it a secret for another 5 days. Go ahead and schedule out a lunch or something for your mother. I want her to know that I love her son more than anything else, and I don't want to keep him a secret anymore. But you have to promise me that if this whole thing goes wrong, your career comes first. You have worked your entire life for this, you are living your dream life, don't throw away your dream for me." He chuckles a bit, and rests his forehead against mine. "If this whole thing goes wrong, I'll hire you again myself. You'll be my personal costumer/seamstress. And no one will be able to get rid of you." I giggle and give a peck to his mouth. "Alright toothpaste lips, finish up and get back to your room. I'm sure you can't go to sound check in your pajamas. And send Janet and Randy back to me. I need her input on somethings and I'm sure Randy has more questions." He finishes up and goes back to his room, the two youngest Jacksons coming in not too much later.

"Alright guys, I'm gonna work some because that is what I'm here to do, but I can answer your questions at the same time." I lay out the fabric on the round table in the room as the two sat down on the couch. They both started talking at the same time, but stopped soon enough. Janet spoke first. "When did this start? How did this start?" I smile at the fabric and respond. "Even when I was growing up, I thought that Michael was the most handsome boy on the planet. But when I started working with you guys 4 years ago I decided to remain professional. This was my dream career and I would not jeopardize it over a celebrity crush. Michael and I became friends not long after, and I actually pushed him away in the beginning. I was so scared that either of us would get attached and it would risk our professional lives. During the music video for Shake Your Body, I was joking around with Marlon and Michael got all huffy. He ranted a little bit and ended up kissing me. It didn't take long until we started actually dating." I flip the fabrics so that the shirt is inside out and pin it together. I move to my machine, and Randy asks: "Why keep it a secret? It's not like anyone here doesn't like you?" I adjust the needle to where I need it and lower the presser foot. "Well, we as a society may have come a long way, but not everyone is going to agree with the fact that Michael Jackson, global superstar, chose to date his seamstress, and then the fact that it's a biracial relationship will send a whole other group into a frenzy. He worked so hard to be where he is, to live his dream, and I felt that if we released our relationship to the public, it could cause a lot of backlash his way. Plus I'm pretty sure that if Joseph found out about us, he'd see me as a distraction, turning his son against him. He'd fire me in an instant. I'd probably never be able to see any of you again. Now that it's suddenly impossible to keep us a secret anymore, we're going to tell Ms. Kathrine soon. Michael is going to schedule it today, and we'll tell her then." Once the two are done with their questions, Janet turns on the radio and we just have a good time until Randy needs to head to the venue. Janet and I finish up, double checking over everything before we accidentally forget anything at the hotel.

We make it to the venue early enough that we make it backstage, and I watch the boys rehearse and just do their thing. Randy meets my eyes from his place behind the bongos, and he sends me a wink. I make my way to the dressing rooms to replace what I fixed for the second night in New York. As I replace the red floral print shirt in Michael's dressing room, my lover walks in. His hair is a little wet from sweat and he has a thin sheen of sweat covering his skin. I giggle as he does his best to freshen up. "I'm glad you don't do sound check in costume. I'd have to make an outfit for every night of the tour, since you guys sweat so much." He sticks his tongue out at me, and then has a mischievous look in his eyes. He turns and creeps towards me, his arms wide to catch me if I tried to escape him. I back away slowly, "Michael, don't do this! I'm a nice person! I just took a shower!" I go to make a break for the door but he catches me and pulls me close, squeezing me tight and rubbing his sweaty face and body all over me. "Michael Joseph Jackson! I'm going to kill you! I'll put you in an outfit from '68!" He just giggles in my ear, enjoying my shrieks and squirms. "No you won't, you love me too much." I push at his arms, trying to get out of his grip. "Not anymore! Randy's my new favorite member!" He bites at my earlobe teasingly, his breath fanning over the shell of my ear, his voice dropping from the usual airy high pitch he speaks in. "Are you sure about that, girl?" I shiver and stutter at the distraction, "Fine, you called my bluff. Now can you please let me go? I need to know when we're telling your mother." Reluctantly, Michael loosens his grip enough for me to grab the towel he used, wiping my own skin down, and I rummage through my purse for my bottle of vanilla. Michael takes a seat and smiles at me. "Girl, you know I get hungry when you wear that stuff. Smelling all sweet and stuff." I chuckle and apply the vanilla to key points. "Tell you what. When we go out to tell your mother I will buy you any dessert you want after." I watch from the mirror as he lifts himself from his seat and slots himself behind me, his mouth close to my neck, and even closer to my ear. He gives a teasing squeeze to my backside and murmurs in my ear: "What if I want you to be my dessert?" I turn in his arms, and deliver a light slap to his shoulder. "Michael! What is with you? You've never been so... forward." He just chuckles and steps away. "Maybe I'm just excited I can finally show you off to everyone. Oh, and we're meeting Mother at lunch tomorrow. I've gotten a reservation for the three of us at Mortimer's. I heard they're really good." I nod and glance down at my wrist watch. "Oh, wow! I've got to make sure Jackie's shirt fits for tonight. Break a leg if I don't see you. And I'm excited to have lunch with your mother. I love you!" I give him a peck on his perfect lips and head out the door. Michael catches my wrist before I can leave and pulls me back to him, giving me a real kiss to make up for my quick peck. I giggle as we break away for oxygen. "Alright love machine, I seriously have to go." I hurry out of his dressing room and down to Jackie.

I've never been so nervous in my life. I have no reason to be nervous. Kathrine doesn't dislike me, in fact she and I have had amazing talks between fittings and shows. But maybe after she finds out that I've stolen her son's heart, her opinion of me will change? If she doesn't approve, will Michael leave me? He is an absolute mommas boy. "Babe, relax. Mother absolutely adores you, and I do too. Everything is going to be absolutely fine. I promise." Michael squeezes my thigh in reassurance, and I take a deep breath to calm myself down.

All three of us are seated at the table and our drinks are ordered. Michael holds my hand under the table, unsure himself how to start. "Mother, I have something to tell you, I am in love with the kindest, most beautiful woman in the world." Kathrine smiles a bit at this and urges her son to continue. "That's amazing honey. Who is it?" Michael and I glance at each other before Michael tells the Jackson Matriarch. "Well, Mother, it's Y/N. She and I have been together for almost 3 years now." There's a mix of emotions on her face, and she opens her mouth, trying to figure out what to say. "Well, Michael, honey, I am so happy you found someone. You deserve to be happy. I just can't understand why you wouldn't tell anyone for all that time." I sigh, opening my mouth. "Ms. Katherine, that's my fault. I wanted to keep our relationship under wraps because Michael has worked so hard to be where he is and I didn't want to be a reason for him to receive backlash. I also knew that Mr. Jackson eliminates any distractions for the boys. I know it sounds selfish, but I would have rather kept him my little secret and not have to give him up than show him off and risk losing not only my job, but the love of my life. I know now that telling you about our relationship is going to make Michael happy, and if his happiness means I am seen as a distraction and the consequences that go with it, so be it. I regret not telling you sooner, and for that I am truly sorry." Katherine listens the entire time with soft eyes, listening to every word I say. Michael grabs my hand on the table and gives it a proud squeeze. Once again Katherine opens her mouth and what she says next almost brings me to tears. "Oh, Y/N. understand. I see you truly care about my son, putting his career before your happiness, and then his happiness over your career. I know that that is not an easy decision, and it really shows just how much you care about him. Now, I won't sugar coat anything, but not everyone will approve of your relationship. A white woman and a black man together won't be the easiest thing for people to accept but you have to remember that it is your happiness, no one else's." I felt like all the weight had been lifted off my shoulders after that. We ate lunch and enjoyed the streets of New York. After Katherine had gotten into her car, I turned to Michael. "Alright, what do you want for dessert?" Pulling me into the back of the car, he placed me in his lap. "Hmm, something sweet, a little spicy... I'll have... you."

Taglist: @accio-boys​

[mhdiaries]

Diary of Catty Noir

It would be very unlucky for you if you read my diary.

August-13th-CURRENT MOOD-WHINY

I wanted to go to the maul today but I remembered I had a press conference. Well, my iCoffin remembered for me. I would have just as soon forgotten it. I really don’t like press conferences very  much. I can’t really have a “bad day” when the cameras are on me, because I know it will be all over the internet gossip sites before the presser is even over. Of course that happens when I’m having a good day, too. Okay, gotta stop writing and get out my lucky press conference shoes. Since I’ve been wearing them I haven’t made any gossip worthy mistakes. I wonder how many more times I can wear them before the luck runs out? Gotta go.

The luck of the shoes held out! In fact, they held out so well and in such a big way, I might retire them. We lost power to the press conference. No lights-no camera-no action. It was eerie epic.

Back to my whine - So, most of my frustration with the gossip sites - yes, I’m moving on from the press conferences - is that I’m just a ghoul who likes to perform and sing, that sometimes I’m cranky when I don’t get enough sleep - okay, all the time when I don’t get enough sleep - ,that sometimes I get crushes on boys, that I dress the way I do not because I want to draw a crowd but because I like the styles I wear. Of course I can’t ever say any of this publicly, or the monster press will call me “spoiled”, “shallow”, “aloof” or “difficult”. I remember when this used to be fun. Yes, I know, millions of ghouls would love to trade places with me, and when I’m on stage I do forget everything except the fans and the music, and I’m sure that tomorrow I’ll feel completely different... or not. I can’t decide right now... *sigh*... what’s wrong with me? Blah - I need a nap.

September-13th-CURRENT MOOD-EXCITED

Lucky me! Just go my finalized concert schedule, and it looks like I’ll be closing out the year by doing shows in Londoom, Scaris, Boolin, Weresaw and Barceluna! My manager thinks they’ll all be sold out shows. Hopefully, I’ll get to do some fright seeing, too. I’ve always wanted to see the Eiffel Terror lit up at night and take a tour through the Terror of Londoom. I won’t get my hopes up though, because my schedule is usually packed tight. Oh well, at least I’m getting the chance to go and meet some new creepy cool fans. 

October-13th-CURRENT MOOD-CAUTIOUS

I started thinking last night about how many shows I’ve done since I started performing, but it’s pretty unlucky to count certain things, so I stopped. It’s a lot though. I was in my first talent show when I was only seven. I don’t remember all the details as well as my parents do, but I have no trouble remembering the crowd at the little theatre jumping to their feet and cheering when I was done. Even then it made all my fur stand on end. Still does. I definitely remember when I was twelve and the limoscream pulled up into our driveway to take us to the finals of the national show where I got runner-up; well, it’s all been a blur since then. Lately, though, I’ve been wishing I could have a “normal” unlife, whatever that means...

I was living in the shadows,

A creature of the night,

Afraid that if you knew me

You’d be paralyzed with fright

But the moment that you saw me

You smiled and didn’t run,

Took my hand and gently pulled me

From the shadows to the sun.

Chorus

I’ve only wished forever

To find a friend like you,

Someone to look within the monster

And see a heart that’s true.

Now places that I used to haunt

Are so very far away,

And I’m never going back to them

‘Cause you’ve shown me it’s okay

To live life in the open

Where everyone can see,

‘Cause the thing that I was hiding

Is the thing that makes me me.

Chorus

I’ve only wished forever

To find a friend like you,

Someone to look within the monster

And see a heart that’s true.

To see a heart that’s true

To see a heart that’s true

December-13th-CURRENT MOOD-FRUSTRATED

I’ve completely lost my voice. The doctor said that I have “vocal exhaustion” and we’ve had to cancel the concert in Barceluna. I could actually feel my voice going in Weresaw during the second encore, and I should have chosen something a little easier on my throat, but because the energy from the crowd was so clawsome and because they were chanting “MCR-MCR-MCR”, I sang it. I feel terrible about Barceluna, but nothing that reading the news couldn’t make worse. There’s a report from an “unnamed source” saying I canceled the concert because the concert promoter wouldn’t paint my dressing room in my lucky color. I have a lot of superstitions, but none of them involve the color of my dressing room. To make matters worse, I’m not supposed to talk at all so my vocal cords can rest up. Right, I wouldn’t mind giving the whole music business a rest. When did it stop being fun and turn into work?

January-13th-CURRENT MOOD-NOSTALGIC

For the first time in the past six months I got to sleep in my own bed last night. It was really nice, and I felt like the luckiest ghoul in the world to be surrounded by all those little things I used to take for granted but that make home special. Things like the squeaky door to my bedroom that I would never let my dad fix because it was my “intruder alert”, or the soft yellow quilt my grandmother made for my seventh birthday; the one I cried about when she gave it to me because I thought that yellow was my unlucky color, but now the quilt is one of my favorite things in the whole world. Or how the thirteenth slat on the blind that covers my street facing window is bent just enough so that the light from one of the streetlamps comes through at just the right angle for me to lie in bed and make shadow puppets on the wall. I think most of all I just like that it’s quiet, because on the road it never is.

March-13th-CURRENT MOOD-EXCITED

Last night I have a small surprise concert... Well, not surprise, I guess, since we’d been leaving clues to where it would be online. Anyway, a group of ghouls from Monster High came backstage after the concert, and I know they thought they were hanging out with me, but I think it was the other way around. I can’t explain it, but I really felt a kinship there. One of them was a clawsome surfer ghoul named Lagoona Blue. She told me that she wished I could come and play at Monster High, and I told her if she had any extra lying around that I wouldn’t mind having that wish come true :). We exchanged emails, and as I watched the ghouls leave, part of me wanted to leave with them. It’s hard to have friends in this business, at least ones you can count on. 

April-13th-CURRENT MOOD-RELAXED

I’ve been reading this new book, all about the mysterious disappearance of the last queen of the vampires. Her name was Elissabat, and on the day of her coronation 400 years ago she simply walked away and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. I guess the story is interesting to me because from the outside it’s hard for any monster to imagine walking away from the fame and glory of being a queen. I can’t say that I am the same position by a long way, but sometimes unlife is a lot different when you’re on the outside looking in. I remember talking to a fellow teen scream star Veronica Von Vamp about this when we were doing a music video together. She said that sometimes monsters envy other monster’s unlife because they imagine it’s perfect, even though unlife never is, so when the monster that’s living that “purrfect” unlife chooses to leave it behind to do something else, no explanation is ever satisfactory. “So don’t waste a lot of effort trying,” she said. “It just takes time away from doing what you want to do.”

May-13th-CURRENT MOOD-EXPECTANT

I’ve been talking to my mom and dad about giving up being a touring performer for a while, and today I made my decision. I still want to sing because I love it, but I also want to be in one place long enough to have friends and do things that a “normal” ghoul gets to do. My parents told me they would support me, but I needed to finish out the final concert dates on my schedule because I had already committed to them. I agreed, and so I will. I know this isn’t going to make much sense to any monster but me, and I know that my next press conference is going to suck the luck out of every charm I have, but it’s what I want to do. I will be enrolling this fall as a student at Monster High, and I’ve talked to Headless Headmistress Bloodgood about doing a final concert there. I’m going to need some extra luck to make it happen, though. Wonder if some monster has an extra wish they’re not using?

[histoireettralala]

How the (Quarantined) Murats broke the Internet (and Lannes).

Hello friends! I know we already have several ongoing projects with @joachimnapoleon, but we couldn’t resist unleashing this one.

It’s set in the Quarantine!AU which is itself a spin off of the Roadtrip!AU, Trifecta Universe, name it as you will :^)

Inspired by real world situation, unfortunately. Hoping this will bring to those of you who are in lockdown (same here!) some much needed levity.

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Caroline is cursing the day Napoléon enrolled her in Mme Campan's Institute; no, scrap that/rewind, she is cursing the day he met Joséphine, and consequently, Hortense, bane of her life, goody-two-shoes of the century who has inspired Napoleon with the truly visionary idea of trying to copy and paste Hortense's behaviour onto Caroline's whole self.

Now, Caroline is mature enough to admit some slight controlling tendencies. And maybe a contrarian streak - but try being the youngest sister in the Bonaparte family - you have to fight twice as hard to make yourself a place and get some respect.

Her point is, she hasn't taken to the Institute. For excellent reasons. If Hortense has made it a point of honor to excel in some subject, Caroline has systematically hated it. No use fighting for scraps after the star pupil has received the old hag's whole quota of praise, after all. Now Caroline wholeheartedly embraces whatever makes Madame Campan pinch her lips, shake her head, or sigh (as much as the snobby old lady allows herself to), treasuring every sign of disappointment the way Hortense collects gold stars. (Not to brag, but Caroline is now a master at it).

Even her marriage is a testament to that superhuman ability of hers.

Not that she didn't love Joachim anyway - she's been ridiculously besotted with the man since she was fifteen, and nothing has yet managed to abate her feelings towards the maddening, adorable goofball. But honestly, the way Mme Campan's face had fallen (oh, ever so slightly, but Caroline knows how to look) in disapproval had been the cherry on top of the delightful, curly-haired, long-legged cake.

She has relished every single one of their subsequent media appearances, and she would lie if she says she hasn't occasionally baited the press with their nationwide famous PDA. For now, Caroline admits, in spite of the "scandals" and all the choices she has made, the old witch is still standing and tutting in disapproval - like that would work. But someday, yes, oh someday she would break, and it would be all thanks to Caroline.

So - she is cursing. Because, of course, Hortense has always been committed to arts and crafts, and Caroline, therefore, has pointedly ignored them.

And now she can't sew to save her life.

Literally.

Because masks are mandatory now.

And she has four kids to protect.

And, well, she may suck as a student, but she does NOT suck as a mother. So, taking a deep breath, she watches videos, buys fabric, filters, and elastic bands, and sets herself to the task.

Two hours later, her eyes are red, her voice hoarse, her fingers raw and pricked, and she is irreparably breaking her ties with the sewing machine.

She vaguely considers calling Pauline - even if she can't sew herself (can she ?) Pauline will surely know someone who can, and at least she is kind enough not to let anyone know of Caroline's embarrassing problem.

She is still scowling fiercely when the shrieking chorus begins (the kids' usual reaction to Joachim's arrival), promptly followed by the sound of bags hitting ground and little feet running, three, two, one, impact. And Joachim's laugh.

God but that sound can still bring a smile to her face.

She wipes her eyes and straightens herself up before opening the door to the entry hall where the kids are now swarming around their father and drowning him in cuddles and kisses, stuffing their drawings under his nose and chattering excitedly. ** Beneath the squealing, adoring, warm little pile of his children's wriggling bodies, Joachim soaks up the innocent love and its side dish of kicking little feet and shrieks in the ear. As Louise's sticky little fingers pat his cheek, he sees from the corner of his eye the door open on his wife.

His sunshine.

His glorious little dynamo.

But there's a problem, Joachim thinks frantically (what has he done now ??? nothing comes up!!), because she doesn't spark her usual energy - oh my God, she's disappointed, that's it, disappointed and SAD (WHAT I HAVE DONE ???), her walk is nothing like her usual triumphant gait (it's the COUCH), even her hair looks listless (Lannes may still let me crash, where is my sleeping bag ??). Joachim takes a deep breath and centers himself before looking at her again, and - oh. She's not angry at him.

Oh.

Then whatever has her so bothered is going to die a fiery death and if she wants, Joachim will stomp it to death (with his hooves, Achille's voice adds in his mind).

** Famous last words, Joachim muses, hesitantly fingering the white cotton.

He has watched the video. Three times, to make sure.

He has cut the necessary length and width for six masks (his ambition for tonight is moderate). 

The machine looks back at him, reminding him of a crouched feline, poised to pounce. He eyes it warily. Caroline's explanations, though thorough, had been... fast paced. Joachim has caught the general idea and in what order the different steps of the process are supposed to happen. He has minded every fold of the fabric and set aside the elastic bands.

It's... daunting. If he messes that up his family will be stuck inside forever and the house will probably catch fire spontaneously from the sheer frustration burning inside them. Murats need to be OUTSIDE (Bonapartes don't deal much better with being locked up).

He carefully selects the stitch and folds the fabric by instinct - patterns are as useless as maps, anyway - he'll go with his guts and God bless the bold.

He takes a deep breath and lines up the three layers of material - with the elastic bands properly tucked inside- under the needle, lowers the presser foot, and gently pushes on the pedal.

Oh my God.

Oh my God it's happening.

Joachim marvels at the speed the machine uses to execute its task, remembering to steer the fabric only if needed, and being careful with it ("To be honest, sweetie, I'm not even sure if it's working well, " Caroline had admitted. "I think Mama gave it to me, ugh, when I went to the Institute. " Joachim hadn't pushed because he wasn't that insane, some things were taboo in this house).

When the first side is done, he takes a moment to inspect his work before switching to the other side.

Wow.

It's... Pretty okay ?

The mask all done, Joachim holds it to his face, and stands up to find a mirror (they're everywhere in this house, and see, it's useful).

He tries it on.

It's very... white.

Time for some color, he decides.

Heh. If anyone had told him before tonight that he was going to sew a mask and like it, he would have sent them to a psychiatrist. Because, even though he'd been quick to assure Caroline he totally could do this (I've repaired my suits several times! ), his skills were limited to a temporary little tweak and quick repair when he didn't have the time to go to the tailor.

In front of the mirror, Joachim smiles beneath the mask.

This is going swimmingly. ** Caroline grumbles when a weight hollows the mattress out.

"It's late," she mutters.

"Shhhh, " says the voice. Then, with a giddy sort of energy Caroline can only wonder at (who the hell is so alive at such an ungodly hour -oh yeah, that's right, only Joachim). "Love."

A pause.

"Sweetheart ?"

Caroline groans.

"Yeah", she forces out.

"We have seven masks!"

The proclamation wakes Caroline completely and her hand is already searching for the light switch.

"What?"

She pushes the switch and looks at Joachim's face. Blinking under the sudden flood of light, he looks …

Surprised and happy. A little bit like a dog who has just learned a new trick. The smile on his face is infectious.

"You want to see them ?"

Caroline is already up.

In her office, the old machine sleeps and seven masks wait in a wicker basket. They're real. They look like the models Caroline vainly tried to follow. She touches them, putting one over her face. It fits. The elastics do not hurt.

They have masks.

Joachim watches her, waiting anxiously for her verdict. Her eyes shine in the mirror, and then she turns towards him, takes off the mask and sets it aside.

A purring Caroline leaps into his arms.

So much for sleep.

** At the usual hour, Lannes, bottle and glass at the ready, flicks on Skype. He has so much to tell Murat (to be honest, he never knew before quarantine how much of a gossip he'd turn out to be, but what can you do) and even without any grand news (which is the case most of the time) it's always a highlight of his day.

The kids are lovely but sometimes you need an adult conversation, okay ?

An adult male conversation.

A bro discussion, yeah, okay.

"Murat ?" he calls.

Weird. Usually Joachim leaps onto any greeting, if he's not the first one to call.

"Yo ? Murat ?"

Nothing.

"JOACHIM MURAT" he bellows.

Finally,  a harried face appears. The black curls are everywhere and the eyes seem inhabited by some unholy light.

Has Joachim started to drink without him ?

Or worse, with someone else ?

Lannes feels oddly cheated at the idea.

"Ah, yeah, okay, hello, Lannes!" says Murat, blinking. "Is it already time ?"

Already ? The day had dragged on.

"What the hell is happening," he blurts out. "Have you started drinking ?"

Murat looks weirdly offended, scrunching up his nose.

"Drink- what ? No!"

He straightens up and clears his throat.

"No, Lannes, I didn't cheat on our Skype cocktail hour with some random booze harlot, I respect you too much for that. I was just, " he lowers his voice and Lannes instinctively leans towards his screen, intrigued.

"I was busy.

- Are the kids okay ?

- Yeah, they're fine! Excellent! The spirit is undaunted, yeah!

- Joachim," Lannes slowly articulates.

Artless blue eyes look up at him.

"I was making masks, and I forgot the time, that's all!"

- Masks, " Lannes repeats in a bland tone.

- Masks," Joachim nods.

- Masks ?" What the hell, Lannes wonders, masks, like, actual masks against Coronavirus ? Masks, as in, paper masks or clown masks for the kids, right ?

- Masks, as in, mandatory masks, yeah, I'm making them, " and Lannes has stepped into an alternate dimension.

- You're making masks.

- I am.

- Masks.

- Masks, " Joachim patiently assures him.

- Making ? As in, as in SEWING them ?"

The black curls fly as Murat vehemently nods.

Holy shit.

Lannes almost busts a gut laughing.

" I could show you", Murat says with a hint of disapproval in his voice (it was weird) "but if this is the way you react I might not bother."

The laughter stops short. Murat's headmasterly tones are frankly weirding Lannes out.

Is this a prank ?

Lannes knows it's not. It's all over Murat's face. He's actually serious.

Holy shit.

"Why are you the one sewing the masks ?" he finally asks.

"Because," Murat shrugs. "I volunteered."

Lannes blinks.

"Plus, " he adds, with a smile, " Turns out I'm great at it!"

That is still to be seen, Lannes thinks, remembering, oh, way too many boasts.

"You'll see", Murat nods sagely.

"Right", Lannes croaks.

The evening goes on.

** He made the haberdashery's day, Joachim thinks, fabric piled up in his arms.

Good for them, and good for his family.

Today, he is going to let the kids choose the fabric for their masks. Just because they are young doesn't mean they have to settle for their parents' choice, right ? He carefully picked anything that could interest or amuse the little ones.

He has turtles, an armada of kittens, various birds, flowers, geometric patterns, dots and stripes of all sorts.

"What are you doing, Papa ?"

Joachim turns to face Letitia.

"I just bought some fabric to make some masks for you all, sweetheart. Do you want to choose yours ?"

The little girl nods eagerly.

"Can I stay with you ?" she says, leaning into him.

Joachim can't resist such a request.

** Caroline climbs up the stairs to Joachim's office where he finally set camp with the sewing machine two days ago.

She is still mesmerized by his mastery over the beast.

He has adopted a routine, and tonight, she needs proof that Joachim sewing actually happened (Pauline had laughed, and Joséphine had asked for receipts), so she's carrying her camera. She scowls inwardly, why can't anyone ever believe them ? Joachim told her about Lannes the other day - well, what is so extraordinary about it ? Being male doesn't make you genetically unable to sew, you know. Men!

Hushed voices wash over her, Letitia's flute-like voice overlapping with Joachim's warm tones.

"And then I put the fabric here," their little girl is saying.

"Uh huh," her man agrees, with the softness he saves for his children (and herself). " Perfect!"

Letitia giggles.

Caroline, readying her camera, silently enters the room. Both father and daughter are so absorbed by their task and by each other that they don't notice her presence.

Letitia sits on her father's knee, her little hands holding the fabric - a giraffe pattern - and Joachim is entirely focused on her.

Caroline starts filming.

When the giraffe-adorned mask is ready, Letitia snuggles into her father's chest and he offers her the next selection, apparently a swarm of tropical fishes.

"Your turn, Papa", says the little girl.

"Oh, you're right, princess", Joachim smiles, mock chastened. "Shall I ?"

Letitia nods determinedly. “Go on good Sir".

Joachim sews the next mask.

It's very sweet, Caroline thinks, beaming behind her camera. This is the perfect proof that she was right, not only about his sewing ability, but about her own choice years ago. I'm so going to upload this as soon as I'm out of here, she rejoices.

** New video uploaded, by @carolinemurat, 7.54

@pauline-borghese, 8.01: oh my god it's so cute!

@pauline-borghese, 8.01: and he's doing great!! how many has joachim already sewn ?

@pauline-borghese, 8.08: sorry, just had to watch it again. (<3) This is an adorable duo and you were totally right, I should never have doubted you.

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.14: wow

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.14: I'm speechless.

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.14: In a very good way!! Congratulations to Joachim.

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.17: very sweet and actually educational! Congratulations!

@aimée-davout, 8.26: I wish Louis would do that with our little one!

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.34: Can I share this on other social medias , Caroline ?

@pauline-borghese, 8.36: was about to suggest the same! I can boost it up with my contacts. Up for it sister ?

The phone rings.

"Mama ?"

"Uh huh, he did that. He's... Yes, Mama, he actually offered, and.. Mama. Mama! Listen to me please ? Yes, I promise. Uh huh. Yes. Yes, really. Did you watch the video ? You really should, your namesake is on it too. "

Ten minutes later.

"Yes, Mama ? Is everything  - oh. Oh. Well, yes, he's still sewing. Wha- yes, Mama, I won't disturb him. Of course, Mama. You.. what ? His favorite dessert ? Why... Mama we're in lockdown, he can't go to Corsica. You.. Ah, yes, of course, I'll ask him. And yes, of course, I'm feeding him! Mama!"

@aglaéauguiéney, 8.47: mind boggling.

@eleonoredenuelle, 8.49: how talented can a man be ?

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.53: It's actually a better tutorial than the official ones ? And so much cuter.

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.55: I wish I had a little girl.

@carolinemurat, to @joséphine-malmaison, @pauline-borghese, 8.58: Yes.

TBF...

[angryteapot]

Congratulations on the milestone tea. I said I got dibs on a blurb so here we go. One Clark Kent please; situation of something to do with being rescued by Superman and not knowing it’s Clark yet but oh he knows

Thank you Goose!

Sighing in frustration, you trudged up the rusted stairs of the dilapidated building.

 You had begged Perry for a break from writing puff pieces, and he gave you this - a mystery case involving three missing tourists. The police had been working on the case for over four months and had hit dead ends everywhere they turned. Seeing as how the disappearances had seemingly stopped, they had given up the case in light of more pressing matters, and now the "Ghost Presser" case had been passed to you.

The building that the disappearances had occurred in was in a dead zone on the outskirts of the city, an old abandoned printer press that everyone insisted was haunted by some old coot that had offed himself by jumping into one of the giant industrial printers. They say the ink from that day's paper ran red. You thought it was all fabricated, a ridiculous ghost story taken from that Jim Carrey 'The Mask' movie.

It was nearing midnight, but that's when you would get the best "creepy, eerily haunted" photos of the abandoned printer line. A shiver ran down your spine as you heard distant noises, pipes clanging and old papers fluttering in the night breeze.

You were photographing the rusted printers when you heard footsteps and voices from the offices above. The center of the warehouse was all open, with the second floor consisting of a perimeter walkway with offices overlooking the giant machines on the ground floor.

Creeping up the stairs towards the voices, you had your camera poised and ready, footsteps silent as could be. You were nearing the closed doors where the voices were coming from, when suddenly you heard a creak, and a large hand grabbed you roughly by the shoulders and pushed you through the doors.

You fell to your hands and knees, camera shattering in front of you. Shit.  Perry was going to kill you and take that out of your pay. Assuming you got out of there alive, anyway. 

You looked up and saw a dozen guns pointed at you. Glancing around at the stacked crates, with known mafia affiliates staring down at you through the barrels of their guns, you surmised that you had just wandered into a huge arms deal.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"I'm afraid not, Miss…" A man, whom you assumed was in charge of all these degenerates, looked down at you with a curious gaze.

You didn't answer, staring at him defiantly while trying to memorize everything about him. He looked more like a White-House affiliate rather than the mob boss you had envisioned. Your glare was cut short as he continued talking.

"Well, I don't suppose knowing your name will matter, you'll be dead in a few minutes. Our sincerest apologies for any inconveniences your death may cause. Oh and fellas? Don't get creative, stick to the M.O.. Buh-bye now sweetheart."

With a cheeky wave from the well-dressed bastard, you were roughly hauled away by two hulking men… right towards the industrial ink reservoir. One of the guys went to flip a switch, and the machines below roared to life.

"Shame for such a pretty face to go to waste," one of the men lamented as he ran a finger down your cheek. You bit at his hand, hurling expletives as he snatched his hand back and raised it to slap you.

You heard a crash and flinched, closing your eyes, bracing for the impact. It never came. You peeped an eye open and saw the goon's arm bent at a painful angle, the gorgeous and angry face of Superman taking over your view. He knocked the giants unconscious, catching you by the waist as you stumbled back towards the railing.

"I'll be right back," he rumbled, and was gone in a breath. You steadied yourself against the wall, jumping as you heard gunshots and shouting, heavy thuds as if bodies were hitting the walls. It suddenly went silent, and you shakily stood and walked over to the door torn off its hinges. You looked in to see Superman tying up the bruised and battered men.

The man of steel suddenly turned to you, his intense expression softening as he met your gaze. The last thought you had before blacking out was that his eyes looked very familiar. You must have passed out from the shock of it all because, the next thing you knew, you were being cradled against a wide chest, buildings flashing by beneath you.

"Oh jeez. Oh jeez oh jeez oh jeez," you stuttered out as you buried your face into Superman's emblazoned 'S'.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall. We'll land in a few moments. Where do you live?"

"I, uh, um," you were drawing a blank. Superman chuckled, the rumble felt against the cheek that was pressed against his chest.

"It's alright, I'll take you somewhere safe where you can gather your wits."

You felt secure in the superhero's arms, so you tried to relax. Face pressed against his chest, you couldn't help but to breathe him in. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but he smelled… familiar. Earthy with an undertone of the typical musk in popular colognes, and something distinctly other,  something sharp and electric like lightning.

As you were still thinking of the familiarity of his scent, the two of you landed on the rooftop of the Daily Planet. You thought it strange, that he brought you here of all places. He gently set you on your feet, hands landing on your waist to support you as your legs wobbled, readjusting to solid ground. 

Finally getting a good look at him, your eyes following the sharp curve of his distinctive jawline. Taking in all the details of his face, you felt like you were looking at one of those "find the differences" pictures. You knew something was off, something was familiar, just on the edges of your mind, but shrouded in mystery and denial.

"This is going to sound crazy, but, do we… know each other?"

His eyes widened, and you noticed panic flash across his face for a brief second.

"I don't believe we do," he cleared his throat. "But it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss (L/N), although you really should be more careful about investigating alone late at night."

"I never told you my name," you drawled out suspiciously.

"I uh, I must've recognized you from the newspaper articles. Is there anywhere I can escort you?"

You smirked at his obvious deflection, "Well I live about eleven blocks north of here if you wouldn't mind, y'know, giving me a 'ride' there."

"I'd be more than happy to see you home safely. I'm going to pick you up now, if that's alright?"

"By all means," you gestured, looping your arms around his neck again as he lifted you up with ease.

He shot up into the sky, a gasp escaping your throat at the view. Superman reached your apartment in no time, setting you down on the fire escape landing, hovering in front of you.

"Thank you for saving me," you grinned at his bashful expression.  

"It was my pleasure. But perhaps try to be more careful in in the future?"

You throw him a lazy, two-fingered salute and a wink, "I'll do my best. Will I be… seeing you around?"

The corner of his lips tilted up, "Perhaps."

Your heads swiveled around at the sound of a distant explosion. He sighed wearily and looked back at you with an unreadable expression.

"Go save the city, Superman. I'm sure I'll see you again," you looked at him with a soft smile.

"Take care of yourself, Y/N, I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon," he nodded politely and shot off into the night.

You were once again bemusedly puzzled as to how he knew your name, let alone said it so casually as if he was used to saying it.

You meandered into your apartment, immediately taking a shower to rid yourself of the dust and grime. You also took that time to have your freak-out. You’d been mostly calm and witty before, but for goodness sakes, you’d been an inch away from death just an hour before. After getting clean, and your minor freak-out, you took a power nap since you had to be in the office in a matter of hours.

When you got to work and hour late from over-sleeping, you were greeted by Perry photos down on your desk of the tied-up bad guy from the previous night being arrested, and he was all geared up for a tirade. 

You shut him down with a sweet smile, explaining that you had solved the "Ghost Presser" mystery and inadvertently helped Superman expose a major arms deal. Perry just grumbled and said he was taking the busted camera expenses out of your check. 

A curly head of dark hair, and the accompanying pair of blue eyes with glasses, poked around the corner of your cubicle. Clark Kent asked, "Eventful night?" with a slightly-worried smile. A familiar smile.

"Quite the adventure. You should come with me, next time. Someone in a cape alluded that I should use the buddy system."

"I couldn't agree more, the world is a dangerous place, especially at night," Clark said easily. The corner of his lips lifted in a friendly smile as he turned back to his own desk.

A familiar smile indeed.

[evien-stark]

✧I Need You✧ Chapter 49

Yet again, SHIELD was asking you to abandon your current life to go do work for them. Except this time it seemed serious- ...had every time been serious? Were you just chafed by Fury’s previous behavior, and so took the rest of their needs less seriously? Something to ruminate on later. Your attention needed to stay forefront on what was being asked of you. But before you could entertain that, you had to call Pepper.

It was easy to see now why Tony had wanted to back out of the company. Leave it to you. This superhero stuff really just took up too much time. Could come in at any moment and ask anything of you… but to let it would be to give yourself away. Another reason you hadn’t wanted Tony to do that. You didn’t want him to get lost in all of this. And it seemed so easy to do.

“I have to go away for a little while.”

“Again? I’m guessing you’re not gonna tell me why this time, either.”

How could you? You remembered your entirely visceral reaction to seeing what Tony had been up to- but that had been led on by feeling like you’d been betrayed. Still, the longer you kept this away from Pepper, it may as well have been betraying her. Lying to her.

But how on earth could you even begin to tell her what you’d been up to? It made you realize how used to nonsense you’d gotten. Sure the world knew about Iron Man. But what about … whatever you were calling yourself- Lady? You just couldn’t put it into words. Not believable ones, anyway. “I’ll… Pep, this time, I promise. Once I’m done we’ll sit down and have a long talk.”

“It’s about the Iron Man stuff, isn’t it?” She was just too smart.

You sighed. “A little, yeah. Just. Give me some time. Set up some pressers for the Stark Tower powering up. Everything went great, by the way, thanks for asking.” Unable to help your small bit of sass. “And start putting together a party- for Tony’s birthday we’ll do a big thing at the tower. Big celeb invite. All the good stuff-” Before you could get more of your list out to her, your phone beeped. “I have another call, I-” And, tilting the phone away, you saw who it was and your mood dove again. “I have to go. I’ll talk soon.” Not giving her a chance to ask anything else. Sorry, that it had to be that way, too.

Going over to the other line you were barely able to get a hello out before Steve’s voice greeted you. “They pulling you into this, too?”

Your lips pressed together. “How’d you know?” “I saw your file.”

So that was that, then. You’d wondered who else was going to see. It made sense, if this was your makeshift team. Everyone got what you and Tony got. Probably. And so you’d been laid bare to at least three other strangers. If not more. Who could even say? You didn’t like that SHIELD had a file on you, after you’d worked so hard to get rid of it. But you suspected this was of a more recent taste. “Do you know exactly what this is?”

“I’m starting to. You watch the videos? This Loki guy. He seems very dangerous.”

Nodding to yourself, “Yeah. I guess that’s why they need us, right?” All you could do was hold on to a small glimmer of hope that all of this would work out. You’d taken real time to look at the video of the attack at the SHIELD base where the Tesseract had been held.

How he’d stormed in through that portal. Attacked everyone there- trained agents. Bent them to his will…

If SHIELD wanted you to go up against this guy because of that…?

“Yeah. They give you coordinates yet?”

You flipped through a few more files, just letting double screens play footage of Captain America and the Loki attack side by side. “No. Coulson said he’d get back to me on next steps.”

“...you know this Coulson guy?” Something in his voice changed.

“Yeah. Why? ...I think I’ve heard through the grapevine that he’s kind of a big fan of yours.”

“No kidding.” Was that sarcasm you detected in Steve’s voice?

It prompted a smile. “He’s a good guy.”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t.”

For one reason or another you couldn’t help a giggle. It drew Tony’s attention, where he’d been furiously typing on two separate tabletops. But the thought of Coulson pestering Steve was just… it was a funny thing. “Be nice to him. Sign whatever he wants.”

A breathy laugh came from the other side of the phone. “Oh. Is that how it is? You the leader of this operation?”

“God, no. But. In this instance, sure.”

“In that case, I’ll do my best.”

“Your best is enough.” When you lifted your eyes you saw Tony’s quickly dropping his back to his work. “I have to go. I imagine we’ll see each other soon.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Bye.” Either he quickly got the hint or he really had something he needed to attend to, probably both true in this instance. But it allowed you to hang up the phone and put it down.

This was all very bad. If SHIELD was sending you in on a mission together- Tony, Steve, you… sure Tony had crafted a helmet for you that would hide your identity. You know- much like it hid his. There was no chance in hell this ended up in your favor. You just never had put thought into that SHIELD would ask the Avengers to be a real thing. To do a real mission. Part of you had hoped it would just always be you and Tony cleaning up messes you could actually clean up.

But now…

What happened if someone with a camera saw Captain America, Steve Rogers, alongside Iron Man, Tony Stark, and a mysterious Lady? There was no way you’d be able to talk yourself out of that one. Now you kind of wished you’d made Tony stick to SHIELD’s alibi. But it was far too late for that now. It also made Tony too right, that you should stay behind.

Getting up from the couch you went to the desk, moving behind him to wrap your arms around his shoulders and lay your head atop his. His hands kept moving. Typing, researching, learning things that were millions of years beyond you. “You should get some sleep.”

“You’ll leave without me.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You know me too well.” Unplugging a cable in one of the Heart Reactor’s ports, he handed it up to you. “Here.”

“Finished?” You weren’t exactly sure what he’d been up to, but whatever it was, you knew it was important. More security measures. More anything. Tony knew what he was doing. You did not.

“For now. Put it on. And… don’t take it off until we’re debriefed. Promise me.”

Until this is over, he was saying. Until the both of you were sure things were safe.

“I promise, Tony.” Shifting back, you unzipped your hoodie again to stick it on your shirt underneath. One day you might seriously consider just sticking it right on your skin. Maybe this mission would push you to do so…

Leaning half away from his computers, typing ceased, he cast a look up your way. “Seriously.” A little comforting slide of his hand up your leg, a pat at your hip. “Go lie down. Sleep for a little while. I won’t leave.”

Sleep was probably impossible. Your stomach was in knots, your chest tight with anxiousness. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring. Something terrifying. Something dangerous. But for his sake… “You, too, okay?” You knew he was doing research on that cube thing, that Doctor Selvig, Loki- probably everyone else, too. Stuff that he needed to know. Stuff that would help him- and you, too, to be safe. Hopefully to end this soon.

“In a few hours. Sure.” The both of you knowing he was lying, but accepting it anyway. This was what always happened. He’d run ragged to make things right again, even if this time it wasn’t exactly his fault.

Bending in you kissed him carefully. Softly. Lingering until he broke back and gave you another light pat to the side, sending you off to the couch. You could go to the personal suite just a door down. The entire real reason this tower had been built in the first place. But you didn’t want to be away from him. Not because you didn’t trust he’d stick to his word and wake you when the time came but… you just couldn’t bear the thought of being away while he was still working. Especially not on the eve of something so terrible…

                                           -------------------------------

Sleep didn’t come. You were too overwhelmed with thought. Eyes closed, you replayed that footage over and over in your head. How easily Loki had compromised Clint with that weapon- that stick. That’s why they wanted you, you were sure. They wanted you to reverse that- but you didn’t deal in mind control. Not really, anyway. It’s not what you’d practiced. Could you even do something like that? What would happen if it went wrong?

And Loki… SHIELD’s files would have you believe he was some sort of alien. Some kind of god. He looked human enough. Even if he looked like he had stumbled out of a convention center. Thor, too. Alien. God? From some planet far away called Asgard. Brothers, the two of them. And if any of this was true, it seemed that their rivalry was wreaking havoc on earth. But what for? Why? What did earth have to do with them aside Thor’s short stay here a year back?

What did any of it have to do with you? With Tony? What happened if Loki took Tony? Or worse…

“Hey...” You had only just barely dozed off but the sound of Tony’s voice pricked your awareness, and you blinked your eyes open. He was standing over, with a finger up, phone in his hand.

Holding it out, Fury’s voice came over speaker. “You’ve got no time to waste. Loki’s camp has been spotted lurking around Stuttgart, Germany. We’re sending in Cap and Black Widow, but they’ll need backup. Lots of civilians. We need a very nice and neat containment. Get on it. Direct coordinates to follow.”

The phone triple beeped, signaling Fury just hanging up on the both of you. You sat up slowly, rubbing at your eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

Civilians. He was attacking civilians in Germany? But why? This was bad. Even worse for you- but no time to consider it. This wasn’t about you. It was only about what you could do. And if you sat by and did nothing…

“If it makes you feel better. Come on. I think we have time to stop for coffee.” Smiling at you lightly, but the light died almost immediately as he helped you to your feet. “Offer to stay home still stands.”

Because you were risking everything to go. You both knew that.

“And let you have all the fun?”

The both of you aimed weak, fake smiles at each other.

Hopefully this would be over soon. Quick. Painless. All you had to do was go there, stop him, and cuff him. Right? Pick apart his camp. Rescue Clint, Selvig, the other agents under Loki’s control…

But this was too obvious. A thought you and Tony shared immediately after suiting up and taking off from the tower. It was early, only five AM yet, so you weren’t worried about paparazzi snapping pics of the two suits leaving- not that it mattered. This was where the road of invisibility ended for you. You were very sure of it. But that was the path you were choosing. Maybe it always had been.

“There’s a lot they’re not telling us.”

“SHIELD is withholding information? Color me shocked.” Unable to help yourself. Of course they weren’t giving you the full story. That was practically their entire motive at this point. Only dropping enough information to get people to act in their best interests.

“Yeah. Well, I don’t like it. And when we pick up at this helicarrier of theirs, I’m gonna look into everything they’re hiding.”

“A mistake, inviting you into their house.” While you maybe should have had more reservations about Tony snooping, probably getting the both of you in trouble, it was probably for the best. Not to mention you trusted him more than you did them.

“Always. They never learn. But we will.”

The both of you put the pedal to the metal, double boosting your way through the skies. The flight to Germany couldn’t take any longer than it needed to. With the coordinates dropped in both your HUDs, it was easy to see where Loki was, but not easy to understand why he was going there.

A gala of all things. Probably the worst option for you. One you might have attended any number of years back. All fancy rich people walking around- what was the play here? Terrorize the upper class? He had to be after something. But what?

“Romanoff and the old man are ahead of us. Fury has that little faith in them?” Tony pointing out another equally confusing fact.

Nat being there made sense. You knew she was very close with Clint. With him pinned down like this, it couldn’t have been easy. There was likely no length she wouldn’t go to to get him back. But the two of them there, and Fury still calling the both of you? “Worst time to assemble a team for the first time.” Under fire.

“You get what I’m trying to say, right? They’re planning on using you.”

Eyes moving up, you arched a brow at his video window to your upper left. “They’re planning on using all of us. What’s the difference?”

He made a face right back at you. “I have weapons. You are a weapon- to them. Him. You up for that? He’s probably counting on you being an interrogation machine. Not to mention an un-brainwashing station.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t do his dirty laundry for him?”

Tony grinned, albeit brief. “You won’t even do mine. Why’s he get special treatment?”

“You’re a grown man.”

“And he’s a grown secret agency director. I’m just making sure we’re on the same team on this team. I’ll put a stop to anything you ask me to. But you gotta ask.”

He was trying to put security protocols up for you before things got too messy. You appreciated his foresight greatly, not to mention how much he cared for you to be having this conversation. A sigh escaped you as day turned back into night across another border. “If that’s all I’m good for, then I have to do what I can to do my part.”

“But it’s not.” Quick to smother that thought. “That might be why Fury picked you up- why he wants you here. But that doesn’t mean you have to jump when he says to.”

Funny, that he’d bring that up, considering your talk with Cap a while back…

Beneath you cars were zooming down the street, and the two of you broke the cloudline to lower in. Civilians were screaming. Running. LUNA spoke up, “We’re approaching the drop zone. SHIELD Quinjet one mile away.”

Tony found it in himself to grin again. “JARVIS, give me their PA. We should be able to have some fun.” Atop your line of sight you saw, Quinjet PA System Override. Patched through communications. “Agent Romanoff, you miss us?” Shoot to Thrill started playing over everyone’s speakers.

Just as the two of you twisted around a building, you followed suit, “We thought you could use some help.”

“Alright honey, let’s sweep him right off his feet.”

Target locked on Loki, looking even more ridiculous in what seemed to be a helmet with a pair of golden antlers- and seemed to be having a fight with Cap- ...who was in full costume as well. This superhero business really was shaping up to be something. Coming to a dead stop midair, you held both your hands up, firing simultaneous blasts with Tony, knocking Loki down to the ground in a tumble.

With him down, the both of you killed thrusters and dropped. While his suit unloaded just about every weapon it had on it, you only kept your hands up. You may not have had miniguns and lasers but it would do just as well. Your eyes stayed on him as Tony spoke. “Make your move, reindeer games.”

Steve came over to your side, brandishing his shield. Loki seemed to give up immediately- and his ridiculous outfit, shimmered and vanished into a… still ridiculous but less so outfit. Hands outstretched it was almost like he was begging you to take him into custody. Either smart, not to fight all three of you, or playing you for fools. Hard to say.

You also noticed Clint was nowhere to be seen.

Tony recalled his weapons. “Good move.”

As you put your hands down, Steve looked to the both of you. “Mr. Stark. ...Lady.” Stumbling on exactly what to call you, but you could quite literally feel him making the connection, finally.

You and Tony answered him in unison, “Captain.”

                                           -------------------------------

 While Tony and Steve took care of putting Loki in handcuffs and getting him up onto the jet, your primary focus became the surrounding area’s survivors. Loki had done a lot of damage to a couple of cop cars and injured more than a few people. There were also security guards for the gala hurt badly in the nearby alleyway. As more police started trickling in with ambulances in tow, you made sure to give concise directions. Severely wounded first, followed by the lightly injured elderly people that had been knocked over and trampled during the ensuing chaos.

There was a doctor in the building, someone told you, who was in critical condition, so you directed a line of first responder traffic that way. As you were helping an older gentleman up, Nat’s voice came over your comm. “We’re gonna need you to hurry up. We need to get back to the helicarrier.”

“Give me a second.” Bending down, you picked up his cane and handed it to him. “If you need treatment, there’s a shorter line on the third medic ambulance.”

He smiled. “Die Welt dankt dir. Unt Iron Man.”

Your German was a little rusty, but you nodded all the same, catching the meaning rather easily. “Alles Gute.” Turning, you took off to the sky where the Quinjet was hovering still awaiting your arrival.

“Danke! Danke!” The crowds were building up a cheer below.

Once inside the open hatch, it closed immediately behind you. Loki was seated on a bench, head down, hands bound. Nat flipped a few switches above her head. “Glad to have you back. You know, SHIELD has a clean up crew.” She was anxious, you understood why.

“A personal touch never hurt.” And it had just sort of become your thing. Cleaning up the aftermath of terribleness.

You deactivated your helmet, keeping the visor on for now instead. Tony slipped his own helmet off. “We didn’t lose time. And public opinion is probably pretty important right about now. Considering.”

Considering the Avengers had just gone out on their first mission, you supposed. Though if those files were to be believed, you were still missing some members.

Steve pulled his face hood off and turned to address you. “Was that really a good idea? You’ve gone to such lengths to keep up appearances, I don’t know that getting close with a crowd is in your best interest.”

“I’m alright. But I appreciate the concern.” Whatever came out of it, if the world figured it out (which they would), you’d just have to stand by your own decisions.

The air was tense inside the jet as it took off in a speedy blast, although it would be an hour yet before the group made it to the helicarrier. And when you did, Tony would get up to all sorts of snooping, so you weren’t sure if you wanted to hurry or delay.

While finally Tony took a moment to speak with Steve, something you wanted to pay attention to, you caught Loki looking at you. Something of an amused glare, if that were even possible. Unable to help yourself, you stared right on back, crossing your arms. The whole reason you were really here… it wasn’t to make a crowd feel better about the sudden appearance of a superhero ensemble.

The reason Fury wanted you here was sitting right in front of you, and briefly you dropped your eyes to the scepter Loki had been toting that was now in your team’s possession. The one that turned minds, supposedly. “LUNA scan that for me, please.” Calm (and very quiet) as you asked, not interrupting the other people in the jet thankfully.

Your attention turned back to Loki after the fact, arching a brow at him. His smirk grew wider. There didn’t need to be an overwhelming amount of evidence that he had wanted to get taken. This only confirmed what you already knew. But maybe if you just took a little look…

Eyes glazing over as you touched inside that dark space. Different from any other time. He stood what felt like yards away from you, staring- much the same way he had been- It was frigid here and he-

He seemed to be… wrapped in some very thin yellow static. Protecting himself? From you? Just beyond it he seemed to be mouthing some words-

“You think yourself a witch, do you?” It looked like his voice was out of sync.

Loki was moving. He was moving towards you. And you couldn’t get away. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to move to.

One step- then the next- and then in the blink of your eyes he was right on you, hand wrapped around your throat. “I’ve known far better in my time.”

With a powerful lunge he threw you from your feet, holding you down- drowning you. Uselessly you reached up, grabbing, clawing- efforts futile as his other hand came down, squeezing your windpipe. Fear consumed you completely-

So you projected it. Deep in this mucky water he’d created you pushed all of yourself forward and felt him falter just as your hands sunk inside of him. A high pitched whine rang in your ears. Taking your chance you shoved yourself forwards, twisting your body over top his until the water you’d been drowning in gave out, becoming so much deeper, and the two of you fell all the way down…

Someone was calling your name…

                                           -------------------------------

 “I don’t like it.”

Tony was doing his absolute best to not start off on the wrong foot. This was bound to be a much longer engagement than he’d have liked, and if he started trouble now… well, not only would it make it that much longer, but she’d be mad. And he couldn’t have that. “What? Rock of Ages giving up so easy?”

“I don’t remember it ever being that easy. This guy-”

A thud broke both their attention and Tony whirled on heel to see her drop to the floor. In two quick moves he was there beside her. “JARVIS, vitals-”

“Stark-”

His head whipped up, looking at Steve- who currently had Loki by the shoulders. His eyes were rolled far back in his head, with a trickle of blood coming from his nose. And when Tony looked back- she looked the same. “JARVIS I need those vitals now!”

“What’s going on back there!?”

Tony cradled her head forward- she suddenly started gasping- wet- heavy- choking? Choking for air? “Sir, she’s going into cardiac arrest-”

“She’s asphyxiating-!” He heard LUNA’s voice, strange considering he hadn’t asked her- but no time to think about it.

Her name fell out of his mouth several times in quick succession- and just behind him Steve picked Loki up from his seat and slammed him back against the wall with a harsh crack. “What are you doing to her?!”

Then so suddenly- “She’s stabilizing-”

“Honey, look at me...” Tony’s next breath finally came when her eyes rolled back down, closed, and then blinked a few times. When she tried to sit up, he held her as she gasped in what sounded like a painful gust of air, followed by coughing. “Easy, easy- breathe- tell me what hurts-”

Her hands reached up, clasping, clawing at him. “Tony-”

“Easy. Take it easy. You’re fine. I’ve got you. What happened? What did he do?”

Loki growled behind them. “What I did? That insolent wretch dared to-”

Steve shoved him against the wall again. “We’ve heard enough out of you.”

“She’s lucky to still be breathing. By my generosity alone- If you dare to put your hands on me again I’ll snap your neck-!”

Tony put his hand up, repuslor charging. “Keep talking and I’ll show you something generous.”

A boom of thunder rumbled the inside of the jet, followed by an almost immediate crack of lightning that illuminated the inside. Loki’s angry rambling ceased. Tony’s attention refocused, hand cupping the side of her face. She at least looked less pale, and her breathing had evened out. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Steve stepped back, arms crossed, as if blocking the both of them from Loki’s view. “What’s the matter? After all that yelling, you’re scared of a little lightning?”

“I’m not overly fond of what follows.”

As if calling the universe to continue its rampage, the ramp of the Quinjet screeched in a scrape of metal as it manually opened- rather, as someone ripped it open. A gust of wind tore through and a man stepped in. Just as quick he took Loki by the throat and then he was gone. Leaving everyone stunned. Tony sighed, annoyed down to his very core. “And now there’s that guy.”

“Go.” Finally she said something. “I’m fine- go- you can’t let him take Loki-”

Nat yelled from the front, “Another Asgardian??”

Steve stood out at the edge of the ramp, looking down. “Think he’s a friendly?”

Standing, helping her onto her feet, Tony directed a shake of his head Steve’s way. “Doesn’t matter. If he frees Loki or kills him, the Tesseract is lost.” He took hold of both sides of her face in his hands. “You really okay?”

“Yes- I’ll try and explain later- just go get Loki back. Don’t rough him up too much. I wanna be the one to kick his ass.” Her delightful fire he’d come to love meant she was probably more than fine. Even after such a scare.

“No promises.” Putting his helmet back on he stepped aside her to go to the ramp.

“Stark, we need a plan of attack!” Steve clearly had a huge objection to this.

“I have a plan.” Tony’s voice echoed out from the helmet. “Attack.” Wasting no more time than that, jumping clear of the ramp, following the heat signatures to the ground.

At least for round two they were in the middle of nowhere.

[welllpthisishappening]

Kiss Her Once [For Me]

To say that the last year has been hectic would be the greatest understatement in the history of the modern world. Or, like, libel. In print, it’s libel. 

Because the last year has been filled with political promises and campaigns and far more press conferences than Emma realized were possible. And now, with Washington D.C. ahead of them, the only thing Emma really wants is to figure out how many boxes she’ll need to move all her stuff. 

That is, of course, until Killian finds her sitting in the middle of Regina’s hallway, a distinct lack of alcohol in her system, and the guarantee that he’s got a plan. For fun. Of the festive variety. It includes mistletoe. 

Oh hai there @distant-rose​ I am not your secret anything at all because you totally knew I was writing this and maybe unwittingly provided the setting and I’m sure Kristen Gillibrand would be proud of this. Probably. Anyway, here are a lot of words and alcohol jokes and some kissing because of who I am as a human being. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you guys roll. 

“If you’re not currently putting out an official statement on this office’s opinion on the questionable working situation of the North Pole, then you need to put the phone down.” Emma does not, in fact, put the phone down.

And she absolutely ignores the footsteps moving towards her, shoes that are far too shiny shifting into her line of vision as her fingers fly over the screen. At some point she is going to figure out where Killian Jones gets his shoes shined.

It can’t be one of those places in Penn.

They look way too nice for that.

She’s totally going to ask. Someday. At some point. Maybe after she finishes her forty-second text message to Will.

Or, like, fiftieth. That’s a rounder number.

He sighs when he crouches in front of her, the sound morphing into something that almost becomes a groan when what may very well be his right knee cracks. Emma’s lips twitch.

She absolutely did not mean for that to happen.

But that seems to be par for the course when it comes to Killian Jones and his far too shiny shoes because Killian Jones always seems to know exactly what to say to push her buttons and make her smile and almost laugh after a particularly trying press conference.

And the last few months have been nothing short of hectic – a campaign and winning, which wasn’t entirely surprising because Regina was very good at public speaking and being charming and she really did mean every single thing she said, a rarity in modern politics. But all of those things meant that Regina Mills was no longer just a New York State Assemblywoman from District 74. She was now a U.S. Representative with promises for federal funding to fix the MTA and a rather vocal opinion on the travel ban that led to several sleepless nights for Emma when her phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

And, most importantly, for the entire goddamn office, it meant moving to Washington D.C.

Soon.

A few weeks soon.

Right after the holidays soon.

The kind of soon that makes Emma positive she’s the world’s worst mother for forcing her kid to pack up all his belongings and schlep several thousand miles away from his friends to a brand-new school in the middle of the year. She’s far too experienced being the new kid to even imagine any of this is going to go well.

Her phone buzzes in her hand. It draws a not-so-quiet laugh out of Killian and he can’t possibly be comfortable like that, but he doesn’t appear to be making any effort to move.

“I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess that’s not actually Santa Claus,” Killian says, finally getting Emma to lift her head and she kind of regrets that. He’s doing that thing with his face. The smirk thing and the twist of one eyebrow and it regularly gets politicians to do his bidding and little old ladies on the Upper East Side to promise they’ll support Ms. Mills one-hundred percent and Emma assumes her lurking in the hallway of Regina’s questionably large brownstone is probably hurting his schedule.

He’s very big on schedules. She assumes being chief of staff will do that to a person.

“You’re a genius,” Emma drawls, eyes flitting back to the phone when it makes another noise and Will is just sending her slightly passive aggressive emojis now. “Oh my God, that one doesn’t even make any sense.” “What doesn’t?” “I was not talking to you.” “Yes, well, I’m the only other person in this hallway, Swan, so if you weren’t talking to me then I think we’ve got some other problems on our hands.” “Don’t your calves hurt?” His other eyebrow moves. It’s genuinely the dumbest thing she’s ever seen. “Are you worried about my calves?” Emma ignores that too. Her phone sounds like it’s going to explode. And she’s not really worried about Killian’s calves, but he’d helped get her this job what feels like several million years ago, promising Regina he had a good feeling about a single mom with minimal political experience, but plenty of journalism experience and Emma really did believe in what they were doing.

That hasn’t happened very often for her.

“Shut up,” Emma grumbles, but that only serves to draw another laugh out of Killian and he doesn’t move very gracefully when he tries to sit down. She bites her lip. And sends sixteen middle finger emojis back to Will.

“You shut up.” “That’s incredibly mature.” “Swan, you are sitting on the floor of someone else’s very expensive home with one of your feet halfway out of your shoe.” She narrows her eyes at his very good point – and, really, Emma has no idea why she wore these shoes. Well, no, that’s a lie. She wore the shoes because she’s never worn the shoes and they’re kind of sparkly and decidedly festive and she can’t seem to wrap her head around everything that is simultaneously ending and beginning.

They’re going to take Washington by storm.

Or something less lame. A better headline that that.

A headline that inspires confidence and change and a different word than that because that’s someone else’s catchphrase and Killian is the only person who came out into the hallway of someone else’s very expensive home to see what was wrong.

“They’re already making my feet hurt,” Emma admits, and for as powerful and political as the smirk is, his real, genuine smile is, at least, ten thousand times better.

Killian hums, the crinkles around his eyes unfairly endearing. “You know you never answered my question, actually.” “I was too busy wondering how many limbs you were going to break when you sat down.” “Ah, that’s rude. Did you get champagne?” “Was that the question?” “Swan,” he sighs, but there’s no sense of frustration to it. It’s easy and simple, which is ironic all things considered because their relationship is really anything but and Henry wanted Killian to come over instead of Will. That’s probably the reason for all the emojis.

“I have not gotten any champagne yet, actually. Mostly because I’ve been trying to remind Scarlet of all the rules at home and--” “--Wait, wait, Will Scarlet is in your apartment right now?” Emma nods and The Wall Street Journal could probably do some very impressive investigative work trying to figure out whatever happens to her pulse as soon as she hears the change in Killian’s voice. “Yeah, yeah, he said he didn’t want to spend any more time with any of us and promised he was more than happy to watch Henry so, and I’m quoting here, you can actually get off your couch and be mildly entertaining, Emma.” “Scathing.” “I think he’s been holding it in the whole campaign. It’s not easy dealing with everyone he had to deal with.” “Yeah, God forbid a campaign manager work more than forty hours a week when he’s helping the greater good.” “You should get that on a pin.” Killian chuckles, a hand in his hair and eyes staring straight at Emma. “So are you going to do it, then?” “Do what?” “Be mildly entertaining.” “Wow,” Emma breathes, dragging out the word until it sounds like she’s almost genuinely offended. She doesn’t answer Will’s last text. “That seems to suggest you think I’m not, Jones. Not only am I entertaining. I am genuinely fun when the occasion calls for it.” Killian tilts his head, disbelief practically rolling off him. “That so?” “I was fun on election night!” “You had half a glass of champagne, scheduled sixteen pressers, told several different people what to put on social media, which is not your job by the way, and then ignored Mary Margaret’s attempts to set you up with that guy from the Sierra Club.” Emma groans at the memory – head falling back against the wall she’s considering forwarding her mail to at this point. These shoes were a mistake. God, she hopes that’s not a theme for the rest of the night.

And, really, Mary Margaret’s heart is always in the right place. She knows everyone, after all, head of Regina’s scheduling and appearances and she’s got an actual rolodex still because I don’t trust it if I can’t write it, a motto both Emma and Ruby regularly mock.

But, sometimes, Mary Margaret is also a little pushy and a little too certain and if Emma only occasionally believes, then Mary Margaret wakes up with belief pouring out of her and the guarantee that everyone is destined for someone else.  

It’s nice.

It’s also the single most annoying thing in the world.

“That guy was just as uncomfortable as I was,” Emma promises. Killian doesn’t move his head. “He was! And, you know, I can’t just--” She cuts herself off, nearly biting her tongue in half in the process. It’s more uncomfortable than the blisters she’s certain are already forming on her feet.

Killian blinks.

“You can’t what?” “C’mon it’s not--” “--No, no, you were going to say something. And we both know that people don’t say things without thinking about them first.” “Ok, that is fundamentally untrue. Also, this is not a presser. I’m not obligated to give you any kind of answer.” “Fake news,” he mumbles, kicking lightly at her ankle. It’s a weird balancing act that does something else ridiculous to Emma’s pulse and they’re going to fix Washington from the ground up, she knows it.

Emma needs to find some boxes.

“That’s not even clever.” “I beg to differ. You did that thing with your lips.” She jerks her head up so quickly she’s briefly worried that she’s sustained some kind of concussion and that would probably make packing very difficult. Emma’s breath catches, far too loud in a hallway that is still questionably deserted and she can just make out, what sounds like, A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack playing in the background. Killian, for his part, doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes do widen slightly and Emma hopes he doesn’t do permanent damage to his scalp from gripping his hair so hard.

“Is that code?” she asks, voice far too low to be acceptable in a workplace environment. She is getting incredibly distracted by whatever Killian’s tongue is doing in his mouth, pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s considering his options and the most politically correct answer.

And, really, in the last few years there have been moments.

Almosts.

Could have beens.

More of those pesky maybes Emma is always so fond of.

He’d look at her a little too long or she’d brush her hand over his back when she walked by him, but nothing more than that. Because they’re doing something bigger than this and she doesn’t have time for more and--all those reasons she’s given Mary Margaret and Ruby and even, sometimes, Elsa six-hundred thousand times.

Killian shakes his head slowly, hand falling back to his side and Emma doesn’t think she imagines the way his fingers flex slightly. Like he’s trying to stop himself from moving. “No code,” he says. “Just--”

They’re usually much better at having conversations.

It’s definitely A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack and someone laughing and Emma’s positive Will is going to give Henry way too much chocolate.

“Why’d you come out here?” Emma asks, and she hopes the question doesn’t sound as aggressive as she’s worried it is. Killian’s eyebrows fly into her hairline. “That wasn’t supposed to be some kind of accusation.” “I feel like I just asked about something you’d already said no comment on sixty-two times.” “Nah, only like forty-six.” “Ah, well, that’s totally fine then.”

She laughs, smile feeling more natural. “I”m serious though. You didn’t...I was just driving Scarlet insane and learning about emojis I didn’t realize even existed.” “I think that’s the extent of his creativity, honestly.” “Look who’s scathing now. I’m serious. There’s no need to double check on me or anything. I promise, I’ll stand up and ignore what a bad decision these shoes were and--” “--I don’t think the shoes were a bad decision.” Maybe Emma did concuss herself before. Dizziness is probably a symptom of that. She licks her lips to stop herself from doing anything decidedly unprofessional, the sincerity in those words ringing in between her ears.

There’s probably a joke about the record to be made. She doesn’t say it.

“Thanks,” she says instead, and Killian’s answering smile is something decidedly unfair and entirely festive. Emma has no idea how, but she assumes something that bright should probably hang on a Christmas tree. “But you’re doing a real shit job of avoiding my question.” The grin gets bigger.

“I have an idea.” “About?” “Something fun.” “This is not the explanation I was hoping for,” Emma sighs. Killian winks, shifting slightly to grab something out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

It’s a plastic bag, full of...something that looks like it was only recently alive and Emma refuses to be held accountable for whatever expression she makes in response. If only because it gets Killian to laugh again – that one, specific laugh, that she, maybe, sort of hordes for herself because it sounds purer than anything else she’s ever heard or something equally ridiculous. She’s only ever heard it when they’re by themselves.

“Stop staring at it like that,” Killian mutters, that same lack of frustration in his voice. He sounds like he’s trying not to keep laughing.

“I’m not!” “Swan, you are, love. This is not what you’re thinking it is.” “Ok, ok, ok, what am I thinking then o ye Christmas soothsayer?” “That’s a good title.” “Killian!” His eyes flash when she all but shouts his own name at him – eyes wide again and distractingly blue, but they’ve got nothing on whatever the tip of his tongue does when it presses against the corner of his mouth. Emma swallows.

She wonders how many boxes they’ll actually need to move.

And if Regina’s going to pay for the trucks. That only seems fair.

“This is real, unfiltered mistletoe,” Killian explains, leaning into Emma’s space. It’s suddenly very warm in someone else’s hallway. And someone in the other room is shouting something about alcohol and bingo.

“Were those the words you were looking for in that order?” He shrugs. “It sounded way more dramatic that way.” “And that’s what you were going for then?” “Correction, that is what we are going for.” “I don’t understand,” Emma admits, eyes flitting back towards her phone screen when it lets out a string of buzzes that probably affects the brownstone’s foundation. “I think Henry and Scarlet are building a gingerbread house.” “You’re never going to be able to get that kid off that sugar high.” Emma groans. “Maybe I’ll just murder Scarlet instead.” “That’s the spirit, love. Although we did talk about design a couple days ago.” “Wait, what?” Killian nods again, lips quirking up. Emma needs to stop looking at his lips. “Are we still talking about Henry? When did you see my kid?” “I just told you, a couple days ago. You were stuck in that presser about the end of the year stuff and getting ready for Washington and--” “--And you were hanging out with my kid?” Her voice does that aggressive thing again.

Emma winces at the tone, but Killian doesn’t look entirely surprised. His lips shift again, another head tilt that makes several strands of hair fall artfully across his forehead and she’s always been far too overprotective. But she and Henry have been a two-person unit for as long as Henry’s been a person and while most of the office has found a way into the lives, no one has settled into the center of everything as easily as Killian has.

Henry was really upset he wasn’t coming over that night.

“He had a lot of festive thoughts to share,” Killian reasons. “And, like, I said. He was waiting and you were running late. It wasn’t...it wasn’t a big deal, Swan.” Emma bites her lip when he realizes – not necessarily an apology for discussing gingerbread engineering with her kid, but rather because he wants to discuss gingerbread engineering with her kid.

She needs several dozen glasses of champagne.

“No, I know it’s not.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Emma nods. “Why are you carrying around bags of mistletoe?” “Ok, it’s one bag of mistletoe and I already told you. I have an idea.” “Usually that requires explaining the idea, you know.” He makes a face – half an eye roll and an almost smirk, although those both may because she’s trying to get her shoe back on. They will, eventually, have to get back to the party.

“How recently has Mary Margaret tried to set you up?” Killian asks, the last question Emma expects. “It’s got to be recently right?” “Jeez. Were your thoughts on gingerbread houses that pointed?” “No, no, although there’s got to be an appropriate frosting to building ratio. And we did stage a rather heated debate, using parliamentary procedure no less, about whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas movie.” Emma has no idea what noise she makes. It can’t possibly human.

It seems to bubble out of her, a sound she’s positive she’s never heard in her life because it may honestly be a giggle and the tips of Killian’s ears go red.

She pushes her hair back behind her ears, desperate for something to do with her hands that isn’t yanking on his tie. “Parliamentary procedure, huh?” “He mentioned something about Model UN at the new school.” Emma’s eyes widen, a size that can’t be healthy. “He did?” “Did he not?” “You tell me.” Killian nods, resting his forearms on his bent knees. “I think he’s been looking stuff up, Swan. He’s very good at being prepared. That’s all you.” “Please, if I was prepared for any of this, I’d already have half my stuff packed and know my kid was looking up clubs he could join. Model UN, really?” “Apparently they’ve got a partnership with George Washington. It’s very prestigious. Lots of awards. College scholarships.” “Jeez.” “You’ve got a proactive thirteen-year-old, love. That’s not a bad thing.” “Tell that to my very bruised mom ego,” Emma mumbles. She lets her head fall back again, another threat of concussion when her eyes flutter closed, and Emma is incredibly proud that she doesn’t gasp when Killian’s fingers tap against the side of her thigh.

“I can teach you some of the terms.” Her eyes snap back open. “Did you know those off the top of your head?” “You, love, are in the presence of the best delegate at Cornell University’s Model UN several more years ago than I am willing to admit.” Emma makes that noise again. “No way.” “Oh yes. It was very impressive. I know all about caucuses and drafting resolutions and dealing with crisis committees. Trust me, between the three of us, we’ll save the entire world as soon as we get to D.C.” He can’t possibly mean it the way it sounds – like a promise and a guarantee and a string of words that Emma wants to believe in as well, but can’t possibly afford to be wrong about. She only just realizes he’s never moved his fingers.

“Two questions,” Emma says, partially so she can get him to do the eyebrow thing again. He does. “What did you decide on regarding Die Hard and are you ever going to explain why you’re smuggling real mistletoe into Regina’s house during a party only some of us wanted?” “Did you want the party?” “Oh my God, if you were a journalist, I’d steal your credential.” Killian chuckles, fingers tightening slightly. “No you wouldn’t. You’re far too upstanding for that.” “Generous.” “Honest,” he amends. “And Henry was adamant that a movie being set at Christmas does not automatically make it a Christmas movie, but I’m very persuasive and very good at debate and--” “--Is that the same thing as Model UN?” “No, can I finish now?” Emma sticks her tongue out. It makes him laugh again. The right one. “Anyway, we decided that there were some exceptions to the rule because, strictly speaking, Meet Me in St. Louis is also not a Christmas movie, but it had Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, so--”

“--That song was in a movie?” “Swan! Also, how did you not know that?”

She shrugs, leaning forward to tug the bag out his hand. There’s a ton of mistletoe in there. “Go ahead and lord another fact over me, Jones. And then, seriously, explain your plan because I would actually like to get some champagne if Regina bought the good stuff.” “She’ll be offended to find out you think she didn’t buy the best stuff.” “I’m going to murder you.” Killian shakes his head, far too much confidence and Emma is loathe to admit it’s also pretty goddamn attractive. “You are not. And your kid would be disappointed. Also, you’re kind of on the right track.” “The track never seems to be ending.” He clicks his tongue – and they’re going to rip the bag of mistletoe if they keep yanking it out of each other’s grip. “Patience is a virtue, Swan.” “Separation of church and state.” “That was clever.” “Oh my God, make your goddamn point or I’m going to get ridiculously drunk without you.”

“Well, that would ruin everything,” Killian says, doing something positively sinful with his tongue. “The plan, my dear, is to give those people in the other room a taste of their own medicine. Did you know that Mary Margaret and David have been casting longing glances at each other for years on end?” “A person could be blind and still know that.” “Exactly. So we are going to force them out of the woodwork, as it were. We’ve got mistletoe. We’ve got festive music and a whole list of interpersonal relationships that are less against the rules at Christmas time.” “Holiday,” Emma corrects on instinct, and Killian nods seriously. “How many interpersonal relationships are we talking about here?” “By my last count at least three. Possibly four if we're lucky.” “Three?” He nods again, a flash of amusement in his gaze that has Emma considering this ludicrous plan. If only because it does, actually, sound kind of fun. She can be fun. With Killian Jones. And his shiny shoes.

She wonders if it’d be weird if she spent the rest of the party barefoot.

“We’ll start with the easiest,” Killian explains. “Mary Margaret and David are so in love I’m surprised we haven’t had to fill out paperwork or gotten word of the elopement already--”

“--Please, Mary Margaret would never elope.” “Fair. But we’ll start with them. Get the kissing and then move up the ladder while getting progressively more and more drunk.” “Is the alcohol a requirement, then?” Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat – not quite an agreement, but something that makes Emma’s pulse thud in her veins and her heart feel as if it’s going to explode out of her chest. He offers her his hand when he stands up.

She takes it.

“A perk,” Killian grins. “When’s the last time you got drunk, Swan? Not a few sips or just buzzed. But really, truly drunk?” “I have no idea.” “Exactly. Plus we need an excuse.” She laughs, head falling against his chest out of instinct and several other words she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t, after all, have an alcohol excuse yet.

“Yeah, ok. Let’s cause some romantic ruckus.” “Good name,” he says, not letting go of her hand when he directs her back down the hallway.

She leaves her shoes on the floor.

Regina’s living room – or sitting room? Emma isn’t sure of the technical term and there are so many rooms in this brownstone, it is honestly ridiculous – is some kind of winter wonderland, fairy lights hanging from the ceiling and something that’s less tacky than garland and something else that may be actual holly draped over the doorway.

“You think you can hang something up there, love?” Killian asks softly, knocking his shoulder against Emma’s in a way that’s far too familiar to be entirely far when that room is already so warm. No one’s notices them. They’re probably all drunk already.

Emma is only kind of frustrated that they’re so behind schedule.

“Where?”

He jerks his chin towards the holly and Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat. “How am I supposed to reach that? And then what do we do after that?” “Are you suggesting I don’t have a plan?” “If you do, I haven’t heard it yet.” Killian flashes her a look – not quite exasperation, but maybe more endeared and Emma barely hears his don’t yell when he wraps an arm around her waist, an inexplicable display of upper body strength that makes want to shout and punch him and then, maybe, kiss him.

Except not that last one. Definitely not the last one.

“Oh my God,” Emma hisses, kicking her toes into Killian’s calf. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Why are you kicking me? And keep your voice down, someone is going to look over here.” “I’m going to murder you.” “It’s entirely possible,” Killian admits, and Emma makes another noise when he hitches her further up his side. “Do you have steel toes? You must be some kind of mutant.” “I genuinely hate you. Was this the plan?”

“It would be if you’d get the goddamn mistletoe up there.”

Emma gapes at him – and it is a wholly unprofessional Christmas miracle that no one has noticed what they’re trying to accomplish in the doorway. It’s definitely because they’re all getting ridiculously and completely drunk on the other side of the room.

It’s been a very long year.

“And where exactly did you put the mistletoe?” Emma seethes. She shifts slightly, which may be the worst mistake she’s made in her entire life because it only ends with Killian’s arm tightening and his eyes widening and there is far too much of her touching nearly all of him.

“In my jacket.” Emma assumes it is entirely unprofessional and possibly a little unethical to be slightly pleased with the wrecked sound of his voice, but she’s also several inches in the air and she’s willing to blame the lack of oxygen at that altitude.

Or whatever.

Maybe it’s just his hand.

“And you didn’t think to take it out before you started exercising your feats of strength?” Killian shrugs. It moves Emma again and she’s only slightly hopeful that her heart stays in her chest cavity when she notices his teeth find his lower lip. “I was trying to be stealthy about this. Although, I’ll be honest, love, this is not helping our covert operation.” “If I tell you I hate you again, are you going to make some kind of journalism quip?” “Yes, absolutely. Get the mistletoe out of my pocket, Swan.”

Emma sticks her tongue out again – complete with another vaguely immature noise and Killian has to press his head into her shoulder to stop from laughing too loud. She can’t believe no one has noticed them.

And it takes some twisting, an impossible shift of her arms and a possibly dislocated shoulder, but she does, eventually, manage to get the mistletoe hanging off the holly.

“That was so much more complicated than it had to be,” Emma grumbles, back on her feet and she’s not surprised to see the smile on Killian’s face. “If you laugh, I’m seriously going to kick you again.” “You are violent when causing a romantic ruckus, aren’t you?” “Where’s my alcohol?” He does something ridiculous with his eyebrows, offering his hand again and the whole thing is equal parts ridiculous and unprofessional and, absolutely, a little unethical. Emma tries to keep her breathing even. “Your wish is my command, Swan.” And, really, Regina has pulled out all the metaphorical stops on this one. There’s more alcohol on the other side of the room than the most overpriced Midtown bar and enough no one loves alcohol more than politicians when they’re off the clock.  

Killian doesn’t ask Emma what she wants, just hand her a glass and--”whisky, neat.” “That’s right,” she says slowly, disbelief clinging to every single letter because she can’t imagine how he knew that and it shouldn’t feel like that big of a deal.

“I’m incredibly perceptive. And you’re a bit of a creature of habit.”

“Is that a compliment?” He hums over the top of his own glass, a hint of something in his gaze that Emma isn’t sure she’s entirely prepared for. “Absolutely.” She’s just about to say something – something she can blame on the whisky and the general temperature of that room, but then there’s a shout and a general oooooh and Mary Margaret and David are standing directly under the mistletoe.

Their mouths fall open in tandem, eyes widening to the size of several different saucers and Ruby sounds like she’s going to fall off the chair she’s clearly claimed as hers.

“Aw, c’mon,” David mumbles, but there’s a hint of color to his cheeks and Emma’s pretty positive it’s not just because they were outside.

“Oh my God,” she says. Killian makes another noise of confusion, although the sound turns into more of a groan when she starts swatting at his side.

He catches her around the wrist, leveling her with a stare that slinks down her spine. “The violence, Swan. It’s got to--” “--Mary Margaret and David are totally dating.” “Wait, what?” “Did you know that?” “I mean obviously not. What...how did you come to that conclusion?”

Emma is glad she’s not wearing her heels anymore. It would hurt to bob on the balls of her feet like she is, excitement and a latent romanticism that’s easier to remember during the holidays. “Look at ‘em,” she says, rushing over the words. Killian’s fingers haven’t moved yet. “There is snow in Mary Margaret’s hair.”

Killian leans forward – tugging Emma’s back against his chest in the process and it’s inadvertent, it has to be and definitely is and she probably won’t think about that on loop when she does, finally, get boxes to pack up her life and move to Washington D.C. – hooking his chin over her shoulder and she swears she can feel his laugh work its way into her, settling into the pit of her stomach and the rather gaping spaces around her heart.

Mary Margaret’s got her hand on one of her cheeks now, more calls from the peanut gallery about rules and tradition and we knew it. Emma barely hears any of it over the ringing in her ears, the sound of her own pulse an impossibly loud metronome.

“Were you two just outside?” Killian calls, growling slightly when Emma elbows him in the stomach. “Your limbs, love.”

David glares at them. “If I say I was double checking security stuff are any of you going to believe me?” “No,” Ruby and Elsa say at the same time.

Regina shakes her head deftly. “If you were worried about security you wouldn’t have brought Mary Margaret with you. There’s no way you’d put her in any actual danger.” “Ah, that’s gross,” Ruby mumbles.

“Or it’s incredibly romantic,” David argues. That only draws several more shouts though and Mary Margaret’s other hand flies to her other cheek. David hisses in a breath of air. “Ok, that’s not what I meant at all and--” “--You’re under the mistletoe, chief of security and bastion of safety,” Emma says. She’s going to blame the whisky. And Killian’s hand, flat against the curve of her hip. And maybe because she can feel him breathing against her.

“Are you drunk?” “Not yet.” “But working on it,” Killian mumbles, loud enough that only Emma can hear.

“Well, this is an antiquated tradition,” David says. “And we don’t have to do anything, just to satisfy you lot and--” He doesn’t finish. Mary Margaret makes sure of that. It may, honestly, be the last thing any of them expects. She turns on David, a flash of determination in her eyes that Emma is only too well acquainted with because Mary Margaret gets what Mary Margaret wants and the sound that ricochets off the walls of Regina’s whatever room as soon as the two of them start kissing under the mistletoe is decidedly joyful and still just a little unethical.

Mary Margaret has to push up on her toes to reach David, but that only last a second and then he’s got an arm around her waist and her toes are skimming the floor and one of her flats falls off.

“She made a better shoe choice than me,” Emma mutters, working another laugh out of Killian.

“Ah, yours are sparklier. Where are they, incidentally?” “In the hallway still.” “Of course.” “Are they still making out?” Killian nods, cheek brushing up against Emma’s hair. “I think we’ve started something that can’t be stopped, Swan.” “With great power comes great responsibility.” “Oh, that was funny.” “See,” Emma says, spinning on the spot and that’s only kind of mistake. She has to throw her hands up to keep her balance, palms flat against Killian’s chest. His lips twitch. “I can be fun.” Killian doesn’t answer immediately – and part of her hates that, hates whatever look he’s directing her way, slightly appraising and slightly cautious with a hint of that same something Emma cannot cope with at any point, but especially with more whisky in her system than she’s had in months and Mary Margaret and David still kissing a few feet away.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Killian whispers, one side of his mouth tugging up.

“Told you.” Emma only moves because the peanut gallery is shouting again. “What do you mean the whole time?” Ruby screeches, standing up and ignoring Regina’s tongue click when she knocks the chair over.

Mary Margaret shifts her weight on her feet, scrunching her nose. “Exactly what those words mean in that very specific order. It’s been--well, kind of a secret and--”

“--And we all know you all had your suspicions,” David adds. “So don’t act like you’re surprised. Whoever put the mistletoe up just kind of forced it out into the open.” “Oh my God.” “Oh my God,” Emma breathes, tilting her head up to find Killian’s thrown back with the force of his laugh. “Maybe we’re actually romance soothsayers.” “That’d be a very impressive talent,” he says.

“I can’t think of any other explanation.”

“There absolutely isn’t one. Should we be drinking more?” “I can’t think of any other explanation.”

“I’m not sure that made sense, love, but I think Lucas is shouting something about shots, so…”

Shots, it turned out, meant shots bingo, a game that Emma was half certain Ruby was making up as she went along without many rules except the goal to get its players as drunk as possible.

It’s working.

“B-12,” Ruby calls, brandishing the ball in front of her like it’s several pieces of gold stolen from the Federal Reserve. “Anyone closing in on bingo yet?” “I think we’re all going to die before we get to bingo,” Mulan mumbles. “Should we be watering down these drinks?”

Regina narrows her eyes. “If you people water down the alcohol I bought for you, I’m going to fire all of you.” “Or we’ll just all have to get our stomachs pumped,” Killian mutters. It’s mostly to Emma, again, or still, but she’s lost track of just about everything at this point, including proper sentence structure and anything that isn’t how incredibly solid his arm feels next to her. “I think it’s time for phase two, Swan.” She’s only a little frustrated by how difficult it is to turn her head.

“What was phase one?” “Mary Margaret and David.” “And there are three phases?” “Yeah, although three may be admittedly kind of difficult.” “And we’re in phase two right now?”

“We’re about to be. How deceptive do you think you can be?”

Emma lifts her hands in the air, another challenge she doesn’t entirely appreciate because she kind of feels like she’s moving through soup or unfreezing after a considerable amount of time in the same, awkward position and the metaphor is stupid. “That’s not doing a lot to inspire confidence in the plan, Swan,” Killian adds.

“Oh, you’re going to tell me the plan this time, huh?” “I would if you’d stop interrupting me.” She’s got to come up with some other response than sticking her tongue out. It also keeps getting Killian to smile at her though, so, maybe in the grand scheme... “G-52,” Ruby says, although it comes out more like a slur and Emma swears Killian’s smile could rival every single light on the tree in Rockefeller Center.

Several different people groan when they do another shot.

They’re definitely going to die before they even get a chance to try and fix America’s piece of garbage political system.

“This is going to require some talent on your part, Swan, you understand?” Killian asks as Emma takes another sip of her drink. Elsa makes a strangled noise at that – she’s breaking the BINGO rules, apparently. “That’s not helping either.”

“Maybe you should be the one doing this then,” Emma says. “You’re clearly lacking in some faith here, Jones.” “That’s not true.” It’s one of those moments again – far too sincere and far too meaningful and Emma shivers when she downs the rest of her drink. She’s only one spot away from BINGO. That’s probably a sign or something.

“I’m going to drop mistletoe in Ruby’s hair,” Emma announces. “Screw your plan.” She reaches forward, tugging on the lapel of Killian’s jacket. He moves willingly, or, drunkenly, hair dangerously close to his brows when his head drops slightly and his hand lands on Emma’s hip like there’s a magnet involved.

Emma’s fingers don't shake when she pulls the plastic bag out of his pocket, although it is getting more and more difficult to breathe the longer she lingers in Killian’s space. And it doesn’t take long, standing up and making it seem like she’s refiling her drink and the whole room is already forty-seven sheets to whatever metaphor she’s running with at this point, so Emma doesn’t really need Killian’s wide eyed gaze and half a smile to help direct her towards Ruby.

It’s kind of nice anyway though.

He winks when the piece of mistletoe gets caught in a strand of Ruby’s hair.

“And now we wait,” Emma whispers, dropping back next to him. He tugs her drink out of her hand when she moves, ignoring her protests and flashing her a smile instead.

“We’re a team, Swan. That means we share the spoils of our reward.” “I’m sure those words make sense to someone who’s had far less whisky than I have.” He hums, letting his head rest against the side of hers and--

“Ru, you’ve got something in your hair,” Mulan says, reaching out towards the mistletoe. Emma holds her breath. “Oh. It’s, uh...it’s mistletoe. How did that get there?”

Ruby makes a noise that might be disbelief. “Is she actually blushing right now?” Emma whispers, glancing at Killian. He looks a little stunned.

“I feel like I’m seeing some kind of romance unicorn.” “That was funny.” “A two-way street, love.”

Emma is going to say something. She is. She’s going to say something wonderful and poetic and it’ll change everything, but she keeps getting interrupted by drunk coworkers and her own thoughts and-- “Rules are rules,” David yells, Mary Margaret’s arm slung around his shoulders. She’s sitting on his legs. “Pucker up!” “Regina, can we fire him for that?” Ruby asks sharply. It gets her another head shake.

“I think I’d get sued. And like he said, rules are rules.” “Pucker up,” Mary Margaret yells, repeating it until there’s a chorus echoing in the room and Emma gapes at Killian.

“Maybe we haven’t done such a great thing after all, Swan.”

“They’re all insane.” “Ah, shut up all of you,” Ruby hisses, but any sense of anger disappears as soon as her eyes move back to Mulan and their kiss isn’t quite as charged as Mary Margaret and David’s. That’s another sentence Emma didn’t entirely expect.

It’s softer and a little careful and Ruby’s cheeks are still tinged pink when she pulls away.

Mulan may actually giggle.

“Or maybe we’re actually miracle workers,” Emma mumbles. She grabs Killian’s glass out of his hand and downs the rest of whatever he was drinking.

“It’s a very fine line to walk, I think.” “Good thing I took the heels off, huh?” Killian chuckles, pulling Emma closer to his side. “You’re going to have to put them back on eventually, you know.” “That is incredibly stupid.” “Eloquent as always. You ready for phase three?” “Are you?” Emma challenges, wobbling slightly when she stands up. Even without the heels.

Killian grins.

And he wasn’t lying – the last one is the most difficult, Emma threatening to kill you when he explains who they’re going to mistletoe next. “I’m not doing it,” Emma says, back in the hallway and people are starting to leave. It’s got to be close to midnight, her phone vibrating in her hand because this was not the time she and Will agreed on. “I’m not.” “Swan, we agreed--” “--And you never once said that we were going to try and get Regina to kiss someone.” “Robin,” Killian corrects. “We’re trying to get Regina to kiss Robin. Because she wants to. And possibly has in the past. I’m, like, ninety-six percent positive.” “That is not one-hundred percent.” “Nothing in life is guaranteed, love.” “God, I hate that you’re right.” “About which part?” “The cliché and the maybe kissing already. They are always around each other, aren’t they?” Killian nods seriously, twisting the pieces of mistletoe between his thumb and finger. “At some point, you’re going to have to realize that I’m almost always right. And this is the end of the plan. You don’t want to come up short of the finish line, do you?” “That’s another cliché.” “Yes, it is. This one is going to be simple. I promise. They’re--” He spins when the footsteps move towards them, Regina jerking back slightly when she notices Emma and Killian standing there. “Why are you two lurking in my doorway?” she asks.

“We’re not, Your Highness,” Killian says, the only one who would dare say such a thing. Robin does his best to hide his laugh behind his hand. It does not work. “I’m just trying to convince Swan that she does, in fact, have to put her shoes back on to go back outside.” Emma gasps – glaring at him and kicking lightly at his left ankle. Killian’s eyebrows are ridiculous.

“Does this mean you’re leaving?” Robin asks, a note of impatience in his voice. Emma stops kicking Killian. She’s far too busy being stunned. “Also, what’s in your hand?” “Ah, I was hoping you’d ask me that,” Killian answers. He twists one arm around Emma’s shoulders, taking a step towards the clearly stunned maybe-pair in front of them and dangling the few pieces of mistletoe over Robin’s head. “Rules are rules, guys.” The force of Regina’s glare could cut diamonds.

Or steel.

Or adamantium.

“Where did you get that?” she hisses. “Oh my God was it you two all night? That’s--”

“--The rules, Your Highness,” Killian interrupts. “Or so you were quick to point out to your subordinates.” “I do not think of you as my subordinates.” “Subjects?” “I’m not sure that’s how democracy works, exactly,” Emma mumbles, and she can feel Killian’s smile when he lets his his cheek rest against the side of her hair.

“She’s got a point,” Robin says.

Regina rolls her eyes. “She’s got alcohol poisoning.” “Whose fault is that, really?” Emma asks. “Stop buying the good stuff.” “It’s almost like I like all you horrible people.” “Almost.” “We going to get this show on the road here?” Killian cuts in, waving his hand and shaking the mistletoe.

Regina stares at him for a moment and Emma’s only slightly worried they’ve overstepped some invisible line and she might not be entirely prepared to move to Washington D.C. but she’s even less prepared to lose her job and--

“This is heavy-handed,” Regina mutters, but she doesn’t say anything else before turning on her senior advisor and kissing him with the kind of enthusiasm that makes Emma certain this is not the first time they’ve done it.

“Huh,” Killian says. He holds his hand out so Emma can slide her feet back into her shoes and there probably aren’t actual sparks involved, but it feels like that kind of night. Robin and Regina are still making out.

Emma is only kind of, sort of, completely jealous.

She hopes there were sparks.

“I thought that was supposed to be super difficult,” Emma accuses. They’re already moving out the door, neither Robin nor Regina acknowledging their departure and there’s a few inches of snow on the sidewalk outside.

“A Christmas miracle, I’m sure.”

“I think your perception of miracles has been a little skewed by the amount of rum you’ve had.” “How did you know I was drinking rum?” Emma shrugs, feet already aching despite the few steps they’ve taken. “Incredibly perceptive.” “That so?”

She wishes he’d stop doing that – half a sentence and half a meaning that may be all meaning and it’s difficult to think when there are snowflakes landing on the tip of his nose. Emma reaches up slowly, fingers barely brushing over his skin and the stubble on the curve of his jaw and she hadn’t even noticed him trying to hail a cab until the cab is honking at them and the driver is leaning out the window shouting a string of words that are neither Christmas-related nor miraculous.

Killian’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into Emma’s palm. “We’re taking this cab home.”

She doesn’t argue. Or say much of anything on the drive back towards her apartment, not sure what to think when he refers to her apartment as home.

The cab driver says something else when they skid to a stop in front of Emma’s building, but she barely hears it when Killian’s pulling her back against his side and reaching into her pocket where her keys always are. He knows where she keeps her keys.

That usually doesn’t mess with her head like it is now.

She’s usually not as drunk as she is now.

She takes her shoes off as soon as the door closes behind them.

“They really are very good shoes, love,” Killian says, leaning against the nearest wall with a smile on his face and that same piece of hair falling artfully across his forehead.

“Not worth my pain, honestly. And you didn’t have to bring me home.” “Wouldn’t be very gallant otherwise.” “You’re being gallant now?” He nods, moving slowly towards her and eventually one of them will stop trying to touch the other. Probably. “Definitely.”

They make their way up the stairs slowly, more keys turning in locks and gazes that linger just a hint too long and Will is sitting on Emma’s couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table when they walk inside.

“Nice of you to show up,” he drawls. “Hey, Jones. Wasn’t expecting you.” “How’d gingerbread house construction go?” “Way better than whatever you and the kid planned. Looks like you guys had some fun.” Killian scoffs, a bit of laughter there too and Emma doesn’t mean to lean into him. She doesn’t. Really. But he’s so goddamn warm and even more solid and she really did have a good time tonight. Emma may be a little disappointed she didn’t get kissed under the mistletoe, but that’s neither here nor there and it’s fine and-- “There’s lipstick on your collar,” Killian says, nodding towards Will and Emma nearly trips over herself in an effort to stand up.

“What the hell, Scarlet?” Emma snaps. “Were you making out with people while Henry was awake? In front of Henry?” Will rolls his whole head. “Who do you think I am?” “Someone with lipstick on your collar. What time did Henry go to sleep?” “A normal time for a thirteen-year-old hopped up on an acceptable amount of holiday-themed sugar. And it wasn’t really people, it was--” “--Oh my God, Belle left early,” Killian finishes, an arm around Emma’s waist when she all but sags against him.

“Is everyone in this office making out with everyone else?” “You tell me, Em,” Will says. He pushes off the couch, barely pausing to squeeze her shoulder and grab his coat off the hook on the wall. “You better get some boxes in here. You’ve got a ton of stuff to pack.” “Is that your not so subtle offer to help me pack?” “Absolutely not. Make sure you drink some water before you fall asleep.” Emma makes some kind of noise that only serves to hurt the back of her throat, Will’s laughter ringing in the air around them even after he leaves and the force of the alcohol in her bloodstream seems to hit her suddenly. Like several different freight trains.

“Ah, that’s why I don’t drink much anymore,” Emma mutters, burying her face into Killian’s chest. She definitely imagines the lips that brush over her hair.

For sure.

“You need to get some sleep, love,” Killian says, a hand moving up and down her back. “And maybe some water.” “Is that you agreeing with Scarlet?” “Not at all. That’s my knowledge of preemptively dealing with hangovers.” “Gallant. Again.” “Something like that for sure.”

“Alright,” Emma nods. She leans back against her better judgment, vision swimming slightly and heart thundering in her chest. “I’m uh--I’m going to sleep. And this was--” “--I always have fun doing vaguely deceptive things with you, Swan.” Her laugh is shaky at best and swooning at worst, another nod that makes the Earth feel as if it shifts on its axis. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. If I walk into my room now will you lock the door?” “Yeah, of course.”

Emma smiles, tugging lightly on his jacket again and she doesn’t entirely remember the next few hours. There’s definitely sleeping and some water, but then there’s light streaming in her windows and voices coming from the other side of the apartment and she does not expect the plural in that sentence.

She moves slowly, tugging a sweatshirt on that isn’t hers and maybe matches up with one of the voices in, possibly, her kitchen. It does. She’s not entirely surprised. She totally knew.

“Hey Mom,” Henry says, sitting on the edge of the counter with a bowl perched on his legs and a whisk in his hand.

Emma wasn’t even aware they owned a whisk.

“Hey kid,” she breathes. Killian’s standing at the stove, tie gone and jacket gone and his feet are bare on the linoleum floor. It’s ridiculously endearing. “What time did you get up?” “Awhile ago. Did you see the gingerbread house Will and I made? Killian said he’d help me build some more sugar trees later today.” “Did he?” Henry nods enthusiastically, almost dropping the bowl in the process. It gets both Emma and Killian to move at the same time, which is either the single worst thing that could happen to her or the single best.

She’s really not surprised he stayed.

Something something gallant. And maybe kind of romantic.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Henry continues. “We’re going to build a whole forest and practice some more Model UN stuff and--” “--Henry did you wake Killian up?” Her kid whisks whatever is in the bowl harder. It’s the single most absurd thing Emma has ever seen. And it makes her heart feel as if it’s grown forty-seven sizes.

“I was on the couch, Swan,” Killian reasons. He’s totally making bacon. He must have gone to the bodega and bought bacon.

Emma may die in her own kitchen. From romantic hangovers.

“Yuh huh,” she says slowly. “If you walk away from that pan are you going to burn my whole apartment down?” Killian shakes his head. “Alright, then…” “Yeah, ok.” They shuffle back towards the front door, Killian’s jacket hanging in the same spot Will’s was. He’s got his hands in his pockets when she turns on him, eyes cast towards the bare feet that may honestly be taunting her at this point and--

“I couldn’t bring myself to leave,” he says before Emma can start the interview.

She really hates that she gasps.

Killian seems to take that as a positive though, stepping into her space until his toes threaten to brush against hers. His smile is tempered, as if he’s worried about Emma running out of her own apartment and, well, that’s fair, but she’s also definitely hungover and she really wants bacon and-- “Why?” “What?” “Why couldn’t you leave?” Emma asks. “I mean...I know I wasn’t exactly a gracious host. I probably should have made sure you could get a car--” “--I’m perfectly capable of getting a car, Swan.” “Then?” He shrugs, reaching back to tug on the hair at the nape of his neck. Emma bites her lip. “I didn’t...” he starts, “I didn’t want to. And I...well, you can take care of yourself, but I wanted to make sure. I don’t--if something happened.” “Like what? I choked on my own vomit?” “That’s far less romantic than I was going for.” Emma gasps again. It’s honestly the worst. “Oh. Yeah?” “Yeah,” Killian says, another promise that feels more important than anything else she’s heard in the last twenty-four hours or an entire political campaign. “I really like...being around you, Swan,” he adds, softer when his hand falls to her waist. “Full stop and in general and not always with the alcohol, but the alcohol was also fun and--well, I know you're worried about everything changing, love, but nothing is going to change and you’re still going to have, at least me and that’s not always the best, but--” “--Shut up,” Emma cuts in, and she doesn’t try to grab the mistletoe out of his jacket.

It feels kind of pointless anyway. And she's fairly positive this is the phase four. 

As far as first kisses go, it’s definitely not the best in the history of the world. Emma’s mouth feels a bit like it’s filled with cotton and her head feels a bit like it’s going to snap in half at any given moment, but Killian’s hand moves to the small of her back and he makes this one, particular noise when her tongue brushes over his lower lip that may be the single greatest sound she’s ever heard.

She’d like to bottle it. Or something less weird.

They linger in each other’s space for a moment – lips and teeth and tongue and Emma smiles against his mouth when her fingers find their way into Killian’s hair. She presses up on her toes to reach him easier, letting him pull her flush against him.

That makes her groan.

And he laughs against her.

“I didn’t really want you to leave,” Emma admits, mumbling the words into his jaw and that time she’s certain of the kiss pressed to her hair.

“That’s not something you have to worry about.” “I guess we should fill out some paperwork or something.” “I think I’m going to be drowning in paperwork for the foreseeable future.” “‘Tis the season or whatever.” “Eloquent,” Killian says again, another quick kiss that ends as soon as Henry starts shouting the bacon is burning.

“C’mon. There’s nothing worse than burnt bacon.” They do, eventually, get Henry to stop whisking what Emma learns is waffle batter and the bacon isn’t burned, but just crispy enough and Killian rolls his eyes when she laughs at the phrase unmoderated caucus. But then there’s more smiles and frosting and a gingerbread house that looks much better with some landscaping around it.

Will sends several dozen emojis back to Emma after she texts him the updated photo.

And he doesn’t ever help her pack. Killian does, labeling boxes and putting away kitchen utensils Emma didn’t know she owned, pausing every few minutes to press her against the nearest wall and kiss her senseless.

Without the mistletoe.

That doesn’t change once they get to Washington D.C., smiling against each other as soon as the clock strikes midnight in a new apartment with half-emptied boxes and the certainty that they’re going to change the goddamn world.

[nullum-nocte]

Gladion’s Boggart

Gladion had worked tirelessly to keep away from Defense of dark arts class when he got wind of the lessons being on boggarts. So far his plans were working- although he could only fake sick, and conveniently disappear for so long....

His luck had seemed to run out as just as he was slinking towards the door as his peers easily showed off what they feared most to their classmates. 

Idiots the lot of them. 

Some of his- housemates to put it in kinder terms spotted him. Being such worrying and kind people that they were they blocked the door with ugly sneers on their faces eyes lighting up in delight at catching him trying to ditch. They brought his near escape up to Professor Lupin bringing the man's attention solely onto him.

The soft comforting smile the Professor gave him only irritated Gladion further- as if he needed comforting! 

He had survived for this long- he didn't need a shoulder to cry on because of some stupid boggart!

“Mr. Aether, I believe it’s your turn now you have missed out on quite a lot of our class. Though knowing you, you’ve read ahead haven’t you?”

Gladion could only nod, that he has. Even though boggarts weren't his favorite thing in the world (and really who liked boggarts anyway?) that didn’t mean that he’d skip out on the reading assignments of the class. 

“Good lad!” Lupin patted his shoulder before leaning forward and whispering softly, “if you truly don't want to face this today you don’t have too. Yes, it’s a grade but the comfort of my students come first.”

If the Professor was speaking with anyone else then maybe they’d take him up on that offer. Since it was Gladion he recognized the social presser that was being forced down on him. Along with the fact if he didn’t do this he’d be open for ruthless snide remarks about how weak he was, unable to face a boggart of all things. More times then not he wouldn't care about what anyone would say about him, their opinions didn’t matter to him. Only- being called weak, it rubbed him the wrong way always eliciting a response out of him no matter how small. 

He wasn’t weak anymore, not like before, he was still weak, yes but he was on the way into becoming strong, stronger than her. 

“No professor, I'm fine I can do it here.” he didn’t need to be babied and forced to come back at later hours with only the Professor to witness his fear.

Looks like he was about to become just as foolish as the rest of his classmates apparently.

With a nod, Lupin moved back towards the front of the classroom next to the dresser. Taking a deep breath Gladion held his head up high, striding confidently towards the front of the room before planting his feet firmly in front of the dresser. He stares at it for a long moment taking the wooden dresser in as it trembles in front of him. He can hear whispers circling him half of the class was eager to find out what he truly feared while the other half held no interest in the least. The only people who cared about his well being where the few friends he had in this class who watched on with poorly hidden worry.

 Lupin was slowly showing him through the motions that he, himself practiced in preparation for this day speaking lowly. “Just remember Mr. Aether the spells Riddikulus and the motion is a brief swish and a jab towards the boggart turning it into the spells name sake- ridiculous.” 

Gladion could only nod unable to voice his confirmation to just let the damn thing out already. 

Slowly moving away from Gladion and twoards the door Lupin asked, “Wand at the ready?”

Gladion pointed his wand at the dresser as the shaking grew tremendously stronger.

“GO!”

Lupin opened the dresser- but instead of something racing out all one could see was the darkness of the dresser. A few moments pass in silence the murmur of his classmates growing louder and a few start to snicker thinking he was afraid of the dark. Even the Professor looked mildly confused- that was until a click was heard.

Slowly a foot emerges from the darkness, along with it a body until a figure of a woman stands fully in front of the class. The sound of heels on the tile of the classroom floor cut through the sound of chatting making everything fall silent once more. Her figure seems to glow in the light showcasing the beauty she still holds even in her age. Her golden tresses far surpassing her shoulders trailing down to her knees. She wears proper regal wizarding robes that many a pureblood would be envious of. 

Gladion ground his teeth together feeling the familiar anxiety bubble in his gut with having to deal with her- deal with something that looked like her.

The smile on Lusamines face doesn't quite reach her eyes, looking like a doll trying to fake human emotions. She turns that stare onto him and he can feel himself grow weak in the knees; the hand with his wand slightly growing clammy. 

“Gladion, I heard you’ve been doing well in school, only the best of the family name.”

“The spell Mr. Aether!” The professor called only to be ignored and only given a passing glance by Lusamine who looked at the man in disgust before continuing. 

“Pity you couldn’t trade places with Lillie, she always listened to me unlike you, you're a disappointment in so many ways. You always cry so easily when we train.” As she spoke she towered over him her hand gently cupping his cheek in an almost loving manner- that is if her fingers weren’t starting to dig into his flesh.

His breathing slowly evens out- this he can deal with her threats, her looking down on him. This was all he’s learned to ignore, he could handle this. Even at the thought, he shivered, wishing to be able to recoil from the touch but unable to force himself to move.If he moves her punishments are only worst when she catches him 

“As if you’d be pleased with anything else,” he manages to choke out almost sounding like a spat glaring at her fully. She only laughs letting his cheek go as she studies his classmates. He tries not to breath a sigh of relife from being let go fearing what she’d do if she heard it.

“Oh how boring your classmates are all so bland, though I do notice quite a famous face Mr. Potter in the back! Look at him Gladion such a success already at his age even if he keeps disgusting company with mudbloods’

Harry for his credit seemed only slightly stunned that he was even mentioned, not expecting something like this to have been brought up in class. The two boys didn’t even personally know each other, only knowing each other's names from rumors in passing. Harry still found it odd for strangers to be aware of his very existence let alone acknowledge him. 

With the mention of Harry Lupin hesitantly moved forward, deciding whether or not to intervene or see if Gladion would manage to say the spell on his own.

“I'm sure with proper training from me he’d turn into a lovely wizard!” Lusamine giggles seeming to ignore Gladion for a moment before walking closer to the class only to make the kids step back warily. Her green eyes gleamed in amusement, glee passing over her features as the smile on her face turns sharp. 

 “Looks like these insolent mud known their place-” Whirling around her robes swish meeting Gladion with her widening grin. Suddenly any calm that he’d gather fled him as he frantically backed away from her stalking form. His breathing grew heavier as his throat threatened to fully close in his paniced state.

 Everyone seemed to be shocked still by her words confusion etched in some’s faces still puzzling over the term training while others seemed to have some forms of self-preservation and recognize that this woman meant serious business and wasn’t one to be messed with.

“RIDDIKULUS!”  Mitsuki thundered seemingly unable to hold back the pure rage that twisted her lovely features. Lusamine stumbles back from the spell as the short black haired girl body checks her way to the front of the classroom the Gryffindor girl beyond pissed at what she had walked into. If she had gotten to class earlier she wouldn't have let this gone on for so long.

Having his friend by his side brings Gladion enough comfort to be able to fully stand up straight, light-headed, not even sure if he was in his own body anymore. It felt more like he was watching this disaster happen to someone else and not him.

Quick as a flash Lusamine draws out her wand the tip glowing an all too familiar red mouthing something silently. The very sight throws Gladion over the edge, knowing just what curse she was about to throw at his best friend.  Slamming her out of the way he takes the hit only barely grimacing at the pain throwing out his own, “RIDDIKULUS” to hit her. She stumbles back looking like a clown but it’s not enough for him.

“HOW DARE YOU, RIDDIKULUS, TRY TO HURT RIDDIKULUS, MY FRIEND!” The words come out in an enraged howl making his throat feel instantly raw from the sudden, violet, volume change. The first riddikulus that hits changes her into a messed up slob hair cut unevenly and face strained with food. The last one makes her disappear with an anticlimactic pop the silence left after was almost deafening. 

“That spell,” Lupin mumbled horror taking over his features as he recognized one of the three unforgivables. 

Gladion doesn't wait for him to voice his absolutely correct assumption booking it towards the door dropping his wand in the process. Mitsuki is quick to pick it up before anyone else tries; knowing fully well if they did of the wands frightening retribution it would rain down upon them for even thinking they could have a cheap shot of stealing it. With Gladion’s wand in hand Mitsuki along with Selene and Elio race after the boy to help comfort him.  

Lupin cleared his throat, "Class dismissed. No homework.” A twisted frown was on his face whilst he appeared to be deep in thought; half-heartedly corralling the huddling students who didn't appear as excited anymore once learning Gladions fear. 

Together the golden trio stare after the three kids that followed after Gladion managing to catch sight of their robes before they disappear around a corner. The three stand in the hall much like many of the other students all deep in thought over what just happened. 

“You think the training is actually training or....” Ron trails off the fiery redhead appearing to mull over Lusiamins parting words.

“Who cares about training!”  Hermione exclaimed looking completely shaken at what just transpired. “That woman just raised her wand, against her son of all people! And that spell- I didn’t hear her say anything so she must know how to cast silently or she was whispering it what could it be?” 

Ron glanced over at Harry only to see the bespectacled boy with a sad understanding look upon his face. “I don’t think we’d want to know. He wouldn’t tell us any way we didn’t even know who he was until today,” Harry murmured, staring down at the floor. The sad look had faded and turned to something more fierce that the floor might’ve disappeared from under them in fear if it could.

“Let's just make sure he doesn't get caught up in any of the pranks Gryffindor dose against Slytherin’s stuff, okay guys?” He stares at his three friends imploringly knowing if he had come home to the Dursleys with destroyed clothes or bookbags he’d get a whipping. He could only imagine how bad it could be for Gladion if he was forced to do the same. 

Ron and Hermine nod in agreement, the three friends going down the hallway and off to positions class with heavy hearts. 

[zaddyzimmermann]

Hot Off The Press Pt. 2

OKAY SO I have to apologize for taking months to write, especially since it’s been sitting in my google docs folder waiting to be edit. There’s actually more but I have to finish it first lol. So there will be a part 3 and I PROMISE it won't take as long to post. Sorry for such a long wait I know a lot of you guys enjoyed this story.

Again take into consideration artistic license lol hope you guys enjoy

Pt. 1

***

Kent and Jack have a complicated past, but what people fail to realize is that no matter how things turned out when they were teenagers, it has no effect on them now. Their “feud” has been played up so much in the beginning of Jack’s career, it never died. It’s so far from the truth, that sometimes Kent and Jack read articles together on how much they hate each other and laugh about it. They agreed a long time ago that if they ever did start up a relationship again, there had to be no hostility existing between them. However, what they realized after growing up and Jack’s eventual spot on the Falconers is that they much rather be friends.

So no, they do not hate each other or have unrequited feelings on either side. Kent is the only person Jack can talk to about Eric, so when Kent isn’t overly supportive over Skype tonight, it hurts a little.

“Jack, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Kent looks upset, with no ounce of joy on his face. “Don’t you remember what happened with me--”

“Yes, but Eric is different. He would never do that.” Jack protests, hearing the irritation in his voice.

Kent’s face is still tight and he takes a few seconds to answer. “I beg to differ. I know who Eric Bittle is, Jack. He wrote an article about dangerous plays and referenced me, but not in a positive way.”

“Well, in his defense, you do rush the net a lot--” Jack’s input didn’t improve Kent’s mood, so he stops himself before he can continue.

“How do you know he’s not trying to get close to you so he can write an article on the Zimmermann name just like every other thirsty journalist looking for a big break?”

“That was a bit harsh.” Jack says in Eric’s defense. “He’s not that kind of presser, Kent. Thomas Caswell is that type of reporter.”

Kent runs a hand through his blonde hair that’s in need of a haircut. “Whatever, Zimms. If you want to risk your career like this, go ahead. I don’t trust him, and I don’t think you should either.”

“Bye.” Jack closes his laptop and tries to take deep breaths. If Kent isn’t supportive, the only people he could talk to is his parents, and they don’t really count. Jack doesn’t talk about his sex life with his parents.

He spends five minutes self-deprecating before opening up his laptop and looking up the article Kent was talking about. It’s one that Eric wrote a year ago, and overall it’s not even that bad. He doesn’t insult Kent in a rude manner, he just points out that there should be more rules put in place so players stop running into goalies. Eric has a point when he says, “Goalies are there to protect the puck; not barreling bodies with blades strapped to their feet.” Goalies often get hurt by skate blades that cut places that have gaps in the gear.

Reading the article makes Jack feel worse, but not about his decision to keep in touch with Eric. There is no way Kent would have such a grudge against Eric over one small reference in an article posted a year ago. Kent is hiding something.

***

A couple days later, with no word from Kent, Eric texts Jack that he’ll be in Boston for a couple days because the Bruins contacted him for a more permanent job. Which is good news if they work out and terrible news if things go south. After Kent’s reaction the other day, Jack has doubts and they aren’t even dating yet. Jack isn’t sure what they are.

With much more time on his hands, Jack gets to the small coffee shop twenty minutes early that Eric tells Jack to meet him at. He finishes his coffee before Eric shows up ten minutes late.

Seeing Eric in person again kind of wipes away a lot of doubts. He’s wearing a black blazer that fits him very nicely, and knowing full well what’s underneath it, Jack takes a few moments to control himself.

Also, Eric’s genuine, bright smile when he first sees Jack wipes away about the rest of his doubts. He doesn’t know why Kent is being complicated, but at the moment Jack doesn’t care. What Kent also fails to realize is that Eric is a sports reporter, and the two of them spotted having lunch together is extremely easy to cover up. Eric could be using him for a piece for all anyone knows.

“Jack.” Eric says a little breathlessly as he sits down across from him. His cheeks are flushed from the abnormal warm weather of May and possibly embarrassment for being late. “I’m so sorry I’m late, that’s so rude of me.”

“It’s okay.” Jack means it too. “I know you had that interview this morning with the Bruins.”

Jack feels Eric’s foot wrap around his ankle under the table. They were in a corner in the back, so no one would see it. So far, Jack hasn’t been bothered once. He has a feeling Eric chose this place for a reason.

“Oh lord did that take forever.” Eric laughs a bit nervously. “But from personal experience, that’s usually a good thing. Quick interviews mean you’re a bore and they aren’t interested. Also, she said, ‘We’ll definitely keep in touch’, and not ‘We’ll let you know’.”

Jack feels a small smile creep up onto his face. “Is that second option a bad sign?”

“Yes.” Eric sighs, resting his head in his hands. “I’ve gotten that a lot and it’s always been bad news that follows. However, the first means they are considering you.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Jack laughs. “The next time I apply for a job I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eric doesn’t say anything and just stares at Jack, which causes him to falter a bit. “Did I say something wrong?”

Eric begins to play with Jack’s foot under the table with a small smirk on his face. “No, Mr. Zimmermann. I was just admiring your laugh. It’s pretty fantastic, just in case you aren’t aware.”

The thing is, Jack doesn’t see him as a reporter right now. It’s not weird, because it’s easy to separate Eric’s job from his actual personality. Jack does not personally know a lot of presser, but they typically don’t have a personality like Eric’s. Jack doesn’t think anyone has a personality quite like Eric Bittle.

“You want me to order you something?” Jack asks, suddenly feeling rude. “Did you have a chance to have lunch?”

Eric blinks in surprise like he did in fact forget about having lunch. “Oh wow, I guess I didn’t. I was just so excited to see you I forgot to get something. I’ll be right back.” Eric slides out of his chair and Jack has no shame in admiring his ass as he walks towards the counter to order  lunch. A buzzing in his pocket disrupts his staring, so he quickly pulls it out of his pocket to check.

Kenny: Sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to be a dick.

I just worry about you.

Jack doesn’t know how to respond to that just yet, so he ignores it and saves it for later. Eric comes back a few minutes later with an iced drink that has whipped cream on the top and a small sandwich.

“So, Jack Zimmermann,” Eric starts before taking a bite. “What have you been up to? I notice you avoid talking about yourself whenever we skype.” Eric doesn’t point this out unkindly, just with curiosity.

“Um…” Jack has to think for a moment, because no one has genuinely wanted to know besides his parents. “I like photography. Parse made me an instagram, but I don’t really know how to use it.”

Eric smiles into his next bite, looking extremely endeared. The mention of Parse didn’t seem to phase him. “Photography, huh? An athlete, model and now an artist. What can’t he do?”

Jack’s face grows hot at the mention of being a model. “It was one shoot, I wouldn’t call myself a model.”

“One shoot.” Eric scoffs, but in an amused way. “Yeah, one shoot that absolutely killed ninety-eight percent of the population.”

Jack isn’t used to this type of praise so directly. Because of this, he directs the conversation to something else. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy Eric talking about him that way, he’s just worried his skin tone will show how embarrassingly red he’s getting. So he decides to play fair. “Aren’t you a genius? You avoided that label the last time I mentioned it.”

Now Eric turns a bit red, so Jack counts that as deserved payback. “Like I said, it’s all relative. It’s an ivy so they don’t award scholarships, but they provided me with some nice financial aid when they sought me out for hockey which is kind of like a loophole if you ask me--”

“Hockey.” Jack blinks, a little surprised. It’s not like Eric doesn’t look capable, it’s just… Well, Eric doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would like the violence, judging by his stance involving more safety regulations in the sport.

Eric isn’t offended by Jack’s reaction, just amused. “Yes I know, shocking. However, being skilled at a sport only takes you so far in an ivy with ‘cutthroat academic scholars’, and with the threat of losing my spot on the team and possibly a big chunk of my financial aid for future years, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.”

Jack feels a slow smirk creep on his face. “So like any normal guy, you became Valedictorian.”

“Ha! They didn’t even see it coming.” Eric laughs before taking a sip of his drink. “Mostly everyone there was nice and supportive, but there are always a select few who think the world owes them something just because they have a high GPA.”

“Sometimes I wish I finished my junior year at Samwell.” Jack admits. “But when the Falconers sought me out I thought I would never get another opportunity quite like that one. Besides, it was relatively close to my friends and I didn’t want to go too far.”

Jack and Eric talk a little bit more, and suddenly Jack realizes this lunch together possesses all the traits of a date. Jack is still confused on where they stand with each other, but he also feels like, as always, he’s reading too much into something that might not even be there. However, it’s hard to think that when Eric keeps looking at him like that.

Jack makes an extremely risky move; he takes Eric back to his apartment. It’s mid-afternoon, so it’s not like Jack has any explicit plans. Eric seems genuinely interested in an apartment tour, and gushes about the kitchen for some reason. Jack will ask about that later. Maybe he likes to cook or something.

Eric jumps up onto the kitchen counter and glances around like he’s looking for something. And for what? Jack has no idea.

“So how often do you eat on this lovely surface?” Eric swings his legs back and forth, waiting in anticipation for Jack’s answer.

“Usually I just eat on the couch or use the table in the--”

Then Eric is pulling off his shirt and grabbing Jack’s tie to pull him closer. “Perfect.”

***

It’s been a few months of texting, skyping, then escalating to sexting and skype sex. Eric Bittle is certainly not his boyfriend, mostly because Jack was too afraid to ask. Eric is no one to ignore, and with his job involving interviews of multiple hockey players, Jack doesn’t expect him to just… well, to just not be with other people.

However, Jack wants them to be something more. He knows it’s an unappealing offer, especially since Jack is all the way in Providence and they only play the Penguins on average four times a year. It would be a long distance, closeted relationship. Besides, what they were doing now is fine for him. It’s not as much pressure, even if deep down he knows he wants Eric all to himself. Which is why Jack doesn’t clarify their relationship the next time they skype, or the time after that.

***

“So,” Eric says on the other side of the screen, absently chewing on a pen as he edits an article one of his colleges submitted. Apparently, he’s often asked to edit the more important pieces for grammar and spelling. He says it’s easier to spot mistakes when his eyes aren’t strained by a computer. “I have super super good news... and terrible news.”

This piques Jack’s interest a little, but not particularly in a good way. “What’s that?”

Eric puts down his pen and rests his head in his hand, a slow smile creeping up on his face. “I got a new job that’s more permanent.”

Now Jack’s interest is definitely piqued in a good way. “Oh yeah? Where?”

“Boston Bruins.” Eric’s smile is so bright, Jack can’t help to mimic it just a little. It seems almost too good to be true. Eric would be only about an hour away, so they could meet up in person instead of their online relationship which isn’t clarified as a relationship.

“Bad news.” Jack reminds Eric to tell him, which causes Eric’s smile to fade.

“Tom Caswell will be my boss. I know there was this big article on how he’s changed, and maybe I’ll give him a chance, but I seriously doubt that old bird has changed even a little bit. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Jack just stares for a moment, not knowing how to respond. “How did he even get that job?”

Eric shrugs, looking disappointed and defeated. “Honestly? Because the stuff he writes sells and he’s always on television. He’s been in this field for over twenty years, and the Bruins social media platform has improved significantly since they hired him.”

“But… He assaulted you.” Jack says, incredulous. “How does that look good for their organization?”

Eric shrugs, like he’s already accepted his fate. That makes Jack frustrated a little, because Eric doesn’t deserve the harassment he’s probably going to get from Thomas.

“Listen, Jack. No one really knows who we are, much less what our track records are. If a hockey player punched me, that would have been different.” Eric doesn’t look at Jack anymore, he just draws something with his pen that Jack can’t see. “I can deal with him. I’ve been dealing with him from the beginning.”

“When would you start?” Jack asks, needing to change the subject.

“In a couple weeks.” Eric still doesn’t look at Jack, which kind of sets off an alarm bell in his mind. He wanted to change the subject so Eric wouldn’t be sad anymore, but Thomas must not be the sore subject that’s bothering him.

“Eric, what’s wrong?”

He pauses with his pen before slightly glancing up. “You don’t seem to want me in Boston.”

Jack frowns a little at that, because in a way that is true. However, it’s not true for the reason Eric probably thinks. “Of course I want you in Boston, but not if Thomas is just going to make you miserable.”

“I can deal with him, Jack--”

“I’m serious.” Jack cuts him off this time, which he typically never does. He loves listening to Eric go on rants or just when he speaks in general, but this is different. This is harassment. “Do you truly think he’s changed?”

Eric clears his throat before responding so softly, Jack almost doesn’t hear it. “No.”

“Maybe I could talk with the Falconer’s PR department--”

That didn’t seem to help the problem at all, because Eric’s head snaps up and he looks borderline angry. “No, Jack. I’m not using you to get a better job or a leg up, that’s not what this--” Eric gestures between both of them.  “--is about. So absolutely not. Like I said, I can handle Thomas. If the Bruins are smart, they will keep into consideration what Thomas did to me. If they want to look good, they won’t let that happen again.”

“Okay. I trust you.” Jack means it this time, but he also can’t give up this perfect opportunity to ask, “But what exactly is this, Eric?”

Eric’s determined expression changes to one of shy happiness so fast, Jack nearly doesn’t keep up. “I don’t know, honey. That’s up to you. What do you want it to be?”

Jack wasn’t prepared for that response at all. He clears his throat a couple times to buy just a little time. “Well, um, I really like you. A lot. And… I’m not so good at this.” Jesus christ, he sounds like a thirteen year old.

“I really like you too, Jack Zimmermann. A lot. And I’m not good at this either, because I’ve never really had anything like this before.” Eric gives him an excited smile before saying, “So I think it’s better if we discuss this in person, yeah? Because I really wanna kiss you right now and it’s botherin’ me that I can’t.”

“Okay.” Jack lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding. “Okay, yeah. When are you getting here?”

“In one week.” Eric grins. “You think you can wait that long?”

“I can try.” Jack smiles back.

“Good, because I have no patience and at least one of us needs to have some self control. I’ll probably send you a super inappropriate snap later on. Talk to you soon, honey.”

“Okay, Eric.” Jack laughs before signing off. It’s been a long time since he’s been this happy during an off-season.

***

“I mean it has…” Jack observes Eric’s small apartment with skepticism. “...personality.” It actually looks like a death trap, but Jack doesn’t say that. He’ll probably sneak some people in here to fix up the place as a housewarming gift.

“It has a functioning kitchen and a window.” Eric argues. “So, not that bad.”

“Oh yeah, you still have to bake me one of those pies you go on and on about. For all I know, you could be lying to me.” Jack smirks when Eric gives him a horrified look.

“I’m going to ignore the fact you just said that in knowledge of your ignorance.” Eric huffs out before dumping a box onto the blue couch the owner left behind. A cloud of dust bloomed in its wake.

“I just have to clean it up a little.” Eric says more to himself than to Jack. “That’s all.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s probably you.” Jack places down another box on the small coffee table so he can wrap his arms around Eric’s waist. His head falls back against Jack’s shoulder as he wraps his own arms around Jack’s.

“You are quite the charmer, Mr. Zimmermann. I mean, besides your pie comment--”

“Will you be my boyfriend?” Jack suddenly blurts out, even though he planned on making it less awkward and immature.

Eric just laughs a little as he turns around in Jack’s arm. He glances up at him with a warm smile on his face. One that nearly causes Jack to melt right then and there. “My goodness, so formal. Of course I’ll be your boyfriend. I’d be an idiot not to.”

Eric initiates the kiss by wrapping his arms around Jack’s neck to pull him closer. It’s pretty innocent for a while until Eric wants more and slips his tongue into Jack’s mouth. Jack has to break away for a moment, because he did have something else important he needed to say. “I know it will suck being in the closet again, but it won’t be like this forever. I’m not giving you an empty promise. I want to come out, but when I’m ready.”

Eric reaches up to gently pat Jack’s cheek, and stares at him with complete adoration. “I don’t doubt you, Zimmermann. You are one of the most genuine guys I have ever met. I’m a journalist, so those are hard to come by. You are destined for great things.”

“You seem to have a lot of faith in me, eh Bittle?”

Eric pecks him on the lips before saying, “I always have, Jack.”

[uro-boros]

looking for astronauts

The first few days after re-entry are lost in a buzz of pressers and parades, of viral videos showing Shiro wobbly-legged under newfound gravity and laughing, of interviews and photo shoots, smile nothing short of warm, wide, and winning. He was lucky to be photogenic and handsome, his handlers had told him more than once, and easy to root for; it did most of the work for him.

It takes nearly a week for the excitement to die down, and half of another week after that for Shiro to move back into his small, dusty apartment, which looks positively enormous post-International Space Station. It takes two weeks for his bones to settle into his frame again, their heaviness lost under the weight of everything else. It takes three weeks for him to get off of his couch, where he's spent hours catching up on bad reality tv and ice cream, and find a coffee shop.

It takes three weeks and three days (two hours, 17 minutes, and some seconds that he doesn't bother to know) since re-entry to meet Lance.

—

It's not arrogance that has him donning a baseball cap and sunglasses to leave his apartment. Shiro doesn't think people on the street are going to recognize him the way someone might recognize George Clooney or Brad Pitt. He puts them on because the day is bright and sunny, and his handlers have started chastising him about crow's feet and wrinkles in backhanded compliments about nearing his thirties.

And maybe a part of him does do it because he craves the anonymity of being able to get a coffee without having to be prepared to give a lecture on the vastness of space, the enormity of the galaxy, the scope and scale of human curiosity and his part in humanity’s forward trajectory. Shiro just wants coffee, non-instant, and maybe if he’s feeling fancy, cold-brewed.

“We just ran out of cold brew,” says the barista apologetically. “Hunk got our last cup.” The barista—Lance, reads the tag on his shirt, with a little golden star drawn next to it—nods over at the aforementioned Hunk, a big guy in a corner fiddling on his laptop and looking progressively more and more wrecked by whatever is on his screen. The last of the cold brew is, indeed, next to him.

Being disappointed over coffee is illogical, so Shiro isn’t. “Just regular coffee, then,” he orders instead, “there’s always tomorrow.”

His smile is met by Lance’s, which is brilliant and bright, flanked by dimples and the crinkle of under-eyebags. Their fingertips brush in the transfer of the cup and as Lance leans into his space to give a conspiratorial wink to murmur, “I’ll save it for you tomorrow.” In that second, it feels like it did the precise moment Shiro broke atmosphere, when all the weight went out of the ship, and the world was distant and silent, and before him stretched out the black-blue expanse of space.

What he means to say: Lance is cute.

And Shiro, who has been equipped with media training and Russian language training, military water survival courses, the best education and preparation the military can shovel into one person, is poorly equipped for what it feels like to have a crush. He can feel the heat of a blush creep up his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, where it must look stark behind the length of his scar, and burn the tops of his ears.

He’s suddenly very glad for his sunglasses, which give him something to hide behind. And glad for the brim of his cap—which he can tug down over his ears. And with that, Shiro, who faced the unknown multitude of the universe with open arms, doesn’t precisely flee, but walks faster than normal away from the coffee shop and from Lance.

—

“Okay, wow,” says Keith, “are you serious?”

He reflects that Keith probably shouldn’t have been the first person that he told. That Matt or Allura would be better, gentler, more prepared to coax him through the steps of nursing a crush; in that same vein, that they would be more merciless in their exploitation of it, more tongue-in-cheeked about it.

Which is why he had called Keith, because Keith had the subtlety of cavemen bashing rocks against each other to make pointier rocks. Keith saw problems and threw himself bodily against them, heedless of the beating he took in the process. Eventually, in his mind, something would have to give—and history had proven that something always gave before Keith did, for better or for worse.

It helped, too, that Keith still looked at him with the rosy glow of a brother-figure; that in different circumstances, Keith would have been up in the stars with him.

“You spoke three words to him, and he spoke three words back, and now you have a crush? How does this work? Are you that bad at people? Is this what space does to people?”

“I saw the same five people for a year, Keith,” Shiro sighs, “forgive me if it’s nice to see someone new.” And before that, even, his friends had been the same class of people for eight years, interspersed with the overwhelming rush of new faces and new names that came with press tours.

“Okay, but most people still don’t go from hi, how are you, to I want to profess my undying love to you in the span of thirty seconds,” Keith points out, probably rightly.

“I just said he was cute.”

Keith’s arms are folded across his chest. The line of his mouth is long and thin, and when he speaks, it’s with a tone of resignation. “Shiro, when you met Allura, you said you admired how strong she was. You never said anything about her being cute. In fact, when someone did call her cute, you told them, and I quote, ‘Allura is a valuable asset to the team, and we’re lucky to have her.’”

Shiro frowns. “She is. We are.”

“Wow,” says Keith, openly gaping at him, “you honestly have no idea, do you? And people say I’m bad at this. They have no idea. Talk to the barista. You’re hopeless, and I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

“His name is Lance,” he corrects Keith, letting the other comments slide. He’s always known, unlike Keith, how to pick his battles.

“Lance,” Keith repeats, as if a dawning realization is on him, “the barista’s name is Lance?”

“Yes.”

Keith says, with complete sincerity: “We’re doomed.”

—

He makes it back to the coffee shop one month out of re-entry. It takes him time to work up the nerve, to feel right in his skin.

“Cold brew!” calls Lance from the counter, stretching out across it to wave at Shiro. He has the lanky proportions of a college student, maybe just on the opposite side of twenty. Younger than Shiro’s twenty-seven going on twenty-eight (going on thirty, according to his media coaches, wear more sunscreen, drink more water).

The day outside had bloomed grey and cloudy, so there are no sunglasses this time, and Shiro’s traded the baseball cap for a knitted beanie. Recognizable enough, to a certain audience, but only as cold brew to Lance. He finds himself smiling.

“I didn’t catch your name last time,” says Lance when Shiro approaches the counter. He rearranges himself off of it, the awkward gangliness of his limbs dropping and turning into something lithe and liquid. “Did you want a cold brew again? I saved you a cup last time, but you never showed up.”

“In order of questions, it’s Shiro,” he says, “and no, a regular coffee again, and also, sorry that I didn’t. Things came up. I just moved back, so—you know how that is.”

“People to see, places to go?” muses Lance. His sharpie makes squeaking noises against the cardboard cup as he writes out Shiro’s name; against the tail-end of the looping O, he adds in stars, their crossed lines mimicking the one on his own name tag.

“Something like that,” Shiro agrees. His smile is rewarded with one of Lance’s—still bright, still dimpling, and his heart still stuttering staccato in his chest.

He is painfully out of his element—and though he knows the periodic table nearly by heart, Shiro isn’t sure that the element he’s out of is listed on there in the first place. He doesn’t know what to do. It’s the first time, in a long time of regimented courses and drill instructors, that he’s been totally at his own devices.

He’s forced to the realization that his own devices might have rusted from disuse.

“Would you like to get coffee?” he blurts out.

Lance blinks at him. His hand is curled around Shiro’s coffee cup, finger tips stained a slightly darker shade of brown than his skin tone, and behind him are stacked bags and bags of beans. Shiro’s rusty devices grind their gears in all the wrong ways. There’s a pursed moue to Lance’s mouth.

“That was stupid,” he says, leaning against the counter and sighing.

“It was pretty stupid,” Lance agrees, voice warm and teasing. He brushes his stained fingers over the top of Shiro’s hand. “I drink like, so much coffee. I’m probably 85% coffee right now,” he says. “Take me out for ice cream or something. Save coffee for the third date, at least.”

And well, that—that’s something Shiro can do.

—

Shiro meets Keith somewhere between Keith’s third foster home and his fifth new school. At the time they meet, Keith’s hair is buzzed short and regulation, and the tight line of his shoulders say fire and fury, a 150 pound teenage ordnance.

It’s easy to become Keith’s friend, because Keith doesn’t have any, and he craves them with something fierce and dying inside of him.

So when Keith, sitting next to Shiro, a blanket of stars laid out in the sky above them says about Lance, “Be careful,” Shiro knows he means it. The wounded beast in Keith’s chest picked its friends and family carefully and guarded them jealously.

“I will,” he promises.

But Shiro keeps forgetting that the gravity on earth is different than on the moon, and he falls harder than he’d meant to, hits the ground faster than he’d expected. It’s only in hindsight that he realizes this is what Keith was warning him about.

—

Their first date is: hamburgers from McDonald’s in the park, Lance stealing Shiro’s fries (he said they tasted better, despite having his own), and one of the one-dollar ice cream cones, because Shiro’s always been good at retention of information and Lance had wanted ice cream, he said.

He learns this: Lance is the youngest of seven—seven, he repeats, with a wave of his arms for added emphasis—and he’s studying marine biology because once, when he was real little, one of his three older sisters (he doesn’t specify which one) took him to an aquarium, where he learned that sharks in utero would sometimes eat their siblings, which was sort of an appealing thought when you were the youngest of seven. So that was cool, and his sister bought him a stuffed shark when they left, and the rest was history.

And then quieter, Lance adds: the ocean made him feel small, but not in a way that was frightening. It was comforting, actually, to be dwarfed by something so much larger, to mean less than all his anxieties convinced him of; there was comfort in being a speck, of being inessential, of being one tiny, tiny mote of dust. He could mess up, and it wouldn’t ever tip the grander scale.

There is a heartbeat of silence before Lance grins and laughs, shaking off whatever had passed over him. “That was too serious,” he says, “wow, that was way too serious, I’m sorry.”

If Shiro were better with words, he might have said he felt the same in that lurching minute of the shuttle hurtling through the atmosphere. He isn’t better with words though, so he flounders and settles on an awkward clapping of Lance’s shoulders that serves no purpose and does nothing. Lance’s brief, confused smile in response is a little bit heartbreaking—and Shiro flounders more, in its wake.

Lance draws back after a second of silence, leaving a deliberate inch of space between them. His smile goes slightly wooden and he stands, brushing grass and dirt from the seat of his pants. “Hey,” he says, “this was fun, but I should probably get going. Things to do. You know. Shouldn’t hold you up all day.”

He doesn’t know. Shiro is good about knowing things, but this—this isn’t something he knows. But when he opens his mouth to say that, what comes out is: “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. I should get going, too.”

Lance nods, like he isn’t really paying attention, smiles, and leaves. It’s all very brusque and strange; there’s still ice cream in the hamburger bag, melting away.

And Shiro, who has scored perfectly on every exam he’s ever taken, comes to the sudden realization that he’s failed at something, for the first time in his life—completely and utterly flunked.

And he doesn’t know how or why.

—

“Oh, Shiro,” breathes Allura, her accent making a soft blur of her words, “I’m so very sorry.”

She takes one of his hands with both of hers, and her palms are warm and soft. In a different world, he’s probably madly in love with her; in this one, he’s just grateful for the contact and the tea she’s provided, strong and herbal, and her steady presence by his side.

“It was just a first date,” he points out, achingly aware of how miserable he sounds. “Those don’t go anywhere all the time.”

Allura squeezes his hand and gives him a searching look. “But it’s alright to have wanted it to go somewhere,” she tells him, “and it’s alright to feel bad that it didn’t, or to feel as if you lack closure as to why it didn’t. You liked him.”

“I met him three times. I barely knew him.”

There are things Allura could say. Pointed things; not designed to hurt, but to cut away precisely, like a scalpel, to the very core of Shiro. Things like: He’s a private figure living a public life and living a public life that was carefully, systematically, managed. That he so very rarely got to be himself, so very rarely got to be Shiro rather than Takashi Shirogane, the first man in over four decades to step foot on the moon.

She doesn’t say any of those things. Instead, she says, “I’ll put the kettle back on,” and does just that, her form disappearing into the arched entryway of the kitchen.

—

Keith says, “You really don’t know, huh.” The leather of his jacket, today, is red, and his hair is uncombed and unkempt. He looks like he hasn’t slept for a week. Which, at least for Keith, is good in the grander scheme of things.

“Listen,” Keith sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You should just talk to him. I know Lance. He’s an idiot, but not an asshole.”  

“I had a bad date,” Shiro says. “It wasn’t even that bad, but he isn’t interested, and that’s okay. I don’t know why everyone is so worried.”

Keith gives him a look that is only partly dark and partly dangerous. He contemplates something, and whatever decision he comes to must not be one he likes, because his words are bitten out and chewed thoroughly when he spits them up. “Lance likes you. More important. Everyone likes you. And everyone wants you to be happy because everyone likes you. But especially fucking Lance, who you just had to go and have a crush on. Who’s an idiot who makes up stupid stories and says I have a mullet. But you like him so. I’ll deal.”

“He left our date,” Shiro points out quietly.

“Because he’s an idiot! How many times do I have to say it? But it wasn’t because he didn’t like you. It’s because he probably likes you so much that he thinks he’s fucking everything up, because he’s had your stupid newspaper articles tacked over his bed for the past year. Which I know, because I’ve seen them, unfortunately.” Shiro opens his mouth—and promptly closes it when Keith holds up a finger. “Shut up, you don’t get to talk except to say ‘Thank you, Keith, I’m going to go ask out Lance McClain because I have no taste.’”

“Thank you, Keith, I’m going to ask out Lance?” Shiro ventures.

“Because you have no taste,” finishes Keith. He rolls his shoulders, like he’s getting rid of heavy weight. “Lance likes you. Lance followed every single dumb thing about your mission with bated breath, and literally teared up during your first interview from the station. So. Yeah. There you go. Have fun.”

The day before Shiro was scheduled to go to space, he had dinner with Keith. They’d gone to a diner off a long, dusty strip of road, and for miles around them there was silence, save for the chirping of crickets. In their quiet booth, Keith had unscrewed the cap from a shaker of salt and spilled it out over the table. Despite the action being deliberate, he picked a pinch of it and tossed it over his left shoulder ritualistically. With what was left on the table, he etched small patterns and waves, and finally, a little sliver of a crescent moon.

Keith said, “I’m used to people leaving and not coming back.”

That was it. He didn’t ask for more, or try to extract a promise. It wasn’t his style, and Shiro wouldn’t have given him one even if he had. Keith had been let down by too many promises before.

They ate their dinner, and Shiro covered the bill. At the end of the night, Keith kissed him, and when Shiro drew him away, Keith laughed and pressed his forehead to Shiro’s chest, right above where his heart lay. “I figured,” he said, and he didn’t sound upset or particularly bothered. After, he ambled his way off into the dark, a slight silhouette that gave way like a mirage into the desert. He wasn’t there to see Shiro off; but Shiro had never asked him to be, either.

—

He finally musters the courage to go to the coffee shop on a blustery Tuesday. Winter roared in the week prior, and the soft powder it had initially brought has turned to hard ice.

Inside the shop, the decorations are decidedly Christmas-themed, red and green ball ornaments hanging down from the ceiling, garland twining around the outside of the counter. The shop is also decidedly-empty, except for Lance, on the wrong side of the counter and dressed down in worn jeans with a sweater, groaning at the guy who took the last of the cold brew the first time Shiro visited behind the counter.

“Hunk,” Lance is saying, “feed me.” The e elongates along a stretched syllable.

“Pay for it, and I will,” is Hunk’s response. “Or get out of the way if you’re not so someone else can order.”

Lance pouts, but folds his limbs back up obligingly. He gives way with an exaggerated bow, bending low at the waist, before straightening up with a grin.

A grin that disappears, quick as it came, when he comes face to face with Shiro.

“Hi,” says Shiro. From the corner of his eye, he catches Hunk’s form turning and making its way into the back room.

“Um. Hi.” Lance says. There’s a flash of—something, across his face. That half-second deliberation of fight or flight, before the more reasonable part of his brain quells the animal instinct. Plus, Shiro’s blocking the door. He may have done that on purpose.

“Did you know,” Shiro says—and he rehearsed this, which makes it better and worse, that he actually practiced this—“that time slows near a black hole.”

“Um,” blinks Lance. “I guess? I was sort of aware of that.”

“I’ve always thought that would be a perfect place to fall in love,” he says. And then, because he’s an astronaut, and not a poet, and practically reigns supreme. “If you could ignore the spaghettification, that is.”

Lance keeps blinking at him. And blinks again. “I—what?” he finally settles on. The hunted flash that crossed his face at first seeing Shiro is gone, replaced by a rising bemusement.

“Spaghettification,” Shiro repeats, “is the stretching that happens in a very strong, non-homogeneous gravitational field. It’s what would happen if we ever stood near a black hole. So it wouldn’t really be the best place to fall in love, because no object can withstand it, but I was told it’s the thought that counts. Time slows there, so falling in love would be more romantic there, I assume.”

“I know what spaghettification is,” Lance says. His brow creases, like he’s sorting through something. “It’s sort of romantic, I guess? Being a noodle isn’t that romantic though. It’s hard to be a sexy noodle.” His bemusement eases into something closer to amused than puzzled. He leans back against the counter, his limbs set at an easy angle. “Any reason you’re telling me this?”

“Because,” Shiro says, and finds the words coming to him easier than he thought they would, “I like you. And I don’t know how I messed up our first date, except that I did. But I like you, Lance. And I’d like to take you out again.”

“Oh,” Lance breathes. “No. I—no.” Shiro’s heart sinks, but before it plunges, Lance grabs his hand, “You didn’t mess anything up. I messed it up! I said all of that stupid stuff about feeling dumb and small and like, overshared by 78% too much on a first date. And I thought you deserved better than me, because you’re Shiro,” and the way Lance says his name isn’t like how most people say it, like Shiro’s a cut above them, but like the word is special to him, “and so I figured I should just. Like. Let it go. It’s like being in love with Prince Charming, but I’m not Cinderella, I’m one of the mice.” He waves his free hand to illustrate his last point.

“I like mice,” Shiro says. When Lance face scrunches, Shiro squeezes his hand and insists. “I do. Mice are really interesting, they’re thought to empathize with the experiences of other mice, and I—I am really bad at this, huh?”

“Yeah,” Lance laughs, “pretty bad.” But he isn’t drawing away, and his expression has crossed over into something soft and fond. He sways a little closer to Shiro, so that Shiro can feel the warmth coming off of him in waves.

“Lance,” says Shiro seriously. He’s good at serious and sincere. “I like you. I do.”

“I like you, too,” says Lance, his mouth curving into a smile.

He realizes how close they are, then, when the curve of Lance’s mouth seems endless, when he realizes that he’s holding Lance’s hand up against his heart, pressed into the warm boundaries of their bodies. Lance is shorter than him, though everything about his build gives the impression of stretch and length, and it’s easy to bend over him and press a kiss against his mouth.

Once, tumbling in suspended free fall in a metal can in space, Shiro had fallen head over heels and kept falling until he smacked up against a wall panel and clutched it for stability. He hadn’t realized it was possible to do the same on earth, figured gravity was enough to keep him grounded. Kissing Lance tosses the notion of gravity out of the window.

Precisely until Hunk clears his throat behind them and says, “I’m still here, guys.”

[seathose2-blog]

The Linc - Eli Manning could be staying in the NFC East for “years” to come

Let’s get to the Philadelphia Eagles links ...

Pat Shurmur still thinks Eli Manning has years left as a quarterback - Big Blue View Shurmur was asked if, as he indicated when he was first hired, he believes Manning still has “years” of productive play left. His answer? “Yes, I do.” Finally, Shurmur was asked why he believes that. His answer? “Because I’ve seen him play good football, and I’ve seen how when we have a coordinated effort of protecting him, running the football effectively, and being able to run the ball throughout the game, it helps us. We threw the ball more than I would have liked to in the game that was really one score, but seven of those throws were two-minute before the half, and then there were 15 in the fourth quarter when we were down by 17. That skews the numbers. The important thing about yesterday in our coordinated effort was we didn’t get enough out of the runs when we chose to run the ball.” All of that certainly sounds like a coach willing to cast his lot with Manning again next season.

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10 thoughts on the Eagles’ huge win over the Rams - BGN The Eagles don’t have a quarterback controversy. Carson Wentz is still very much the Eagles’ franchise quarterback. He’s the long-term answer at the position. Go back and watch his 2017 tape if you need to remember why that’s the case. In the short-term, though, Foles should probably continue to start for the Eagles. If Wentz was healthy, he should be the one starting. The problem is he’s not healthy right now. Wentz’s back fracture requires three months to heal, according to Pederson. The Eagles should just rest him and roll with Foles.

At the Podium #15: A “Complete Team Game” - BGN Radio A new voice graces the At the Podium series with new starting quarterback Nick Foles in the rotation. He and Doug Pederson both talk about the Eagles playing a complete team game for 60 minutes in their upset of the Rams. In total 3 pressers included: Doug after the game, Foles after the game, and Pederson the next morning. FLY EAGLES FLY! Powered by SB Nation and Bleeding Green Nation.

Handing out 10 awards from the Eagles-Rams game - PhillyVoice Jim Schwartz has been out-coached a few times this season, but on Sunday night he had Sean McVay’s number. He dialed up blitzes at the perfect moments, and helped fluster and confuse Goff all game long. McVay, the (cough) 2017 NFL Coach of the Year, had some questionable moments. To begin, he messed up clock management late in the fourth quarter. And worse, he didn’t go for two with the Rams down eight after they scored a touchdown to draw within one score. Earlier in the season, Doug Pederson was in the same situation, and he explained the bulletproof logic in going for two in that scenario.

There is Hope - Iggles Blitz The Eagles have now won three out of their last four games. The only loss was at Dallas and we know that game could have been very different if the officials gave the Eagles the ball at the 16-yard line after the opening kickoff. That didn’t happen and the Eagles never could completely get their feet under them in that game. Injuries have significantly hurt this team and the Eagles aren’t going to play at the same level as last year. We can talk about Next Man Up and toughness and chemistry, but at a certain point you just don’t have enough talented players. Getting Avonte Maddox back made a real difference in the secondary. That gave the Eagles a competent CB. If the Eagles could get back Jordan Hicks, Tim Jernigan and Sidney Jones, the defense could take another step forward.

Explaining The QB Picture; Leftover Notes From Sunday - PE.com While Wentz remains the starting quarterback here – and there is no gray area at all in Pederson’s mind – the short term (meaning Sunday against Houston) belongs to Foles. The Texans are powerful up front defensively with J.J. Watt and Jadeveon Clowney on the edges, so Foles and the offense will see a whole new set of challenges against a 10-4 team. The long term belongs to Wentz – if the Eagles make the playoffs and Wentz is healthy, he likely starts, and he’s certainly the starter in 2019 and for many years after that.

Avonte Maddox: A Skeleton Key For Eagles Defense - The Draft Network What is Avonte Maddox in the healthy Philadelphia Eagle secondary? I’m not too sure, but I do know this: it’s not your average rookie, who can start at three different alignments (two of which he didn’t even dabble in in college) and provide quality reps from each position. Your average rookie corner doesn’t even hold his water against the Rams if he A) has been starting on the outside all season and B) was drafted in the early rounds! Maddox has been an absolute gem for Philadelphia — arguably the highest-impact draft pick they’ve had since Carson Wentz back in the 2016 class. He has more than earned a starting role somewhere next season — I’d imagine at nickel corner — but more than that, he has held this threadbare defense together long enough, well enough, and just strongly enough the Eagles playoff hopes are still alive.

The NFL’s biggest surprises, and who could copy them in 2019 - ESPN The Eagles have a 28.8 percent chance of making the postseason, and while they’re left with a pair of winnable games against Houston and Washington, I’m not sure that the formula we saw Sunday is something Philly could sustain into a long playoff run. They were able to hold a frustrated Sean McVay to 23 points on five red zone trips, as Jared Goff struggled to hit open receivers and made naive decisions with the ball. They won the turnover battle 3-1, which is going to be tough to do week after week with Nick Foles at quarterback. Pederson seemed to struggle to get the aggressiveness balance right yet again, but the Eagles managed to pull out the game when the Rams lost one possession on a fumbled punt and were stopped in the red zone on their subsequent try.

The Winners and Losers of NFL Week 15 - The Ringer “They’ve got Nick Foles” shouldn’t be a good thing. We saw him struggle in September. There are full years of evidence that Foles isn’t that good at playing quarterback, and just a few odd wins in December, January, and February to support the notion that Foles is an unstoppable clutch god. But it’s December. The mild-mannered backup quarterback just went into the phone booth, and he came out wearing a Super Bowl MVP’s clothes. It’s Nick Foles season.

How a Players-Only Meeting Sparked the Colts’ Recent Turnaround - MMQB While we’re there, a key number from that Eagles win: 30. That’s how many times Philly ran the ball, even with Josh Adams and Wendell Smallwood doing the heavy lifting, and it sure seemed to change the offense’s dynamic. I had a coach who’d played the Eagles a few weeks ago mention to me how hard the running back injuries seemed to be hitting them. What they needed, it seems, was more balance. Sunday night’s performance (31 passes, 30 rushes) went a long way to getting the efficient effort they did from Nick Foles.

Fletcher Cox battles through injury to ruin Jared Goff’s night - NBCSP “Nothing was going to stop me from finishing that game,” Cox said after the game like it was obvious. Nothing. Not only did Cox return to the game, on his first series back in the second quarter, but he also made a huge play. In a contest that featured some of the best pass rushers in the league, including the NFL’s sack leader on the other sideline, Cox in the second quarter picked up the only sack for either team on Sunday night.

Needy Camden families receive holiday baskets from Eagles player foundation - Courier Post A foundation headed by Philadelphia Eagles safety and Super Bowl champ Malcolm Jenkins gives away holiday food baskets and toys in several cities, but on Monday he expanded the program to Camden and with an unexpected personal visit. Fresh off the Eagles plane that landed Monday morning in Philadelphia following a 30-23 win over the Los Angeles Rams just before midnight Sunday, Jenkins arrived by 10 a.m. at the Antioch Baptist Church on Ferry Avenue in Centerville. There he helped wrap food and toy gifts for nearly 140 needy Camden families, working alongside approximately 100 volunteers from city churches, the local government and other organizations.

What kind of person wears a Kenjon Barner jersey? Stories behind the 10 oddest jersey choices at Eagles-Rams - The Athletic “I’m a Chargers fan. I was kind of butt-hurt when the whole thing went down with L.A. and them moving. My roommate at the time was an Eagle fan. He gave me the jersey. I got rid of all my (Chargers) shit. Before they won the Super Bowl, so I’m not a bandwagon jumper! And, it was a free jersey, that’s why I took it.” — Karl

A tradition unlike any other: The Cowboys falling apart down the stretch - Yahoo! Sports OK. How about this for a reality check: These Dallas Cowboys – despite digging themselves out of a hole and smoothing out some rough edges during a five-game winning streak – still look like the same, old franchise that finds a way to fall apart when everything is supposed to be coming together. You can call that a coaching problem. You can blame some talent holes. You can curse the decades of Jerry Jones failures. But whatever you do, don’t call this team anything different than so many others that have teased the fanbase and then collapsed when it mattered most. That’s the reality, and here is the check: Until Dallas proves it’s capable of something different than the decades of frustration we’ve come to know, assume this kind of loss. Where the only silver lining is reaching for a suggestion that getting beaten down on the road against a good (but not great) team is somehow precisely what the franchise needed.

Looks Like Someone Has a Sixpack of the Mondays - Hogs Haven Before we talk about that potential victory, let’s give Josh Johnson some love. The 32-year old (because apparently the Redskins aren’t allowed to have quarterbacks younger than 32) played well enough to help the team get a win. What he lacks in “established success” and “pedigree,” he makes up for with effort and passion. Because of the money wrapped up in Alex Smith, and because Colt McCoy is likely to be the projected starter in September 2019, the Redskins are in need of a cheap option to consider going into camp next summer. Someone was/is going to be able to play their way into at least those plans. If Josh Johnson manages to helm this Redskins team to an unexpected playoff appearance, he will have earned the right to come back next summer and compete for a spot. While I am not saying this is the case now, he could even give the team an excuse to not draft a quarterback early in the draft. Maybe...maaaaaaaaayyyyyyybe. The Jaguars defense has not been the top-ranked unit we have seen in recent seasons, but it still has a load of talent and Johnson deserves some love for keeping the offense in the game.

Should Los Angeles Rams fans be hitting the panic button? - Turf Show Times The Rams are 11-3 and I believe, despite what I’ve said up to this, that they have as good a shot as any other team to win the Super Bowl this year. This isn’t the same kind of frustration I’ve felt during the Jeff Fisher, Steve Spagnuolo, Jim Haslett or Scott Linehan eras. This isn’t the hopeless feeling of rooting for a team destined to finish 4-12. This is the fear of watching what is probably the most talented roster in the NFL get dropped in the divisional round. Swept away and forgotten by everyone but us Rams fans. And all we’d be left with is a series of “what-ifs.”

The Cowboys should fire offensive coordinator Scott Linehan while it still matters - SB Nation The Dallas Cowboys were shut out Sunday for the first time since 2003. The 23-0 loss to the Indianapolis Colts took the wind out of the sails of a team that entered Week 15 on a five-game winning streak and comfortably ahead in the NFC East. It’s not panic time, though. The Cowboys are still ahead of Washington and Philadelphia, and finish the year with winnable games against the 5-9 Buccaneers and 5-9 Giants. Winning just one of those games would be enough to lock up the division crown. But some urgency to fix a clear problem is warranted — especially if the Cowboys hope to win in January. It’s time for the Cowboys to fire Scott Linehan. Or rather, it’s long overdue.

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Source: https://www.bleedinggreennation.com/2018/12/18/18145955/eagles-news-eli-manning-could-staying-nfc-east-years-giants-philadelphia-quarterback-nfl-new-york

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Emptying the cliptray on the newer/second phone used for pasting saved/copied items. ....

1. https://goo.gl/images/56HGD5 2. https://youtu.be/OY-aGtK5sck 3. Horrible. These "people" are a disaster. They need to get cleared from the earth. 4. https://youtu.be/5Ag1KX-OMLo 5. 107,541 subscribers Published on Jan 21, 2017 The Wayne County Prosecutor's office found that Dearborn officer James Wade reasonably feared for his life when he shot and killed Janet Wilson on eastbound Hubbard Drive near Fairlane Town Center Mall in Dearborn, about 4:30 p.m. Jan. 27, 2016. The dashcam footage was released Jan. 17, 2017 after a Freedom of Information request from MLive. Category News & Politics Up nextAutoplay 12:09 Watch the full fatal police stop at center of excessive force lawsuit MLive 803K views 2:43 Dangerous whiteout conditions on I-196 MLive 1.8K views 6. Add a public comment... Marla Luster Horrible. These "people" are a disaster. They need to get cleared from the earth. 15 minutes ago Tyler Franks So the officer feared for his life while being completely out of the way of the vehicle? 1 year ago 231 Pc Principal All y’all race bitting haters don’t know the whole story ..she was trying to run people over at the mall..& if the cops let her get away she would have tried to run someone else over and endangered other drivers lives ...thank you for your duties officers 👮‍♀️ 2 months ago 32 Ricochet Kid I'm very Pro law enforcement but that my friend was cold blooded murder he had no fear of any injuries he was outside of the vehicle and not in front of it and both of the other officers also were they killed her In Cold Blood. 7 months ago 65 Jose Quinones FIRST YOU SHOOT HER TO DEATH THEN YOU SAY STAY WITH US??? KILLER COPS!!! 7 months ago 27 R Cruz The real danger is the district attorneys ruling it justified. This will continue folks until its overuled by unpopular belief. Remember,it could happen to a loved one 7 months ago 54 Eric Presser absolutely cop committing murder on camera 7 months ago 51 michael simmons Law enforcement is only a legal gang to protect government interest and revenue the public for money. This is murder and the officer should be charged. 7 months ago (edited) 45 Trey To She should have pulled over. If her family said they knew she suffered from mental illness, why did they allow her to be unsupervised with an vehicle ? Cops doing their job, protecting the community from dangers.. like her. 1 month ago 42 Oliver McKinley I don't know if he quite should have pulled the trigger at that moment, but I really don't care. Don't run from the police. What people need to understand is these police officers are in situations all the time that people like this put them in where they have to make split second, life or death decisions and we expect them to be absolutely perfect every time. Nearly everything I've seen like this had at least one point where the suspect has a definitive time to stop what they are doing and deescalate the situation. If we put the shoes on the feet and the guns in the hands of these same idiots that cry and whine every time the police shoot a person, we would have absolute chaos and people would be getting shot left and damn right. The very same folks who hate on the police all the time and teach their children that the police are evil and out to get you, have absolutely no friggin clue what a hard job law enforcement can be and damn difficulty of making the correct split second decision every time and under constant scrutiny. I'm just thankful for these body cams these days. I don't think it's turning out like a lot of these haters thought it would. Instead of exonerating them, it's actually incriminating them more. And I'm definitely not saying that there aren't really bad, mean bastards who happen to be cops because I've been pulled over by one, but I've encountered a whole lot more fucking assholes and bitches at McDonald's than in law enforcement. There are bad people in every walk of life. 2 weeks ago 5 David Pierce I saw no danger to officer's safety. He was reacting to his "authority" being challenged, so he killed the victim. Judge, jury, executioner. 1 year ago 354 L TR I've had people try to hit me with a car...I mean actually TRY. Not just drive away fast while I'm standing near. I still find it quite a stretch to say one feared for their life because they had to hop back a step or two and get out of the way. I'm all for cops defending themselves, and will generally see it their way in these things. But I've always had a problem with this type of shooting. If you stand in the way of a running, stopped vehicle with a twitchy suspect, I kinda feel like you're just asking for the opportunity to draw and fire. It shouldn't be like that. And also many of these types of shootings that have been documented on video, there's no physical way the vehicle could have hit them even if they WERE trying to...they just clearly used it as an excuse to open fire. The other point to make is that firing on a driver doesn't stop the car....quite the opposite. It often turns the car into an unguided 2 ton mass. The object of self-defense is to STOP THE THREAT TO SAVE YOUR LIFE. By the time you fire on a car lurching your way, that option has passed. You're not stopping it from striking you, if that was what was going to happen. In fact you wasted time better spent getting out of the way. So to say you were defending yourself is a bit ridiculous. You were not. There is nothing about shooting that driver that stops that threat. 6 months ago (edited) 15 CG_Justin _ She was most certainly armed. Her vehicle is a 1500 lb weapon. Good job officer. 1 month ago 14 Melvis Fernandez Avoid the situation comply,different outcome. 3 weeks ago 4 Junkman2000 It cracks me up when I read comments from people who can't spell or comprehend a short sentence but are quick to call someone else ignorant! Lol! 1 month ago 10 Timothy Justice Prosecutor said out was a justified shooting cause the officer feared for his life because he was afraid she was going to hit him with her car. He was standing on the passenger side door and started shooting when she pulled out. The 2 on the driver side didn't shoot. He should have been charged. He could've simply shot her tires or the engine block. She didn't veer toward him or try to run him over. 1 year ago 180 Hard9 They're always full of sh it with that "fleeing vehicle tried to hit me" fake skit. They're never in front of the car always behind it and off to the side. Or they purposely jump in front of the car then plan to jump out of the way like a bull fighter and say THEY aimed for THEM 😂😆😂. Everybody knows all about the endless b.s with these people. They're not smart enough to fool anybody with it. If they had seen a white woman driving, who's pyscho butt definitely would've aimed they always do, they would've actually let her run over them and still held off shooting. I've seen so many videos of fleeing pyscho white women in cars who purposely rev the engine, back up, run over, and purposely aim for cops surrounding their car and all the cops holster their guns instead 😂😂😂. They actually risk their life with the animals who DO WANT to kill them and save their life, but take out the ones just trying to save their own life. Doesn't matter the universe always gets them back. 3 months ago 17 44- MINUTES ""LAID TO REST""!!!! ""JANET WILSON"" ""MAY THE GRACE OF GOD COMFORTYOU""¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡ 2 months ago 11 Steve ROGERS If family knew of mental illness then why was she driving .... why was she alone.... family just as guilty as her... NOW LOOKING FOR A PAY DAY..... 3 weeks ago 6 ¤T'CHALLA¤ Wow...I don't see how the shooting was justified....from all angles you can see that no cop was in front of the car 🤨😧...in this case , she drove straight 😒 1 month ago (edited) 9 7. ¤T'CHALLA¤ Wow...I don't see how the shooting was justified....from all angles you can see that no cop was in front of the car 🤨😧...in this case , she drove straight 😒 1 month ago (edited) 9 Kryptic logic1 That was murder. She was not even close to hitting an officer. 1 year ago 116 john chung Sorry to say we re talking about day to day crime committed by blacks majority blacks . Not talking about mass killings. 3 weeks ago 3 Cecil Prouty Well that didn’t go well did it 2 months ago 5 IhAtEsTuPiD pEoPLe Wow the cops finally block her in AFTER they shoot her. All of those cops and still she's shot to death. Why wouldn't they box her in? Regardless if they thought she was armed or not. She was unarmed. Totally unnecessary. 2 months ago 8 Joe Hart back in the good old days, you'd be shot for running. you are supposed to STOP for police. asses. unless ur guilty. mental thing doesn't work either. if ur that mental to flee from cops, you shouldnt drive, and if you do, guess ur not that mental after all. mental disorders are an excuse for SSI money, hand outs etc. but you run, you should be shot. 8 months ago 21 Anthony George that's murder in my opinion.. 1 year ago 222 Carson Lowe "Open the door"...boom boom boom. It is common knowledge cops use that mantra as an excuse to kill. Though the cops will have you believe they are "protectors and servants" (protect and serve), yes that is true, protect their asses and serve themselves. 8 months ago 13 soraya lozoya I disagree with cops having guns because they shoot people for unnecessary reasons I think they should give people shots to knock them out or something like that but not guns 6 months ago 10 Rochelle Pauley Thank God the Officer wasnt struck by the vehicle! People NEED to raise their kids better...smdh 7 months ago 4 JEFF PAIN MURDERS 7 months ago 2 THE VANDAL hmm I didn't know that car could move sideways but seems how the cops and camera don't lie and the shooting officer wasn't in front of the car the only way she could have run him over is if she drove the car sideways right? 1 year ago 153 kevinredrick22 That was murder..he Executed that young lady. 1 week ago 1 Frank Ross How in the hell was that justified Clearly it was murder. Kim worthy, How can you say that? 6 days ago 1 WarriorForPeace Was she a danger on the road? Did she commit a serious crime? Police need more discretion. What if they just left her and followed-up a few hours later when she was at home and out of her car. In other videos I see police chasing crazy drivers across town putting everybody in danger, but then they don't shoot? 1 week ago 1 Odd Socks She was a danger to other road users as well as the police 😡 3 weeks ago 3 Mel C This was by no means justifiable...If the police wouldn't have gotten so trigger happy and would have taken a moment longer maybe...MAYBE a life could have been saved. 1 year ago 77 gemstateguy "Legal" Murder! It happens far too often, to both Black and white citizens! Cops are far too apt to pull their weapons and escalate situations more than is needed. 1 week ago 1 Richard Bowles Law enforcement in America are the only people that can legally murder you then make it be your fault. 1 week ago 1 Johnnie Smith What gives an officer the right to shoot a person in a moving car if their not in the way of it? Js 1 week ago 1 Bobby Ashley May that pig burn in hell for eternity! 1 week ago 1 8. edited) 2 Jim 762 If she was mentally ill-shouldn't have been driving. Oh well, more bad cops doing disgusting things - MAGA! 2 months ago 2 Lithus17 Why is it no one ever holds the criminal accountable, only police? Her car is considered a deadly weapon, just like a gun. Take responsibility for yourselves and stop blaming police. 1 month ago (edited) 3 august concepcion You should have shot the tires dude.. to stop her car.. i dont see danger on officers.. 6 days ago 1 Joe Rico Yep, he was "scared of being runover by her car" cos we ALL know cars have a special feature that ONLY activates when being pulled over by police .. The gears somehow change from Drive and Reverse to Left and Right. I thought everyone knew this?? 6 days ago 1 Seniko Usenia ~Their Excessive Aggression SCARED HER Into Fleeing, It Don't Matter Who Is Outside Your Car, If They're Aggressive You're Going To Go Where You Feel Safe, 3 People, Forget About It, (Yeah, Of Course They Could've Blocked The Vehicle, But It's Just A Natural Instinct To Avoid Contact With Another Vehicle!) I guess if You put a Firearm in anyone's hand, it can __________________"BE DANGEROUS!" 1 week ago 1 Arthur Munoz That only on the day of GOD ALMIGHTYS, HOLY judgment will GOD ALMIGHTY, inflict his wrath, upon all that harm even a single hair on the head of GOD ALMIGHTYS, children for on the day of GOD ALMIGHTYS, HOLY judgment, the condemened will learn their fate, as revealed in the HOLY BIBLE, that according to the HOLY WILL, of GOD ALMIGHTY, that in the name of JESUS CHRIST. 1 week ago (edited) 1 Pam Mckellar Fear for there lufes is just a excuse to kill ! Pig ! 3 days ago 1 Ace88 That is ridiculous. She was not a threat in any way. They should hire some more mentally balanced cops 1 year ago 121 Diane Brock no reason to take a soul from this life over a small incident ,, no mercy at all ,,so many time's officers chase cars for long periods of time,,,, she had a mental health illness, she needed HELP NOT DEATH SO SAD shes gone out into eternity,, life is precious every soul ,, this killing was out of order not necessary 1 week ago (edited) 1 Jeffery Mizell It is frightening that the system allows blatant misconduct to be interpreted as justifiable. Until blacks people press for significant changes and the culprits to be held accountable for their negligence's and indiscretions, we all will continue to be exploited. Shooting a fleeing person is not justified, it is just a angry state official. 3 weeks ago 1 Jon Jones People with mental illness can listen and follow directions so I’m guessing she was being black trash. It’s definitely a cultural thing from what have have seen over and over 3 weeks ago 1 Frank Ross You can tell by the response who's white they just love to kill not saying all whites but a lot of them love thirst for blood sound uncivilized I guess that's why they are hated all over the planet. 6 days ago 1 Woxineau Crows discusting by Police they should be fired and sent to prison this was NOT needed~but hey thats America born with a gun die with it~ 1 week ago 1 Michael P. Murder....plain and simple. 1 week ago 1 Steve Goldstine JUSTIFIED. SHE WAS FLEEING AND WOULD HAVE KILLED SOMEONE ANYWAYS 1 month ago 9. M14 SMK Karma's a bitch when one of your POS goes, then you crying like a bitch 8 months ago 2 Johnny Morris2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeYQeG9evzM 8 months ago oystersfearme yes 8 months ago Cynthia Rosario Scoobydoo 39 exactly what I said. But if that was their family or friend they would see it differently I guarantee it 7 months ago Richard Nixon Scoobydoo 39 Go eat a Scooby Snack and shut the fuck up you little kid! 7 months ago 1 krumbsbakery154 first of all we are grown and shouldn't have to do what we are told by out of control incompetent power hungry asses,secondly, when we do as we're told we get shot anyway and they use the excuse that they saw a gun. even though the govt. and "law" supposed to be for the people it's not, only some but mainly the money powers that be control the govt and use the law to to keep us under control to protect themselves. it's past time to fight back as a unit, keep "em comin" 6 months ago 1 Ernestine Todd Cops sucks 6 months ago LOOSER VICTOR YES SIR THOUGHT EXACTLY.ONCE THE CAR GOES BY YOU YOUR PERSON IS NO LONGER IN JEOPARDY YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SHOOT UNLESS ANOTHER POLICE OFFICERS BODY IS IN FRONT OF THE CAR IN QUESTION. 5 months ago 1 eodx100 She got what she deserved..........had she obeyed officers she would still be alive.......you critics need to work as a police officer and deal with people like her tying to kill you every day before you say you know for fact what the cop should have done......... 3 months ago 3 Wendy Winn If she had mental illness why was she driving?.. She didn't cooperate either.. 2 weeks ago 1 DAD RAB Rice Play with fire, get burned. 2 months ago 1 grizzly bear another monkey down!!! hooray!!! im going to celebrate!!! 2 months ago 2 10. Killer Whale Attacks at Sea World! UNCUT VIDEO!!!!! 18,293,643 views Kevin Davis 11,848 subscribers Published on Feb 27, 2010 With the latest attack at Sea World these beauiftul smart creatures should be back in the waters free with no tank. This is all for money not for the education of animals. Category Entertainment Up nextAutopla 11. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=4waz30EbI8o 12. ago 1 BrutusPalmeira I don't think it was justified in this instance. There was no cop in front of the car. 1 year ago 85 James Anglin Some cops get away with murder some dont RIPJanet😞 2 weeks ago (edited) 1 Russell Muir That old saying ''shoot first,ask questions later'' 1 week ago 1 Timothy Schneider Pigs! 7 months ago 2 Albert Torres This is why pigs are getting shot. 1 week ago 1 Don't Be Stupid your life was not in danger therefore you did not need to end hers. charge this cop with murder and move on. 2 years ago 90 pee long Justified? That was murder... 1 week ago 1 Josette Davis When did hit him with the car 1 week ago 1 Suzanne Slifer No way in HELL ! If she was really going to be that desperate to run over a 🐽 then she would have drove around the numbnut in front of her . 🐔 💩🚽 🐗 just wanted to play the "boohoo she's going to run me over with her car" card . 6 months ago 3 44- MINUTES ""DON'T PARK ON THE SIDE OF THE INTERSTATE,"" *""SOMEBODY WILLBE WAITING FORYOU""¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡ 2 months ago 1 Teresa Gary Im really DON'T see this as justifiable. No officer, given the camera views, were in any danager of bodily harm. A quick response to prevent her from pulling away in his moment of adrenaline pumping, does NOT mean fire your weapon! However being married to an officer, I also understan that their are NO WINNERS HERE! The officer suffers immediately (as u can hear the other officer checking on him), SOME officer have hearts. SOME officers have serious effects from THESE types of shootings. Also the family of the victim suffers a great loss. A loss that time, money and space can NEVER heal. Then injury is added when our judicial system will NOT allow a conviction of ANY KIND. I pray God comforts both parties. 1 year ago 38 Arch Stanton The cop got way ahead of himself. Probably nothing more than a traffic stop turned into loss of life. 7 months ago 1 Suzanne Slifer why was she being chased any way ? we're there any other people in the SUV ? 6 months ago 1 Carlos Torres That was no reason to shoot the girl . 5 months ago 2 Tj RhdEg6 This is 110% justified, SHE chose not to comply with lawful commands, SHE decided it would be s good idea to drive erratically while officers approached her car. The actions SHE decided to make is the only thing to blame for her death!! 2 months ago 3 don julion that's not justified!! that's murder!! people do this same shit everyday and don't get killed. 2 years ago 85 DARK 6 Murder most fowl unreal 8 months ago 2 Ribeye Robert D No ma'am. Just a dead criminal 3 months ago 2 Boxcar Bubba Thats excellent law enforcement in my opinion . 7 months ago 7 Christian American Patriot It all boils down to, she should have stopped and given up in the first place, then none of this would have happened. I admit it is difficult to tell whether or not the officer was justified in shooting the suspect, but unless you're willing to die, don't run from the police, period. I don't care who you are, if you run from law enforcement, your chances of not getting injured or killed go from a 0% to a 90% chance. Y'all are so easily jumping on the band wagon of the police being the bad guys, but there is a very good reason this happened, maybe if it wasn't her on that day it would have been her entire family, or someone else's family, or family member(s). I believe everything happens for a reason, that God has a plan for everything that happens, and he had a reason that this woman should lose her life on this day at this time. If the officers were wrong then I pray that proper justice is served, if they were right then proper justice was served. Just remember, if you stop and don't resist, you have a way better chance of not being hurt or worse then if you don't stop and/or do resist. 1 month ago 3 13. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=JwqM217ecsA 14. grizzly bear another monkey down!!! hooray!!! im going to celebrate!!! 2 months ago 2 boedude don't know about what she did b4, but as far as I know simple evading arrest is not a capital offense. you might be a a horrible person but they don't (shouldn't) get to shoot you to stop you. nobody's life was in immediate danger. excessive force, voluntary manslaughter 1 year ago 21 Boo Boo that was a good shooting! 1 month ago 1 lord Sesshoumaru not only is the shooting justified but I'm glad they're dead, you fight in court not on the street putting police and public safety at risk, it's not the cop's fault they had to arrest and process her, but it is her fault to decide to flee using a lethal weapon. If the cops are wrong you can sue so why lose your life over an inconvenience ? this person wanted to flee and would have done so at high speeds putting public safety and lives in danger, she had no respect for life including her own because she would rather kill and or die to evade arrest, defending this person makes you a piece of shit too, fuck'em good kill... 2 months ago 1 Glock19-3rd eye good job officers. 7 months ago 3 Mug Numps SHOOT more nigros. 6 months ago 3 15. https://www.instagram.com/p/BtQaP0BH5hm/?hl=en 16. 447,755 views chrishemsworth Less than a week to go until two things happen. Firstly our film wraps, secondly I remove my director @thesamhargrave’s beard with either my bare hands, clippers, scissors or 🧨 Stay tuned @benaffleck @markruffalo @doncheadle hannadls Can’t wait 😍 solmaz6677 ❤️ dakue1971 😀 trainwithlida 😂👌❤️ l.zack_aryan Good talking thor alfa_belitung Hai bro fazioalessiadi 😂😂😂 concepcionseguera love you and u r my forever crush beckyjackson1970 @marshall9855 thats how i like my men😍 mehrdadxbabaix iran❤ dilo.kaplan_cr7 💖💖💖💖 mistouleto_eleni_tri Seeing Chris Hemsworth happy during filming is the most beautiful thing in the world. _____sicilian_____ First batman shaved it, then rhodey, now it’s Thor’s turn carolina_afortunada 😘😘😘😘 sid_roy_420 Hey thor whats going on delfiii.moran @lola_gallitelli @_772.777_ salmamldn Alright daddy cheyphoto 😍😍😍 yeihurtado Dios mío bendito 💙💙💙💙 air.russia Peace 🍣️🍿🍓🍊🍊🍊 Interested in your opinion! Write a comment to my photo! mytienmimihuynh ❤️❤️🔥🔥😍💥🌈💫 _eleeeonoraa_ @giuliamonacelli_ paularenatak Q voz gente.... helas_crown Ily so much hHDHF- 1 HOUR AGO ABOUT 17. https://thediplomat.com/2017/07/to-be-a-global-leader-china-needs-a-new-refugee-policy/ 18. Search REGIONS CENTRAL ASIA EAST ASIA OCEANIA SOUTH ASIA SOUTHEAST ASIA TOPICS BLOGS DIPLOMACY ECONOMY ENVIRONMENT FEATURES INTERVIEWS MAGAZINE PHOTO ESSAYS PODCASTS POLITICS SECURITY SOCIETY THE DIPLOMAT'S QUIZ VIDEOS BLOGS CHINA POWER FLASHPOINTS ASIA DEFENSE ASEAN BEAT THE PULSE THE KOREAS TOKYO REPORT THE DEBATE CROSSROADS ASIA TRANS-PACIFIC VIEW PACIFIC MONEY ASIA LIFE OCEANIA The Diplomat CHINA POWER To Be a Global Leader, China Needs a New Refugee Policy Yao Chen meets with Syrian refugees in Lebanon. Image Credit: UNHCR / A. McConnell / May 2014 To Be a Global Leader, China Needs a New Refugee Policy To be seen as a leader, China will need to help share burdens — including by hosting refugees. By Jonathan Lesh July 22, 2017 As China’s economic and military clout grows, it seeks power and respect. Beijing has intelligently recognized that to gain its desired status, the gap between its middling soft power – its capacity for non-military projection of influence – and its muscular hard power must shrink. Until it confronts difficult issues of global governance – such as the refugee crises – head on, it will not be seen as a responsible burden sharer. China cannot have its cake and eat it, too. To enjoy the advantages of being an international stakeholder, it inevitably has to agree to bear the costs that come with this. Despite being party to the 1951 Refugee Convention and the 1967 Protocol, China has no domestic definition of refugee. Its 1982 Constitution grants it the ability, not the duty, to “grant asylum…for political reasons,” but language from the 1978 version equates “political” with what the Communist Party of China considers “revolutionary movements,” excluding many who would fall under the UN’s definition of refugee. China’s incoherent refugee policy makes it difficult to count the actual number of refugees it harbors. The UNHCR counts 317,255 registered refugees in China, but naturally misses those out of its reach. About 300,000 of these registered refugees fled Indochina due to the 1979 Sino-Vietnamese War, and are mostly ethnic Chinese Hoa people. Although they faced some initial discrimination as “overseas Chinese,” the Hoa are culturally similar to citizens in China’s southern provinces, and therefore have been fairly well-integrated. Most public goods – education, healthcare, employment opportunities – afforded to Chinese citizens are also available to them. Although still designated as refugees, the Hoa people appear to enjoy a relatively stable position in Chinese society. Enjoying this article? Click here to subscribe for full access. Just $5 a month. The rest of the 317,255 are mostly from Africa and the Middle East, but tens of thousands of unregistered asylum seekers also live in China. In the past ten years, armed conflicts in Myanmar have pushed tens of thousands of people into China’s Yunnan Province. China has treated some migrants better than others, but it has rejected UN involvement in all cases. Ethnic Kachins faced harassment from officials before being expelled from China by People’s Liberation Army troops in 2011. Chinese agencies provided ethnic Kokangs with food and shelter for a few months in 2015, but abandoned them thereafter. These populations would likely be protected by the UNHCR, but Chinese authorities bar humanitarian access to their remote settlements, leaving them undocumented and isolated. As one of the five permanent members of the UN Security Council (UNSC), China does not explicitly reject the UNHCR’s authority for fear of jeopardizing its UNSC veto. However, that is not to say that China fully accedes to its mandate. The multilateral nature of the UN can produce outcomes that are watered down by a multitude of competing interests. Bilateral or unofficial negotiations allow China more room to twist its counterpart’s arm to achieve an optimal result. In this case, the UNHCR maintains offices in Beijing and Hong Kong, but China refuses to cooperate with cataloging and processing refugees within the country. The Hoa populations are integrated enough to be self-sufficient, but for other persons of concern living in China, the UNHCR is their sole provider. Even when the popular actress Yao Chen, a UNHCR goodwill ambassador, pushed for China to admit refugees on Weibo in June, she was met with public outrage. Chinese citizens increasingly disapprove of the UN as a whole, perhaps for curtailing China’s growth and arbitrating territorial disputes unfavorably. The UNHCR is no exception, for three reasons. First, China fears the economic cost of providing the refugee services that the UNHCR advocates. Second, granting full access to the UNHCR could expose China’s poor treatment of refugees. Beijing would have no good excuse for its actions, and this attention could spill over to China’s record with its Uyghur population, political dissidents, and other marginalized groups. Third, it would rattle domestic politics, as granting North Korean defectors refugee status is politically unfeasible, and the bad press China would receive may foment political instability. If China accepted the UNHCR’s terms, it would open another can of worms that it cannot afford. China even passes the buck on the world’s most high-profile refugee crisis. The United States has absorbed more than 18,000 Syrian refugees since 2011, has contributed $6.5 billion in humanitarian assistance since 2012, and still receives criticism for not doing enough. This criticism may be warranted, but compared to China, the United States looks like the exemplar of charity. By the end of 2015, China had admitted only nine Syrian refugees. Beijing did pledge ten thousand metric tons of food aid and $135 million in 2016, as well as an additional $29.5 million in January. Foreign Minister Wang Yi claims that China offers monetary aid “compatible with [its] abilities,” but according to the UN’s Financial Tracking Service, China donated about as much to Syrian refugees in 2016 as Hungary did: around $3 million. Chinese scholars contend that Washington should take responsibility for “creating the problem in the first place” and that repatriation should be emphasized over resettlement. These are fair points, but they do not annul China’s normative obligation to extend real and meaningful aid contributions to vulnerable peoples. Neither does China’s admission of Arab businesspeople to the boomtown of Yiwu – these migrants flee conflict and persecution, but instead of receiving support, they are only granted short-term visas and pay business taxes and language fees themselves. No longer can Beijing hide under the aegis of “non-interference” to dodge calls to action. China’s negligence of today’s refugees furthers its image as an unwilling member of the global community. To improve its reputation, it must show that it takes refugees seriously. A comprehensive review, overhaul, and publication of its refugee policy would be a good start. If China really buys into the rules-based international order, it should start acting that way. Jonathan Lesh is a researcher at the East Asia program of the Stimson Center. The views and opinions expressed here are of the author only. TopicsChina Power TagsChina refugee policyMyanmar refugeesRefugee crisisUNHCR RELATED STORIES Why Do Chinese Reject Middle Eastern Refugees? June 23, 2017 Why Do Chinese Reject Middle Eastern Refugees? Islamophobia is a potent factor, but not the whole story. LATEST BLOGS Don't Write Off India's Pre-Election Budget Session Just Yet January 30, 2019 Don't Write Off India's Pre-Election Budget Session Just Yet The upcoming Indian budget session may yet see major movement on legislation. Don't count it out. LATEST FEATURES US-China: A New Consensus for Strategic Competition in Washington January 30, 2019 US-China: A New Consensus for Strategic Competition in Washington There have been tensions in the past, but this time is different. REGIONS CENTRAL ASIA EAST ASIA OCEANIA SOUTH ASIA SOUTHEAST ASIA TOPICS BLOGS DIPLOMACY ECONOMY ENVIRONMENT FEATURES INTERVIEWS MAGAZINE PHOTO ESSAYS PODCASTS POLITICS SECURITY SOCIETY THE DIPLOMAT'S QUIZ VIDEOS BLOGS CHINA POWER FLASHPOINTS ASIA DEFENSE ASEAN BEAT THE PULSE THE KOREAS TOKYO REPORT THE DEBATE CROSSROADS ASIA TRANS-PACIFIC VIEW PACIFIC MONEY ASIA LIFE OCEANIA © 2019 The Diplomat. All Rights Reserved. The Diplomat 19. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/jan/28/venezuela-pope-francis-maduro-guaido-protests 20. Skip to main content The Guardian - Back to home Contribute Sign in News Opinion Sport Culture Lifestyle News Opinion Sport Culture Lifestyle Search What term do you want to search?Search with google Make a contribution Subscribe US edition Search jobs Digital Archive The Guardian app Video Podcasts Pictures Newsletters Inside the Guardian Guardian Weekly Crosswords Facebook Twitter World Europe US Americas Asia Australia Middle East Africa Inequality Cities Global development More Venezuela Pope Francis says he fears bloodshed as Venezuela braces for more protests Pontiff declined to side with Guaidó or Maduro as activists say at least 35 people have already been killed by security forces Tom Phillips Latin America correspondent Mon 28 Jan 2019 09.36 EST Last modified on Mon 28 Jan 2019 14.10 EST Shares 203 Supporters of Juan Guaidó demonstrate outside a military outpost in Caracas, Venezuela, on 27 January. Pope Francis has said he fears bloodshed in Venezuela as the South American country braces for a week of fresh protests against its embattled president, Nicolás Maduro. Juan Guaidó: Venezuela has chance to leave chaos behind Read more Speaking on the papal plane as he returned from a five-day visit to Panama, Pope Francis told reporters: “In this moment, I support all the Venezuelan people because they are a people who are suffering. “I suffer for what is happening in Venezuela,” he added. “What is it that scares me? Bloodshed.” Advertisement Pope Francis declined to publicly side with either Juan Guaidó, the opposition leader who last week declared himself Venezuela’s rightful interim president, or Maduro, who has governed since being elected in the wake of Hugo Chávez’s 2013 death. Russia and China have backed the latter while the US, Canada and more than a dozen Latin American countries say they support Guaidó. EU countries including Britain, France, Germany and Spain on Saturday gave Maduro – who they say was fraudulently re-elected last May – an eight-day ultimatum to hold fresh election or they too would recognize Guaidó. “If I said, ‘listen to these countries’ or ‘listen to those countries’ I would put myself in a role that I do not know, it would be a pastoral imprudence on my part and I would cause damage,” Pope Francis said. Pope Francis answers questions after leaving Panama City on 27 January. Pope Francis answers questions after leaving Panama City on 27 January. Photograph: Alessandra Tarantino/AFP/Getty Images At a mass in Panama City attended by an estimated 700,000 on Sunday Pope Francis said he “asked the Lord to seek and find a just and peaceful solution to overcome the crisis that respects human rights and exclusively seeks the good of all people”. Pope Francis is not alone in fearing violence in the oil-rich but economically devastated South American nation. “I am worried about a country that can fragment under different chieftains and warlords and generals and narco-traffickers [and guerrilla groups] and … Venezuela becoming like a tapestry of different power centres,” the country’s former trade minister, Moisés Naím, told the Guardian last week. Eric Farnsworth, a former US diplomat and vice-president of the Council of the Americas, said: “I think there is potential for actual chaos on the ground. “Things on the ground have been very bad. Citizens have been leaving. But what we haven’t seen is a breakdown of civil authority … I think you could have security forces fighting each other. You could have further street protest and I think we have to be very mindful that Caracas – where everybody is focused – that is only one part of the country. “I’m not willing to commit at this stage that [civil war] is where Venezuela is heading but I think that is one possible scenario,” Farnsworth added. However, in an interview with the Guardian, Guaidó played down those fears. “I don’t think we will reach that point. The idea is to increase pressure,” he said. On Monday activists said at least 44 people had already been killed by security forces since Venezuela’s latest political upheaval began one week ago. “What we are witnessing today in Venezuela in terms of human rights is a horror,” said Ana Leonor Acosta, a human rights lawyer, claiming “a massacre” was unfolding. Alfredo Romero, a prominent human rights defender who runs the Foro Penal group, said 850 protesters had been taken into detention since 21 January. Romero said they included 77 minors, some as young as 12. Addressing members of Venezuela’s security forces at a press conference, the opposition lawmaker Delsa Solórzano said her message was: “Stop repressing. “Join democracy, put yourselves on the right side of history,” Solórzano added. As 2019 begins… … we’re asking readers to make a new year contribution in support of The Guardian’s independent journalism. More people are reading and supporting our independent, investigative reporting than ever before. And unlike many news organisations, we have chosen an approach that allows us to keep our journalism accessible to all, regardless of where they live or what they can afford. But this is only possible thanks to voluntary support from our readers – something we have to maintain and build on for every year to come. Support from our readers is fundamental in ensuring The Guardian’s journalism can thrive. Your support helps protect essential independent reporting. It means that we can continue to deliver the rigorous investigations that hold power to account and help create positive change. It means that our reporting is free and open to everyone across the world so that more people have access to trusted information – enabling space for debate, diversity and inclusion. Every contribution we receive from readers like you, however big or small, helps safeguard independent journalism. The Guardian is editorially independent, meaning we set our own agenda. Our journalism is free from commercial bias and not influenced by billionaire owners, politicians or shareholders. No one edits our editor. No one steers our opinion. This is important as it enables us to give a voice to those less heard, challenge the powerful and hold them to account. It’s what makes us different to so many others in the media, at a time when factual, honest reporting is critical. Please make a new year contribution today to help us deliver the independent journalism the world needs for 2019 and beyond. Support The Guardian from as little as $1 – and it only takes a minute. Thank you. Support The Guardian Paypal and credit card Topics Venezuela Pope Francis Juan Guaidó Nicolás Maduro Protest Americas news Share on LinkedIn Share on Pinterest Share on WhatsApp Share on Messenger more on this story Venezuela: Maduro accuses US of trying to 'get hands on our oil' 1h Venezuela: Maduro accuses US of trying to 'get hands on our oil' Juan Guaidó confident of achieving peaceful transition in Venezuela 23h Juan Guaidó confident of achieving peaceful transition in Venezuela Bank of England urged to give Juan Guaidó Venezuela's gold 2d Bank of England urged to give Juan Guaidó Venezuela's gold Juan Guaidó: Venezuela has chance to leave chaos behind 2d Juan Guaidó: Venezuela has chance to leave chaos behind UK tries to keep EU united in piling pressure on Maduro 3d UK tries to keep EU united in piling pressure on Maduro Russia denies sending mercenaries to shore up Nicolás Maduro's position 3d Russia denies sending mercenaries to shore up Nicolás Maduro's position Almost 200 die in three days on Thailand's roads as holiday carnage returns Up to 16 people abducted from Mexican beach resort restaurant Kings of cocaine: how the Albanian mafia seized control of the UK drugs trade Mexico after El Chapo: new generation fights for control of the cartel Recommended by Most popular World Europe US Americas Asia Australia Middle East Africa Inequality Cities Global development About us Contact us Complaints & corrections Secure Drop Work for us Privacy policy Cookie policy Terms & conditions Help All topics All writers Digital newspaper archive Facebook Twitter Advertise with us Guardian Labs Search jobs Support The Guardian Contribute Subscribe Back to top © 2019 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved.

[junker-town]

Odell Beckham Jr’s beef with Josh Norman was a hard-hitting, media-fueled drama

It was incredible while it lasted, and those covering it made sure the beef lasted a long time

The first time Odell Beckham, Jr. and Josh Norman met, they gave us plenty of reasons to remember it. From there, the media would never let us - or them - forget it.

Beckham and Norman faced off for the first time late in the 2015 season. The Panthers were undefeated, the six-win Giants were still very much in the NFC East conversation, and yet the receiver-corner duo took top billing. Beckham was putting together a very good second season, which was really just the continuation of an incredible rookie year. Meanwhile, Norman had established himself as one of the league’s top shutdown corners - and one of the top trash talkers.

It quickly looked like everyone was right about the must-see matchup.

On just the fourth snap of the game, Odell blew past Norman. With the ball in the air, less than 90 seconds off the clock, he was steps away from proving that no one in the league could cover him...and he dropped it. Norman barked at the receiver, Beckham responded as he headed to the line, and they moved on to the next play. Odell engaged Norman, then ended up on the ground. And with that, things went zero-to-beefy in a split second.

Corbis via Getty Images

When I dip, you dip, we dip.

Beckham caught Norman with his eyes in the backfield on the Giants next possession, sending both to the turf. They’d find each other again. And again. And again.

The refs finally decided to do something, and flagged Beckham for this helmet-to-helmet hit. Norman stopped shadowing Odell for the rest of the first half, so it seemed the fireworks were over. Whether this made Beckham bored or his frustrations of being catchless through the first half were growing, he found a new friend in Cortland Finnegan - who also isn’t a stranger to beef, his just had a much shorter shelf life thanks to the hands of Andre Johnson.

Beckham got his first two catches late in the 3rd. He converted a 4th down on the second one, then picked up a personal foul. After this, even Aikman and Buck had cooled to the display. So naturally, on the very next play, Beckham sprinted from 15-yards away and left his feet to catch Norman in the facemask with the crown of his helmet. A scrum ensued, both players got personal fouls, and no one was going to be able to chalk this up as just another game.

At this point, it felt like this kind of just popped off. But knowing who each guy was before today paints a bigger picture.

This was all before any Miami yacht trips, or fighting-then-making-up with kicking nets, or anything the media would consider a tantrum. Odell Beckham was only 25 games into his career and already a poster boy for the NFL. He became a household name in just his 7th game when he made one of the greatest catches in NFL history against the Cowboys - a catch so good that it earned him a spot in Canton and earned Nike an estimated 2.1 million dollars just because he was wearing their gloves. He was the youngest player to be on the cover of Madden, and while none of that was guaranteed being drafted in the first round out of a major program to a team in New York raised the expectations just a little bit.

And to someone looking in from the outside, it could’ve felt like the success was laid out for him on a platter thanks to playing in a major market for a team not that far removed from winning a Super Bowl.

As for Josh Norman, nothing had come easy. He had to fight to stay on the Panthers roster. He had to fight to get a starting job. He even fought Cam Newton in training camp. So once he found the spotlight in 2015, he wasn’t going to give it up. He’d prove to be one of the league’s best shutdown corners, keeping top receivers in check on a routine basis, and playing so well that he nicknamed himself “Batman.”

Norman knew the work he put in to go from 4th round pick to a piece that offenses were planning around, but it would make sense he still felt some need to keep proving himself against the first round talents opposite him. His play hadn’t gone unnoticed by Beckham who even sounded eager to face him, despite not necessarily agreeing with the new monicker.

But then there was a proper beefception.

Norman reimagined “Batman” by bringing an actual baseball bat onto the field before the game. Charles Tillman said it came about from a story told by one of their coaches about needing to protect what was theirs, but another member of the Panthers took it a step further.

He approached Beckham, who reportedly offered a handshake that the unidentified batsman declined, then allegedly told Beckham, “I’ll be the reason this will be your last game.” which first off - not a cool move, and second, justified Beckham not being thrilled to face the Carolina defense, no matter who lined up across from him. I’m not saying that excuses him for spearing Norman in the head multiple times, but it helps clear up how we got to this point.

AP

They’re just both checking on their friends down there.

Norman would respond two plays later and pick up his second personal foul. Beckham scored the tying touchdown on a trailing Norman, then treated him like Tyronn Lue. Carolina won with a last second field goal. Lost in the shuffle was an incredible Giants comeback, but afterwards no one but the teams cared about the score.

Speaking to the media, Norman let everyone know that today they saw the real Odell. As for Beckham, he did his best to just dodge the topic. What he couldn’t dodge was a one-game suspension from the league. Norman received a fine, but kept on playing and made it to the Super Bowl where the Broncos defense bailed out Peyton Manning.

That March the Panthers gave Norman the franchise tag, and in April they rescinded it - so he conveniently joined New York’s division rival in Washington. And the media appreciated that so very much.

The reason that he’s become so relevant is because of me.

Not to say there wasn’t some level of animosity between them, but everyone else was far thirstier to keep this going than the actual players themselves. Beckham was asked about the Norman signing during a presser. First Take rolled into Washington’s training camp so Max Kellerman could further hound Norman. On Boomer and Carton, Odell was asked about their rivalry, but he brought up the fact they were trying to move past it and had tried to meet up that offseason to talk it out.

Even when one of them actually spoke about the other, context was cast aside. Beckham gave an interview to GQ and ended a quote saying, “The reason [Norman’s] relevant is because of me.” Norman was asked about this, and replied, “He’s relevant because of a catch, but we’re not gonna go there. I’m not into the war of words.” An attempted back-and-forth ensued, but Norman quickly tried to move on from the he-said-he-said.

He did an interview with ESPN the Magazine and cleanly laid out his feelings: “[Odell’s] skilled and talented. I won’t take that away from him. But he’s never been through any adversity in his life.”

All of that stemmed from Beckham’s full quote to GQ, which had a preface of “If I wasn’t playing him twice a year, maybe people wouldn’t bring it up so much, but now it’ll be a lot more media attention for him, attention that I don’t really look for, attention that I don’t need. The reason that he’s become so relevant is because of me.”

Yes, the end reads as egotistical, but his actual point had been largely left out.

While they let their first matchup get out of hand, neither of them had wanted this to become a thing. Norman joined the team offering 5-million per year more than Carolina. The reason they paid him so much was they needed a corner who could help cover someone of Beckham’s talent twice a year.

Really there were two beefs at play. The first was simply from things escalating once on the field between two of the best players at their positions who viewed the other as a challenge. The other was a beef that everyone else wanted to see play out and lead to more fireworks, which was fully recognized by the players, but at this point the narrative would continue no matter what they said.

Brad Penner-USA TODAY Sports

The players catch up on field to discuss future commercial opportunities

By the time their first rematch rolled around, both players were simply looking past all that, and towards the competition. They met after the game and shook hands, while all future battles were put under a microscope that they did their best to dodge. Norman got flagged for a couple personal fouls against Beckham in the 2016 season finale, including one that some claimed was a punch while he tried to knock the ball out, but Odell didn’t care to address it afterwards.

Beckham missed both games against Washington in 2017 which helped cool things in the media. Norman even lobbied for Beckham to stay with the Giants amid trade rumors, recognizing that the headache caused by the media was worth it to keep going against one of the best.

It may have ended before many wanted to admit, but Odell Beckham and Josh Norman’s beef was exciting, if not complex, for the short time it was real.

[jackcowboyhero]

6. "We trusted you" for anyone other than Jack

DAVID:

I suppose I know why you didn’t want Jack to answer.

It’s because everyone already knows about how he scabbed,right?  How he turned his back on thenewsies right as the strike was beginning to mean something.  How all of us saw him walking out of thedistribution center in his fancy clothes, and how he acted like he’d done itfor money.

Well—breaking somebody’s trust isn’t always that public.

Sometimes you don’t even know it yourself.

It wasn’t like I’d set out to hurt anyone when I went to theLower East Side last week.  I’d managedto track down the family of Russian Jews I’d interviewed at Ellis Island lastSeptember—my boss at the Sun hadwanted me to find out how they were doing after a few months in America—andalthough they lived in a two-room tenement apartment with two other families,the father had managed to find a job that paid enough to save a little eachweek, and the three young boys had learned enough English to translate fortheir parents.  (I’d had to rely on aharried immigration translator before, and I’m sure it hadn’t helped make theirarrival any less stressful.)  So, as Ileft their apartment, a full notebook tucked into my pocket and mumbling potentialleads under my breath as I walked back toward Newspaper Row, I was prettycontent, and if I hadn’t stopped to think about word order, I would have missedthe girl crying on the steps.

Maybe I shouldn’t say “girl.”  She was probably only a year or two youngerthan I was, with her hair pinned up like a woman’s, but the way she had herhead in her hands and her shoulders bowed made her look a lot younger.  She was tucked against the banister, like shewas trying to stay hidden, but I couldn’t just walk past a sight likethat.  I knew it wasn’t my business—but Itry to help people when I can.

Isn’t that ironic? Sometimes helping people ends up hurting them.

Jack can tell you about that.

Anyway, I stepped a little closer and said, “Miss?”

“Idź stąd!” she snapped, without looking up.

Well, I’ve had people tell me to go away in all sorts oflanguages, and not just after I became a reporter.  But lots of times I have to figure out whatthey mean based on their tone, or their expression, or even sometimes ashove.  (I learned pretty quickly thatpeople don’t want to buy papes when they’re kissing somebody.)

But I understood that girl, and thanks to living in GóraPuławska and talking with Jurek, I could ask, “Potrzebujeszpomocy?”

She looked up, tears streaking her face.

“I’ll help you,” Itold her, in Polish.  “If I can.”

She shook her head,whispering, “It’s my work.  You can’thelp me.”

“Try me,” I said, andsat next to her—not close, like Jack would have, with his arm around hershoulders as if they were old friends, but a step down and a few feetaway.  “I write for the Sun. We can look into things like this.”

Maybe I’ve beenaccused of risking my job for ideals. (By my mother.)  And maybe I’vebeen told that real life’s not like the newsie strike.  (By Jack, on a bad day.)  And my boss at the Sun’s voided articles he could see my bias in, or sent me torewrite them from an impartial standpoint—but when I catch wind of trouble,I’ve got to get involved.

That’s why Jack and Iget along—it’s just that he jumps in with his fists, and I jump in with mywords, and my pen.

—Or my pencil, whichwas already in my hand.

“You can stop this?” thegirl asked.  “This—name-calling?  These threats to me?”

“I don’t know,” Itold her.  “But if something wrong orillegal is happening, I can try to expose it.”

She shook her headeven harder, hiding her face again.  “Ican’t be exposed,” she said, “I can’t lose this job.  My family needs the money.”  

“But if you’re beingthreatened—”

“I need the money,”she repeated.  “But this…I can’t takethis.”

“What’s ‘this’?”

She looked at me fora long time.  “You won’t publish myname?”

“I don’t even have toknow it.”

She nodded, a smilepulling just a little at her mouth and the tears drying on her face.  “…It’s Albina,” she said softly.  “Albina Skala.”

I held out myhand.  “David Jacobs,” I said, smilingback at her.  A good journalist alwaystries to make people feel comfortable.

“You’re from Poland?”

“My mother was.  I spent a year teaching English there.”

I’d thought shewasn’t going to shake my hand.  But shefinally did, hesitantly, but firmly enough that I could feel the sewingcalluses on her fingers.  They felt likeSarah’s hands—a working girl’s hands.

“Now,” I said, “canyou tell me what happened?”

I’m not going to tellyou everything she told me—only that it happens far too often, especially whenthe finisher’s the only girl in the shop. Albina said when the owner spoke that way to her, the presser tried todefend her—but what could a seventy-year-old man who needed a job just as much asAlbina did do against a younger, stronger man with power?

You see, power’s thekey in these sweatshops.  You might notthink the shop owners have much influence—not when they work in the same hot,crowded room as their employees and are victim to the supply and demand oftheir distributors—but they do.  Inplaces like the Lower East Side, people are so desperate for work they’ll putup with anything, and that gives the shop owners power.  

And when it’s a shopfull of men and one girl?  Too often, thingshappen that never should.

That’s the problemwhen workers don’t have any power.  Whena girl’s forced to choose between starving and freezing on the streets, orworking in a shop where the men make lewd comments, she’ll go back to the shop,because she has to.

And that’s whatAlbina did when she was done talking to me. She had no other choice.

Some girls arefortunate enough that they can choose something else—like Sarah did, when shewas fifteen and the baster she worked with tried to grab her.  She punched him, walked out, and after thatswore she would only work in shops owned by women.  But there’s a difference between Sarah andAlbina: Sarah’s income wasn’t the only thing keeping our family afloat.  We could afford for her to spend a few dayssearching for a new job.  Albina’s familycouldn’t.

And that was where Iwent wrong.

I wrote a goodarticle—even my editor said so, and he usually tears my writing apart.  It didn’t name Albina, of course, onlydetailed what had happened to “a Polish girl working in a ‘sweatshop’ on the LowerEast Side,” and then went on to point out all the problems with sweatshopculture and not holding owners accountable and the workers not havingrights.  (I’d wanted to say that they needed rights, but that part got cutout.)  I wanted to get people riled up;to see change.

Instead what I got,the next afternoon, was Albina and her whole family, all shouting at once inPolish too fast for me to understand, and the only thing I could make out was, “Wetrusted you!”

Because somehow,Albina’s shop owner had read the article and made a guess that she was thegirl.  And when he confronted her aboutit, her face had given her away.

That’s how I got agirl fired.  That’s how I put animmigrant family in danger.  And of courseI didn’t mean to—I’d been trying to help. But they’d trusted me, and everything had fallen apart.

I still don’t knowhow to fix it.  I’ve tried to find Albinaa few times, wanting to give her the name of the woman Sarah worked for, to offerto do anything I can, but I haven’t been able to find her.  I wrote a follow-up to the article, becausewhat’d happened just proved my point, but that didn’t do any good for Albina.

So now I’m not surewhat to do.

I mean, when Jackscabbed, at least he’d known the consequences. He’d known we’d be angry.

But I hadn’t known theconsequences of writing that article.  Iwas trying to help.  I was trying to makea change.

But all I’ve done sofar is break somebody’s trust.

((EDITOR’S NOTE: Most of the sweatshop information in this story came from this article in the Tenement Museum’s encyclopedia…which is currently not working, but I’m hoping if I leave it here the link will be fixed soon.

Also, I still don’t speak Polish, so apologies for any incorrect translations.)) :)

[radarbrow2-blog]

The Linc - Eli Manning could be staying in the NFC East for “years” to come

Let’s get to the Philadelphia Eagles links ...

Pat Shurmur still thinks Eli Manning has years left as a quarterback - Big Blue View Shurmur was asked if, as he indicated when he was first hired, he believes Manning still has “years” of productive play left. His answer? “Yes, I do.” Finally, Shurmur was asked why he believes that. His answer? “Because I’ve seen him play good football, and I’ve seen how when we have a coordinated effort of protecting him, running the football effectively, and being able to run the ball throughout the game, it helps us. We threw the ball more than I would have liked to in the game that was really one score, but seven of those throws were two-minute before the half, and then there were 15 in the fourth quarter when we were down by 17. That skews the numbers. The important thing about yesterday in our coordinated effort was we didn’t get enough out of the runs when we chose to run the ball.” All of that certainly sounds like a coach willing to cast his lot with Manning again next season.

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10 thoughts on the Eagles’ huge win over the Rams - BGN The Eagles don’t have a quarterback controversy. Carson Wentz is still very much the Eagles’ franchise quarterback. He’s the long-term answer at the position. Go back and watch his 2017 tape if you need to remember why that’s the case. In the short-term, though, Foles should probably continue to start for the Eagles. If Wentz was healthy, he should be the one starting. The problem is he’s not healthy right now. Wentz’s back fracture requires three months to heal, according to Pederson. The Eagles should just rest him and roll with Foles.

At the Podium #15: A “Complete Team Game” - BGN Radio A new voice graces the At the Podium series with new starting quarterback Nick Foles in the rotation. He and Doug Pederson both talk about the Eagles playing a complete team game for 60 minutes in their upset of the Rams. In total 3 pressers included: Doug after the game, Foles after the game, and Pederson the next morning. FLY EAGLES FLY! Powered by SB Nation and Bleeding Green Nation.

Handing out 10 awards from the Eagles-Rams game - PhillyVoice Jim Schwartz has been out-coached a few times this season, but on Sunday night he had Sean McVay’s number. He dialed up blitzes at the perfect moments, and helped fluster and confuse Goff all game long. McVay, the (cough) 2017 NFL Coach of the Year, had some questionable moments. To begin, he messed up clock management late in the fourth quarter. And worse, he didn’t go for two with the Rams down eight after they scored a touchdown to draw within one score. Earlier in the season, Doug Pederson was in the same situation, and he explained the bulletproof logic in going for two in that scenario.

There is Hope - Iggles Blitz The Eagles have now won three out of their last four games. The only loss was at Dallas and we know that game could have been very different if the officials gave the Eagles the ball at the 16-yard line after the opening kickoff. That didn’t happen and the Eagles never could completely get their feet under them in that game. Injuries have significantly hurt this team and the Eagles aren’t going to play at the same level as last year. We can talk about Next Man Up and toughness and chemistry, but at a certain point you just don’t have enough talented players. Getting Avonte Maddox back made a real difference in the secondary. That gave the Eagles a competent CB. If the Eagles could get back Jordan Hicks, Tim Jernigan and Sidney Jones, the defense could take another step forward.

Explaining The QB Picture; Leftover Notes From Sunday - PE.com While Wentz remains the starting quarterback here – and there is no gray area at all in Pederson’s mind – the short term (meaning Sunday against Houston) belongs to Foles. The Texans are powerful up front defensively with J.J. Watt and Jadeveon Clowney on the edges, so Foles and the offense will see a whole new set of challenges against a 10-4 team. The long term belongs to Wentz – if the Eagles make the playoffs and Wentz is healthy, he likely starts, and he’s certainly the starter in 2019 and for many years after that.

Avonte Maddox: A Skeleton Key For Eagles Defense - The Draft Network What is Avonte Maddox in the healthy Philadelphia Eagle secondary? I’m not too sure, but I do know this: it’s not your average rookie, who can start at three different alignments (two of which he didn’t even dabble in in college) and provide quality reps from each position. Your average rookie corner doesn’t even hold his water against the Rams if he A) has been starting on the outside all season and B) was drafted in the early rounds! Maddox has been an absolute gem for Philadelphia — arguably the highest-impact draft pick they’ve had since Carson Wentz back in the 2016 class. He has more than earned a starting role somewhere next season — I’d imagine at nickel corner — but more than that, he has held this threadbare defense together long enough, well enough, and just strongly enough the Eagles playoff hopes are still alive.

The NFL’s biggest surprises, and who could copy them in 2019 - ESPN The Eagles have a 28.8 percent chance of making the postseason, and while they’re left with a pair of winnable games against Houston and Washington, I’m not sure that the formula we saw Sunday is something Philly could sustain into a long playoff run. They were able to hold a frustrated Sean McVay to 23 points on five red zone trips, as Jared Goff struggled to hit open receivers and made naive decisions with the ball. They won the turnover battle 3-1, which is going to be tough to do week after week with Nick Foles at quarterback. Pederson seemed to struggle to get the aggressiveness balance right yet again, but the Eagles managed to pull out the game when the Rams lost one possession on a fumbled punt and were stopped in the red zone on their subsequent try.

The Winners and Losers of NFL Week 15 - The Ringer “They’ve got Nick Foles” shouldn’t be a good thing. We saw him struggle in September. There are full years of evidence that Foles isn’t that good at playing quarterback, and just a few odd wins in December, January, and February to support the notion that Foles is an unstoppable clutch god. But it’s December. The mild-mannered backup quarterback just went into the phone booth, and he came out wearing a Super Bowl MVP’s clothes. It’s Nick Foles season.

How a Players-Only Meeting Sparked the Colts’ Recent Turnaround - MMQB While we’re there, a key number from that Eagles win: 30. That’s how many times Philly ran the ball, even with Josh Adams and Wendell Smallwood doing the heavy lifting, and it sure seemed to change the offense’s dynamic. I had a coach who’d played the Eagles a few weeks ago mention to me how hard the running back injuries seemed to be hitting them. What they needed, it seems, was more balance. Sunday night’s performance (31 passes, 30 rushes) went a long way to getting the efficient effort they did from Nick Foles.

Fletcher Cox battles through injury to ruin Jared Goff’s night - NBCSP “Nothing was going to stop me from finishing that game,” Cox said after the game like it was obvious. Nothing. Not only did Cox return to the game, on his first series back in the second quarter, but he also made a huge play. In a contest that featured some of the best pass rushers in the league, including the NFL’s sack leader on the other sideline, Cox in the second quarter picked up the only sack for either team on Sunday night.

Needy Camden families receive holiday baskets from Eagles player foundation - Courier Post A foundation headed by Philadelphia Eagles safety and Super Bowl champ Malcolm Jenkins gives away holiday food baskets and toys in several cities, but on Monday he expanded the program to Camden and with an unexpected personal visit. Fresh off the Eagles plane that landed Monday morning in Philadelphia following a 30-23 win over the Los Angeles Rams just before midnight Sunday, Jenkins arrived by 10 a.m. at the Antioch Baptist Church on Ferry Avenue in Centerville. There he helped wrap food and toy gifts for nearly 140 needy Camden families, working alongside approximately 100 volunteers from city churches, the local government and other organizations.

What kind of person wears a Kenjon Barner jersey? Stories behind the 10 oddest jersey choices at Eagles-Rams - The Athletic “I’m a Chargers fan. I was kind of butt-hurt when the whole thing went down with L.A. and them moving. My roommate at the time was an Eagle fan. He gave me the jersey. I got rid of all my (Chargers) shit. Before they won the Super Bowl, so I’m not a bandwagon jumper! And, it was a free jersey, that’s why I took it.” — Karl

A tradition unlike any other: The Cowboys falling apart down the stretch - Yahoo! Sports OK. How about this for a reality check: These Dallas Cowboys – despite digging themselves out of a hole and smoothing out some rough edges during a five-game winning streak – still look like the same, old franchise that finds a way to fall apart when everything is supposed to be coming together. You can call that a coaching problem. You can blame some talent holes. You can curse the decades of Jerry Jones failures. But whatever you do, don’t call this team anything different than so many others that have teased the fanbase and then collapsed when it mattered most. That’s the reality, and here is the check: Until Dallas proves it’s capable of something different than the decades of frustration we’ve come to know, assume this kind of loss. Where the only silver lining is reaching for a suggestion that getting beaten down on the road against a good (but not great) team is somehow precisely what the franchise needed.

Looks Like Someone Has a Sixpack of the Mondays - Hogs Haven Before we talk about that potential victory, let’s give Josh Johnson some love. The 32-year old (because apparently the Redskins aren’t allowed to have quarterbacks younger than 32) played well enough to help the team get a win. What he lacks in “established success” and “pedigree,” he makes up for with effort and passion. Because of the money wrapped up in Alex Smith, and because Colt McCoy is likely to be the projected starter in September 2019, the Redskins are in need of a cheap option to consider going into camp next summer. Someone was/is going to be able to play their way into at least those plans. If Josh Johnson manages to helm this Redskins team to an unexpected playoff appearance, he will have earned the right to come back next summer and compete for a spot. While I am not saying this is the case now, he could even give the team an excuse to not draft a quarterback early in the draft. Maybe...maaaaaaaaayyyyyyybe. The Jaguars defense has not been the top-ranked unit we have seen in recent seasons, but it still has a load of talent and Johnson deserves some love for keeping the offense in the game.

Should Los Angeles Rams fans be hitting the panic button? - Turf Show Times The Rams are 11-3 and I believe, despite what I’ve said up to this, that they have as good a shot as any other team to win the Super Bowl this year. This isn’t the same kind of frustration I’ve felt during the Jeff Fisher, Steve Spagnuolo, Jim Haslett or Scott Linehan eras. This isn’t the hopeless feeling of rooting for a team destined to finish 4-12. This is the fear of watching what is probably the most talented roster in the NFL get dropped in the divisional round. Swept away and forgotten by everyone but us Rams fans. And all we’d be left with is a series of “what-ifs.”

The Cowboys should fire offensive coordinator Scott Linehan while it still matters - SB Nation The Dallas Cowboys were shut out Sunday for the first time since 2003. The 23-0 loss to the Indianapolis Colts took the wind out of the sails of a team that entered Week 15 on a five-game winning streak and comfortably ahead in the NFC East. It’s not panic time, though. The Cowboys are still ahead of Washington and Philadelphia, and finish the year with winnable games against the 5-9 Buccaneers and 5-9 Giants. Winning just one of those games would be enough to lock up the division crown. But some urgency to fix a clear problem is warranted — especially if the Cowboys hope to win in January. It’s time for the Cowboys to fire Scott Linehan. Or rather, it’s long overdue.

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