#Will have to keep pretending when they had the conversation where Stanley says being gay is still hard and that's why they moved to Away

[r0bee]

Where are the fics of Stanley and Arthur talking to Sean as older queer people to a freshly realised queer person please I need themmmmm pleaseee

[differentkindapiratemovies-blog]

Photography - Process and Meaning

My initial instinct when it comes to photography is to go out with a camera and shoot black and white stills of the real world. I even played around with self portraits for the first time in my life. But relating my photography work, whatever it was going to be, to the theme of transformation got me thinking. I very much want to make movies, and so how does photography relate to that? I don’t know a lot about photography itself, no photographers really or famous photographs I particularly like but I do know and like how it relates to films, things such as cinematography, composition, you know, basically everything except the image is still. Movies are essentially photographs shown one after another TRANSFORMING not only what we are seeing but the media we are seeing it in. So, my first idea was to write a little film, shoot it frame by frame (most likely with a continuous shooting DLSR camera which i did use) related to theme of transformation and print out every single frame and display it in a gallery like setting. However, this was impractical. Not only would it take a ridiculous amount of time (and printing credits) that I didn’t have. So maybe cut down the idea? How so? Okay, have not a short but a few SHOTS instead. All right, still impractical, especially on my time limit. 

I really thought about transformation, from transformation of the self as in me then to the medium itself to maybe making something to do with werewolves. I often deal with blocks when i come to physically doing something in recent times so I decided one day just to take my camera out to Camden Town just to break that wall down a little. Every time I go i think about how much it’s changed, or maybe at least not how I remember it. When I was growing up I was told Camden was a cool place to be but every time I go with my rose tinted glasses thinking of the times I missed out when real punks roamed the streets. Camden is filled with tourists, wannabes, homeless people, street pedlars trying to cell you CD’s and drugs and rowdy drunk people. Its dirty, its busy, its like the rest of London. Like the heart has been taken from it, never letting me in my time see what London was like. Especially since it has physically changed since I made memories there as a kid; a large part of the market that was unique that I used to spend time in with my family and made memories there was, well, gone. it just wasn't there. Instead, a block of flats being build. How depressing, how modern. 

So i saw a perfect opportunity when I saw a run down shop window with a sign reading Camden market that had yellow tape across it. CAMDEN IS CLOSED, GO HOME is shouted at me, with reflections of visitors and shoppers in the window. Perfect I thought so I started snapping, handheld. Then I played around with it in an editing software. I stared experimenting and then blurring frames over each other and repeating them in a hypnotic montage that could be played on loop for hours in a big dark room as an installation perhaps although I’ve never had much interest in that medium. The short series of photographs, or film, shows that in a sense Camden is dead, suggesting a transformation and showing a transformation in the mediums with photographs sped up becoming moving image then slowing down and stopping becoming a photograph. With an important aspect fading in an out of what can separate the two - sound. 

The reflections, almost Pepper’s Ghost-esque, symbolise the people who once came to Camden and no longer do but could also suggest the hollowness of the people who go there today, or maybe once did. The tape suggests the place is almost long abandoned with only remnants of what was, such as the ghosts of those who were, a cut-off sign, and tape, to suggest the place is no longer looked after and long forgotten. The “ghosts” could also mean the memories that are now just that- memories, hence the jittery imagery being on loop, like a memory replaying in the brain. Then comes in some negative and distorted colors for a brief few moments, yet another transformation, that the place, or the memory of it, is somehow corrupted or not what it used to be. I think I took some inspiration from Malcome Le Grice’s Berlin Horse when I was playing around in the edit, which a few nights in the library playing around with the frames and ideas I had. Then of course the day of shooting which meant a trip up to Camden itself. 

Historically, one moment when still image became motion happened around the 1870s-1880′s when Eadweard Muybridge was asked to take photographs of horses galloping. He would set up a series of cameras and triggers to go off at certain points as the horse galloped through the shots. It was here, the photographer became scientist where he discovered the human eye could not pick up on the fact that all of the horses hooves at a moment were all off the ground. The question is though- did this photographer now scientist accidentally create film/moving image by experimenting with horses? I believe this correlation between photography and moving image relates to my work. 

(See Sketchbook pages for additional things)

Overall I am not that happy with my final piece, Ghosts Of Camden, (although I do quite like the short myself) as I joined late onto this project and did not give myself enough time to really fulfil a project up to my standards. Although i have interest in photography my main passion is film and also where most of my knowledge comes from and the direction I want to go. I am not particularly interested in photography or know much about other practitioners except for its obvious connection to film with cinematography which i do enjoy (Stanley Kubrick himself being a photographer before a film director which is often why his films are very photographic). I also have an interest in Gonzo style going out and being an opportunist. If I had to do anything differently i would, well, go back and do it all differently. I would probably make somethings else, like a werewolf film and print off the frames so I could call it photography, although the fact I did a werewolf movie already put me off this idea. It’s been hard because I’m not very passionate about it and didn't have the time. One hundred hours is a long time for something you can’t get that excited about although in a way it was a relief because I tend to put a lot of pressure on myself with my favoured subjects. I enjoy taking photos, but thats about it. I realise I could of done a lot better both after and during the project. Like all art mine is down to interpretation and eventually the artists intent becomes all but meaningless, presuming of course that anything you ever make will be seen and be taken in.

Transformation Experiment:

I went out and tried to break the ice with the camera, playing around with flowers and the transformations they go through. From growing, to being alive, then dying and being dead, no matter what way they die. The same process all living things and beings go through.

Transformation 1:

The moment a street peddler having a conversation then hugging a stranger. There isn’t a lot to say about this but I take an interest in capturing untouched real moments out in the world. 

Transformation 2: 

The moment a woman bending down to tie her shoe lace, the only person to be at the same height as the nearby homeless man who everybody walks by and pretends isn't there. For the single moment she’s on the same level as the homeless man before she gets up and becomes apart of the moving crowd again, not noticing the man. Also note the homeless man is sitting next to a store front with a “penny sale” sign.

Various Photographs:

A graffiti tag on an advert of woman with the words “I Saw It First”, obviously referring to her fashion however with the frame cut off and with the tag it implies that the tagger himself is saying this about the woman and perhaps the photo is a comment on sexism. 

A young black woman and an old white man walk smiling although looking in different directions, probably seeing different things in the world, though almost harmonise. 

Outside of a gay bar a group of men smile and look at some of the women-orientated sex ads in the phone box. Although one of my attempts at photographing the seedier side of London is in fact a comment on how masculinity could be masking as something else.

A person walks up the street on her smart phone as we see to the right of the frame old disused phone boxes, an image showing the changes of technology.

A homeless person sits has headless people decide not to take notice of him, being distracted by a diversion that we usually pretend to see when walking past homeless people although here is a physical sign. Perhaps something the media doesn’t want us to see? 

Tearing Through Time- Self portraits at different stages torn up and stuck together inconstantly. I don’t do too well with time, I can never seem to keep up with it. This was me expressing that.

Various self portraits trying to capture my own raw emotions going through different stages. I’m not a fan of self portraits, these are probably my first and last attempts. 

Last Transformation 

[missweber]

'A' is for...

On AO3

Summary:

The night of the last game of the Stanley Cup Finals, Kent learns that 'A' can stand for a lot of things. These include, but are not limited to:

Alternate. Ally. Asshole. Assumptions. Alone.

I've seen a lot of varied and interesting takes on Kent since the last update dropped, and the Kent you see here is just one of several possible headcanons I have for the guy. Basically, he's still pretty messed up, but has taken a few first steps towards getting better. YKentMV, of course.

NBC was about to cut to a pre-game interview with Bob, and Kent was still on the fence about whether or not it was a bad idea to watch when Swoops pulled him away from the TVs (sloshing beer all over the place as he went) and asked him what it would be like if Jack won the Cup tonight.

"And I want your real answer, Parser, not whatever line of BS you're already planning to feed the media when they ask, 'cause you know they're gonna ask. I'm your A, buddy. It's my job as alternate to look out for you, eh?"

"Huh. I thought that A on your sweater stood for 'asshole of the useless variety'," Kent retorted with a wink and a grin. In practice, the Aces' alternates didn't actually do much aside from planning off-season parties and cookouts. Not that Kent did much more than that as captain. He made a note to feel guilty about that later. Or not.

Swoops stared at him for a while, and he might have been having a little trouble focusing. He was definitely having to lean on a nearby slot machine for support.

"You still with me, Swoops? What is it?"

"What it is, is that it's way too early for me to be drunk enough I can't think of something 'C' stands for that won't make you want to knock my teeth down my throat," Swoops said. "Do me a solid and pretend I said something out-of-this-world clever that wouldn't have HR crawling up my ass again, okay?"

Kent laughed bitterly, knowing that most of the guys would have gleefully unleashed the homophobia or misogyny without a second or even a first thought. He gave Swoops a friendly shove. "Sure. You're a good egg, Swoops."

"Damn straight, I am. I'm a fucking brilliant - what'd that stupid inclusion video call it? Ally? Yeah, ally. Now are you going to answer my question, or what?"

"It'll be a good thing," Kent said after thinking it over for a bit.

Swoops gave him a dubious look over the rim of his glass, and even though he didn't press for an explanation, Kent gave him one. Well, part of one.

"If he wins, we'll be back on even ground, y'know? If the Falcs win, there's no way Ja... Zimms won't get the Smythe, the way he's been playing. Plus, it's pretty much a given he's gonna get the Calder, and Ovie only beat him out for the Richard by that one goal that shoulda been called off anyway."

Swoops groaned and banged his head (gently, of course) on the slot machine. "Jesus, Parser. Do not tell me you're going to try to hook up with that douchebag again. Just... no. The third time is not the charm here."

Kent didn't blame Swoops for reacting like that, even if the exaggerated shudder at the 'no' was kind of rude. He'd drunkenly outed himself to Swoops after the first Samwell visit, and Swoops was the only person who even had half a clue about how bad things got after that second visit. As far as Swoops was concerned, Zimms was Bad News.

"I miss my friend," Kent said. It was true. He did. Zimms got him in ways no one else ever had. He had felt safe around Zimms in ways he still didn't with anyone else, not even Swoops. "And believe it or not, I want my friend back."

"You've got friends here," Swoops grumped. "Are we not good enough for you or something?"

Kent laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before guiding him back towards the bar. "Sorry, pal, but you're a second liner all the way. Now come on or we're gonna miss the puck drop. Also, do yourself and everyone else here a favor and switch to water until second period at least. You're a tragedy waiting to happen."

That seemed to end the conversation as far as Swoops was concerned, but Kent's mind kept rolling with it even though he wished it wouldn't. He had finally accepted after that disastrous second Samwell visit (plus way too many 'healthy' scratches and finally caving to management's threats and seeing a therapist) that he couldn't make Zimms get back together with him, or be friends with him, or even be willing to talk to him again. Recently, he had even taken a few baby steps towards acknowledging the bitter truth that trying to get Zimms back may have instead fucked things up past the point of repair.

But was it a crime to want? To hope? To daydream?

There were so many ways things could go down, if Jack won the Cup.

He could call Jack to congratulate him and Jack would actually answer the phone. Or, Jack might finally feel like he'd proven himself and be the one to call Kent. Maybe they could meet up at the NHL Awards. Maybe they could apologize to each other and everything would be okay. Maybe they could be friends again. Maybe they could be more. Maybe things would start off slowly, or maybe - now that they could finally meet as equals again - it would all come back in a heated rush.

Or maybe Scraps (of all people - what the hell?) would sit next to him in a shitty sports bar and nervously pass him a phone so Kent could sit there in a very public place and watch Jack kiss some other guy in front of the whole fucking world.

Kent could have sworn he was watching from somewhere over his own shoulder as Jack pulled a blond kid into his arms. They kissed, and it was so much like what Kent imagined, what he had dreamed over the years, that the blond in Jack's arms became a reflection made solid and it was him Jack was kissing and all his wishes and dreams and fears had been captured and were being broadcast in full color even though he had tried and tried to keep it all hidden. Everyone was going to know about him, it was out, he couldn't stop it...

...and then a dozen Falconers swarmed the duo, with St. Martin hauling Jack into a hug and Robinson ruffling the blond kid's (not Kent's) hair and Mashkov damn near causing a wipeout because he apparently forgot he was on crutches and tried to throw the kid over his shoulder. And then all the WAGs were there, and the kid scooped up someone's toddler like he'd done it a million times before.

They knew. They knew, and they didn't care. They knew, and fuck, did that mean they knew about Kent? Did everyone know? Kent was getting lightheaded and he knew he should breathe but he couldn't, he couldn't move. He couldn't.

"Oooh, so he's gay or whatever? Jesus Christ."

Carl. Of course. Shit, shit, shit, of all the people to figure out Kent's secret, it had to be that sub-literate douchebro, but wait, no, he was talking about Jack? Yeah, he was talking about Jack and somehow that made it a million times worse. Swoops - Kent was pretty sure it was Swoops - said come on, Carl, but he was half-laughing as he said it, and it only made Carl double down and make some crack about the Cup parade.

It wasn't funny, but everyone laughed. Everyone. Everyone but Kent, and Scraps, who had gone kind of green and stuck out his hand for his phone. Swoops changed the subject by goading Carl to talk about his favorite subject (Carl), but he was still laughing like a hyena along with everyone else at that fucking stupid parade joke.

Kent shoved the phone back at Scraps and tried not to think about why the guy looked like he wanted to puke. He was probably going to wipe his phone down with hand sanitizer or something to get rid of the gay cooties from the video.

Kent stood up abruptly. "I gotta use the little boys' room," he said, half-hoping it would lure Carl into making another crack, one that would give Kent a halfway decent excuse to bash his empty skull in with a bar stool, but no one said anything as he stalked off.

He strode straight past the men's room and out the back exit. He wanted to cool off and take a deep breath, but the temps were still in the upper eighties and the exit emptied out right next to a very full and very ripe dumpster.

"Shit!" He kicked at a beer bottle that had fallen out of the recycling bin. It shattered where it landed several yards away but the noise from the Strip ate up his shout and the sound of broken glass. He picked up another bottle. This one, he threw. "SHIT!"

"Uh, Parser?" came a tentative and not very welcome voice.

"Go back inside, Jeff," Kent said as calmly as he could make himself. He waited for a count of ten breaths, but when he looked over his shoulder, Swoops was standing there, shuffling awkwardly in place and looking like he wished he was either a lot more sober or a lot more drunk.

"Y'know, the restrooms are inside, but if you were planning to piss on Carly's tires, I won't stop you. Hell, I think half the guys on the team wouldn't lift a finger to stop you."

Kent looked away and started walking. His car was only a block away. "Right. Just like they didn't lift a finger to stop Carl when he decided to be an ignorant asswipe. Thanks, by the way."

"Aw, c'mon, Parser!" Swoops sounded closer than before, which meant that he was following Kent, which, no thank you. "He was just being an idiot, like usual."

An idiot about something that Swoops knew damn well was a big sore spot for Kent. He'd seen how big of a sore spot it was. Twice.

"And everyone laughed at him - like usual. Including the guy who's my best friend on the team." He didn't stop walking. "I'll tell you what, that was a fan-fucking-tastic way to end this shit-show of an evening!"

And this was where Swoops should apologize or maybe just say whoops! and he'd try to do better next time. But no, that was not the kind of night Kent was having.

"What? So I laughed. Big deal! It just sort of happened, and it would have been a way bigger deal not to, you know?"

Kent stopped short and wheeled around, forcing Swoops to stumble back a step. "Pro tip - 'Not funny, dude' is a great phrase. Useful in hundreds of different situations. Learn it," he said with a jab at Swoops' sternum.

Swoops batted Kent's hand away, and looked him up and down with a curled lip. "Jeez. Lighten the fuck up, Parser. Like he said, Carly didn't actually say anything wrong before I tried to stop him the first time. And hey, at least I was eventually able to get him talking about something else, right?"

Of course Swoops wouldn't think it was wrong. It wasn't like Carly had said anything that was out and out false or blatantly homophobic, but even just thinking about trying to explain why it was wrong was profoundly exhausting.

Zimms would get it. But Zimms wasn't here.

"Yeah. Great. You made a passing attempt at being a decent human being. Gold star for Swoops!" he cheered, doing jazz hands for that little extra touch. "Happy?"

Swoops' face twisted into something ugly, but then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Look... I don't know what you want from me, Parser. I know the whole Zimmermann thing has got to suck big, hairy balls, but what - did you want me to tell Carly the whole sob story so he can walk on eggshells around you? I thought the whole point is that you want to keep this shit on the down-low!"

"What I want is to know that you've got my back! We're on the same god-damned team! You got the A this year, which means that you and me," he said, gesturing back and forth between the two of them and not doing a very good job of keeping his hand from shaking, "we're a team within a team! You're supposed to be on my side, genius! Not the side of some third-rate bench-warmer. Most of all, you're my friend, not Carl's, and what I want is for you to understand why I'm pissed off that you laughed at a joke he made at my expense!"

Swoops flung his arms wide. "He doesn't know you're into guys! He doesn't know you had a thing with Zimmermann! What I keep trying to tell you, dumbass, is that the whole point is that no one on the team knows!"

It was strange, how when anger spiked to a certain point, it turned into a calm, implacable clarity.

"Yeah, Swoops, you're right. But you know. And you don't fucking get it."

The calm was starting to sizzle away, and Kent had finally figured himself out well enough to know that if he didn't get the hell out of there right now, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from saying things that would leave scars - and not just on whatever poor bastard he flayed with his words.

"Screw it. I'm done," he said before he or Swoops could say anything they'd regret. He turned and walked off. "See you later. If we're lucky, we'll both go home, get blackout drunk, and forget about this whole clusterfuck."

He was not at all surprised to hear protests and footsteps stumbling up behind him.

Kent lifted his hand to knock away the shoulder-clasp he knew was coming. "Do not fucking touch me, asshole!"

"Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, Parser?"

Kent said nothing. He just kept walking.

What was wrong with him was that he missed Jack. It wasn't just that he missed the man he still loved (and who clearly no longer loved him). It wasn't even that he missed his friend.

What he missed was having someone around who actually got it. Someone who knew what it meant to have his back. Someone who understood that 'ally' was something you did and not just a label you slapped on like a letter on a jersey because you watched a stupid video.

He missed not feeling so fucking alone all the time.

"Screw you, Parse!"

Kent was pretty sure Swoops was flipping him off, but he didn't look back to confirm. He was pretty sure he knew how this would play out based on past experience. Neither of them would get all the way to blackout drunk, but they'd both wake up tomorrow with miserable hangovers. Swoops would come by around eleven with a jug of his secret-recipe Bloody Marys (the secret being extra vodka and half a bottle of Frank's Hot Sauce) and offer a hangdog 'we good, buddy?' by way of apology.

And Kent would say they were good, and he would pretend that they were, because for all that it was exhausting how much Swoops didn't get it, he was a good friend more often than he was a shitty one, and right now it looked like that was the best Kent could hope for.

He wanted better than that, though. Especially tonight, because he knew that this thing with Jack was like that slap shot that clipped his ankle a couple of years back. When it first hit, he knew it hurt like a motherfucker, but all it was: knowledge. The actual pain came after. Right now, the pain was like a boulder balanced on the edge of a cliff, and any second now it would come crashing down on him and he wouldn't be able to stop it.

Most all, though, he was tired. God, he was tired.

He jolted into panicked wakefulness, however, when he rounded the corner. Someone was lurking with intent right by his car. A someone who had a good five inches and forty pounds on him. It didn't take long for Kent to recognize who it was.

"Scraps? What the hell are you doing out here, man? You need a ride or something?" Kent thought he sounded reasonably calm, but who knew what kind of speculation shitbags like Carl had indulged in after Kent left? What were the odds that someone had remembered the rumors about him and Jack and put two and two together, and shit, maybe he shouldn't have left after all...

"I - " Scraps started, and then his mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. Kent stopped a few feet away, not wanting to get any closer until he had a good feel for what was going on and how quickly he might need to get away.

Scraps was an old-school enforcer, the kind of guy there was less of in the league the more there were guys like Kent. He was a tough guy's tough guy, and he wasn't known so much for his skill as he was for having taken a skate to the face during a pile-up and then trying to get back on the ice as soon as the stitches were in. This season, he had been suspended twice. Two games for boarding that speedy little dude on the Flames and four games for cross-checking the Aeros' captain hard enough to break two ribs. He was the guy people pointed at first when they talked about 'typical Aces hockey.'

So why, Kent wondered, as he started walking towards the car again, was Scraps the one who looked like he was about to piss himself? Scraps was five or so years older than Kent, but right now it would have been easier to believe it was the other way around.

"I wanted to talk to you," Scraps mumbled, looking like he was trying to make eye contact with the rats in the gutter. "Sorry if I, uh..."

"No, no... It's okay, man." Kent slowed his approach, speaking softly and telegraphing his moves the way he did when Kit was in one of her twitchier moods. "It's okay."

He didn't really think it was, but Scraps wasn't shaking quite as badly as he had been a second ago.

"It's just, um, you got real upset when I showed you that video."

"Right," Kent said slowly, not sure where all this was going. Scraps still wasn't looking him in the eye, and he kept scuffing his hand over his head and swallowing hard every few seconds.

"But you also got real upset when Carly started joking about your friend. I mean, he's your friend, right? Zimmermann?"

"Yeah. We haven't seen each other in a while, but yeah." No, it wasn't exactly true, but this wasn't the time or place to get into all the gory details.

Scraps was slouched over and hugging himself, looking more like a kid who had just come up from Juniors than someone who had played his first NHL game while Kent was still a bantam.

"And it doesn't... I mean, you're okay with him kissing another guy?"

No, Kent really, really wasn't okay with Jack kissing another guy, but not for the same reason Scraps thought he wouldn't be okay.

"Zimms can date whoever the hell he wants," he snapped, daring Scraps to challenge him. What was Scraps getting at with all this, anyway? Screw it. He was pissed, and he was going to say what he wished Swoops had said to Carl Fucking Chadwick back at the bar. "And even though Falcs management is probably going to hand his ass to him tomorrow, he's got the same damn right to kiss his boyfriend after winning the Cup that St. Martin and Robinson had to kiss their wives."

And if you think any different, then go take a long walk off a short pier, you pea-brained troglodyte.

He was expecting to get some kind of stammering, insincere protest that still managed to be eighteen different kinds of offensive.

What he got instead was one of the league's most notorious goons sitting down hard on the hood of Kent's brand new car, covering his eyes with one hand and flat out sobbing.

What the hell?

Oh.

Oh.

Heart rabbiting in his throat, Kent closed the remaining distance between him and Scraps in a flash. "Hey, hey... it's okay, man. It's gonna be okay. I promise. Now get off the car, because you're wearing jeans and the rivets will fuck up the paint. And can you please stop crying, because you're freaking me the fuck out."

What the fuck was he was supposed to do next? Should he ask Scraps to confirm what Kent thought? Or maybe he should chime in with a supportive 'me too!' (and yup, there was the automatic spike of nausea and panic at the thought). Or maybe he should just try to find some tissues somewhere because Scraps was wiping away snot with the back of his hand and that was just gross. And maybe he should stop trying to take refuge in wisecracks, even ones that didn't leave the privacy of his own head.

Or maybe he should just do what he wished Swoops had had the fucking courage and decency to do.

"I'm sorry, Scraps," he said, and the confused look he got from the other man was just heartbreaking. Whatever Scraps had been expecting from Kent, an apology certainly wasn't it. "They should give me the A instead of the C, because everyone knows A stands for 'asshole.'"

"No you're not," Scraps mumbled. "An asshole, I mean. I thought, well, I hoped you'd be okay with this. With me."

Kent took a deep breath, because bursting into hysterical, nervous breakdown-style laughter wouldn't help anyone right now.

"Someone should have... I mean I should have told Carl to shut his fucking mouth." And maybe he should have, but Kent had assumed it was just him in the cross-hairs, and why the hell would he want to draw attention to himself when it was clear that no one was going to have his back? "I'm your captain. I know some guys say all that means is that I'm the guy who gets to plan the parties, but I should've been looking out for you."

Scraps still wouldn't look him in the eye. "You didn't know."

"That doesn't matter."

If he hadn't had the first clue about Scraps, what else had he missed? Who else might have been in that bar, laughing to cover their own butts but also watching to see how their captain and alternates reacted? Shit.

"So it doesn't bother you, that I, uh..."

Kent raised an eyebrow. "Like guys?"

Oh, Scrappy, my friend, do I have news for you.

"Yeah. And, y'know," he said, voice cracking, "have a boyfriend?"

Kent swore he felt a circuit breaker trip in his brain. Everything he thought he knew about Scraps was rearranging itself so fast he couldn't keep up. Scraps had a reputation as a player because he kept coming to practice with hickeys in interesting places, and from the way he talked, he burned through girlfriends at a rate that assholes like Carl found aspirational.

Girlfriends no one had ever met.

Girlfriends he always managed to break up with right before family skate or the team Christmas party or the post-season cookout.

And, now that he thought about it, Kent couldn't think of anyone ever saying that they'd been to Scraps' place even though he'd been with the team since the expansion draft. He honestly couldn't say he had any clue where in the city Scraps lived.

"A boyfriend, huh? That's cool," Kent said, because Scraps was getting visibly nervous at his lack of response. Now what else were you supposed to say at times like this? "Uh, how long have you two been together?"

And Christ, the way Scraps' eyes went soft for just a second hit Kent square in the heart the way Kit had when he first saw her huddled in the back of her cage at the shelter.

"Since we were fifteen. But me and Donny, we knew each other forever before then, I mean, he grew up two houses down from me. I don't remember ever not being friends with him."

Kent did the math on that, and even if he got it a little wrong, he knew that Scraps and his boy had been together a long time. Longer than any other couple he knew except for Bob and Alicia. And given what Kent knew about the tiny Alberta town Scraps came from, it was probably nothing short of a fucking miracle that they'd gotten together in the first place and survived to tell the tale. Or not tell it, as it turned out.

"I'm jealous. No, seriously, man. That's awesome," he said when Scraps gave him a sidelong look as if not sure if Kent was teasing him or not. He really was jealous, but it didn't feel like it was going to turn poisonous.

Scraps nodded brusquely, like he was squaring himself up for something. "I want us to go all the way next year, Parser. I want us to win again, and then I wanna do what Zimmermann did."

"You should've been able to do that five years ago, and I'm so fucking sorry you couldn't." Kent wished it was otherwise, but he couldn't see the Aces reacting to Scraps the way the Falcs had reacted to Jack.

Scraps didn't say anything. He just rubbed at his scar, a nervous gesture that came out only rarely, and Kent remembered with a twist in his gut how insistent he was that he get back out on the ice or at least back on the bench even though his face was still a mess.

"First things first, though," Kent said when he could breathe again, "I'm gonna help you figure out how to get Donny onto your emergency contacts list, okay?"

Scraps startled the way you did when it felt like someone had just read your mind, but then he looked like he was going to start crying again. "Management doesn't know."

They don't know about me, either, Kent almost said. He still wasn't sure he wanted them or anyone else to know. He'd need to think about it, and talk to a bunch of other people first. His therapist, for sure. Bob, maybe. "Okay. So give me his number and I'll make sure that if he needs to know anything, he'll know it."

"Thanks, Parser." Scraps looked relieved, but drained down to the last drop. Kent knew how that felt. He wondered if he should tell Scraps about himself, but it wouldn't be now. Not on top of everything else that had happened tonight.

"Things are going to change, Scraps. I'm gonna make sure of that. I should've done that earlier, but..." He shrugged. But he couldn't have his own back. He couldn't be his own ally.

He sure as hell could be someone else's ally, though.

"But?"

"But I was an asshole. Plain and simple. I could've made things different, but I didn't, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell Carl to shut the hell up. And don't say it's okay, because it's not. But I'll make it okay. I promise. Things are gonna change and when the time comes, you'll get to plant one on your boy at center ice if that's what you want. Or maybe you can go one better and put a ring on it. Now let me drive you home - you look seven kinds of wrecked. Where do you live, anyway?"

Scraps gave him the address.

"Boulder City!? Are you shitting me? You mean I've got to drive all the way to..." He slumped and tried to rub away the stress headache. "Argh! You know what, never mind. I said I've got you, so I got you. Get in the car. Why are all my friends are such freaking losers? Boulder City? Seriously?"

Someone else might have thought it weird how Scraps' face lit up at being chirped like that, but Kent got it.

They drove in a weirdly comfortable silence for a while, Scraps only interrupting to point out a better way to get to 215.

It was good to have something to think about that wasn't Zimms and whoever-the-fuck it was that wasn't Kent even though it was only holding off the inevitable collapse for just a bit longer.

But if he had a reason to keep his shit at least somewhat together...

"Remind me to call my therapist tomorrow."

Scraps startled away from looking into the darkness that had taken over once they passed Henderson. "Huh?"

"It's a long story, which I think you should maybe hear parts of, but not right now, okay?" Scraps needed to talk to Donny, and Kent needed to get home and cuddle with Kit and let himself break down for a little bit.

"Uh, okay?" Scraps had reverted to his usual state when not on the ice, which was pleasantly befuddled. "Oh! Turn here."

Scraps guided him through a maze of suburban streets. The general feel was upscale and private but not flashy, which was not what Kent would have expected. Of course, tonight had brought a lot of things he had not expected.

Kent finally pulled up in front of a faux-adobe house that looked like the kind of place you'd get if you maybe wanted to have kids some day. It was the sort of place you'd get with someone you'd been with for fifteen years.

Fifteen years. Jesus. He and Zimms had had less than a year as more-than-friends, and look how much it had fucked him up.

Scraps unlocked his door, but Kent reached out to stop him from getting out of the car "Hey, there's some stuff I gotta take care of tomorrow, but this weekend, I want you and Donny to come to my place for lunch or whatever. First of all, I need to see what kind of guy has been willing to put up with your ignorant ass for over a decade. Second of all, we need to talk about how we can start making things right. You want to come out to the team, right?"

"Yeah. If Donny does, I mean. But yeah."

"You do know that if you do, and it goes okay, you two are so going to get stuck with hosting cookouts for the team because it looks like you've got a sweet backyard there."

Hell, in a perfect world, they'd end up billeting a rookie or two, assuming the rookie was okay with driving out to East Jesus every day.

Scraps laughed and Kent thought that maybe everything would be okay.

He waited in his car until he saw that Scraps got safely inside. He got a brief, shadowed glimpse of a large man pulling Scraps inside and into a hug before the door closed behind them.

Kent punched his own address into his GPS because suburbs always confused and annoyed him. Then, he hit the road.

He could feel the thing with Zimms pushing at his head like the first pulses of a migraine, but his mind was whirling with enough other stuff to keep it at bay for the next little while at least. He started making a list.

First, he'd text his therapist a few details the minute he got home. Once she saw what it was about, Elaine would clear the decks for a phone appointment, no questions asked. Hell, if she'd watched the game or even just the news about the game, she was probably planning to call him if he didn't get in touch by tomorrow.

Next, he'd text Swoops and tell him to show up no earlier than eleven with a double batch of his special Bloody Marys. If Swoops was too hungover to drive or decided he was still pissed off at Kent about tonight, then Kent knew where Swoops lived and where he kept his spare key. He also had an air horn and he was not afraid to use it.

One way or another, they were going to have a little talk about what it meant to be a captain and what Kent would be expecting of his alternate captains going forward. They would also talk about how being an ally wasn't just not saying shit that would get you a fine for unsportsmanlike conduct. And then, if all went well, the two of them could gang up on Link and either get him with the program or find ways to make his life a living hell.

(He made a mental note to talk to Elaine about what to do if things didn't go well and Swoops decided to be an asshole after all.)

No matter what happened, though, things were going to change. They were already changing because of Jack, and it was long past time they changed because of Kent.

Fifteen years. How many other guys were out there in the league right now who were just like him or Scraps? How many had there been over the past hundred years? He shuddered. If he thought too much about it, he was going to be sick.

He was able to keep his thoughts down to a dull roar for the rest of the drive home and then up from the parking garage to his condo. Even before he got the door open, Kit was yowling like she'd been abandoned for weeks.

It wasn't until he scooped her up and she was purring like a cement mixer and butting her head up under his chin like she was trying to crawl inside his head that something finally struck him. He'd been so busy bracing himself for the inevitable breakdown about Zimms that he'd missed something else completely. Something big.

It was so freaking huge that he wondered why he hadn't seen it before, but now that he did see it, he collapsed back against the door and slid down to the ground because the sudden flood of relief was as overwhelming as any pain.

"I'm not alone, baby girl," he said as the tears finally came and would not stop. "I'm not alone anymore."

[grace-facing]

Y’ALL NEW JACKET FIC LMAO SURPRISE

so like a million years ago i posted about making a new jacket fic. well. here it is. NOBODY ASKED FOR THIS BUT ENJOY IT NONETHELESS. also please read my authors note because reasons. thanks. 

you can also read it here, yay! 

Hyacinth, in Blue Perhaps

Three's Company AU where Jack Tripper is a PI in Santa Monica, and Janet Wood tags along at some point to help him out. Romance and mystery and action ensues.

A/N: so. This is a thing! Short, and fairly simple. It would've been a full, fleshed out story, but I loose motivation rather quickly so it's been reverted to just this. Enjoy! Also, characters are out of character! Ooc! Ooc! Ooc! They are hella out of character lmao! ALSO, also! I literally know NOTHING about how 80's detective work went down. I know nothing at all. Pretend everything you are about to read makes sense, yeah? Coolio. He knew he should've shoved the tissue box into his overcoat pocket when he left the apartment this morning, for the vulnerable blonde sobbing in the middle of his claustrophobic office. 

His eyes flickered to the photograph in his hands of an adolescent girl, with bright blonde hair in pigtails and big blue innocent eyes. She says the picture is fairly recent; taken by an amateur photographer whom her elementary school hired for picture day only a couple of months ago. It's a perfect picture to keep for reference. It's mostly up to date, lighting is decent. Her face is clearly shown and her features are visible. Numerous other descriptions were even written on the back, courtesy of the mother, whom still sat in a crumpled mess. This photo will do quite nicely. "Miss Snow..." Jack began, slightly unsure of how to comfort this woman. "I know you are experiencing a lot of pain right now, but please, trust me when I say I'm going to find your daughter." The woman ceased her uncontrollable sobs and managed to look into his eyes. She dabbed at the trail of tears that raced down her reddened cheeks and offered a very small and grateful smile. "Thank you," she squeaked. Jack nodded sympathetically and placed the picture on the surface of his desk, atop of all of his files that littered it. The woman eyed the mess and resumed her loud wailing, almost as if accepting the negative fate of her missing daughter. That's never good. Jack's face quickly fell, shooting straight up from his seat and dashing over to kneel next to her. "Miss Snow..." "Chrissy. Please...just call me Chrissy." She muttered, running the sleeve of her arm over her dripping nose. Jack cringed at the action but hastily nodded at the request. "Of course...Chrissy. I'm sorry things had to turn out this way for you and your family. I'm confident I will bring her back safe to you." He patted her knee soothingly.   After more crying and awkward displays of comfort, Chrissy stood to part ways with the PI. "I'd appreciate it if you don't let me down, Mr. Tripper." Jack almost smiled but quickly remembered the serious situation at hand, so he settled with a single nod. She cast a final solemn glance at the photo on the desk and disappeared out into the hallway. Blowing out much-needed air, Jack buried his hands into his pant pockets and lulled his head back in efforts of cracking the tense muscles in his neck. Cindy. 8 years old. Daughter of Christmas Snow and Alan Grover. Divorced parents, so naturally Chrissy blames the father. Because of that, Jack must pay a visit to Mr. Grover, despite the state police have already done so, and him being cleared of any suspicion. Going to Jack was Chrissy's last resort. She had previously been involved with the cops in looking for her missing child, but after three weeks, she's given up on them, and even worse, they had too. According to Santa Monica police, Cindy Snow is a part of the cold case and her files are probably buried in someone's desk drawer, awaiting transfer into a box to be shipped off to an over packed filing storage unit. Jack shakes his head at the thought. One of the many reasons he's left the law enforcement ages ago.   Jack Tripper is now a lone wolf in the big city of Santa Monica. He managed to attain a license and afford himself an actual office, albeit cramped and hidden in the depths of a multi-purpose establishment. It works for him and that's all that matters. With very few actual authentic PI's in the area and almost all of them being terribly busy with other matters, Chrissy had no choice but to recruit Jack. She had heard some decent comments about the man when she had asked around and felt that she had to at least try. She'd figure she'd give him a week or two. Jack wanted to give himself less time because he felt fairly confident that his strategy will reward him the girl, safe and in her mother's arms. Sitting back down in his large rolling chair, Jack picked up the telephone and quickly dialed a number he knew all too well. Waiting for the dial tone to disappear, he tapped his finger on the photo. A familiar, charming hello sounded from the other end. Jack leaned back in his chair. "Hey, Larry." ... It had been raining for a few days now. Jack hadn't thought much of it until he stepped out of the building with no umbrella in hand. His suit is practically drenched by the time a car pulls up and he slips inside of it. Larry Dallas has been waiting, in reality, for a short while, but in his mind, it's a 'short while' too long, so he will argue that striking up an intriguing conversation with the busty waitress is more than reasonable. That's exactly how Jack finds him, and that's exactly what Larry argues. "Money and girls, Lar, that's all you choose to see in this world, are money and girls," Jack shakes his head amusingly, watching the way Larry's eyes light up in mischief.   The boys talk business. Business, in terms of money, girls, and maybe that basketball game they've happened to catch here and there. Eventually, it comes down to actual business. "How old?" "8." "Sheesh, too young to be stirred up in that shit," Larry mutters, he's dark eyes losing a bit of its shine. "I'll find her," "You really think?" "Of course." "Well, then. You'll find her." The conversation seemingly dies there. The two resume their drinking, minds obviously worlds apart. Larry brings them back to the same place. "You looking for any help?" Jack turns to stare at his friend. There's silence between the two for a few moments. "No. Why?" Larry leans back in his chair. "There's a girl. Short, brunette. Feisty. Threatened my leg," Jack snorts at that, "hear she's good at what she does," "And what does she do?" Jack raises an eyebrow, sensing where this may be going. "She's into detective stuff, too." "Oh? And she's here?" "Yeah. Recently moved. She's hiding out as some flower girl, Arcade Flower Shop or something. You should look into her." "I should?" "You should." "Hm." It's silent again. Jack leaves the restaurant with a strange woman's name on a napkin, and no ride home. The rain has stopped, so he walks.   ... Several days later, and Chrissy Snow is in worse shape than before. She had somehow managed to obtain Jack's address and proceeded to visit him there---without any warning. She left just as suddenly and unexpectedly as she arrived, wailing all the way to her car. Jack tried following after her, worried about her condition and emotional state. She shouldn't be driving like this. Many visions of accidents and car wreck scenarios swam through Jack's head, unsettling him further. "What is all of this commotion! Oh, Jack," a grumpy, irritated voice spoke, startling the young PI. He sees Chrissy tearfully getting into her car and speeding off, a knowing grin growing on his face. "Oh, I see, another girl bites the dust, eh? Had to let her down gently?" Jack sighs before turning to his older landlord, Stanley Roper. Somehow, the elder man has gotten into his head that Jack is gay, and no amount of real explanations can convince him otherwise, so Jack begrudgingly plays along. It's easier that way. "Something like that, Mr. Roper," Jack shakes his head and begins to head back up to his apartment. "Wait a minute, Jack," Mr. Roper disappears back into his home and returns a few moments later with a card in hand. "I need a favor. Mrs. Roper is out for the day, and I'm expecting a package. Do you mind stopping by this shop today and picking me up flowers? It's very important." Jack takes the card and inspects it, immediately recognizing the name of the shop. "Uh, sure. What's the occasion?" "A ticked off wife," Mr. Roper grumbled. He dug into his pocket in search of some loose bills. He hands it to Jack and thanks him before entering his apartment, a string of muttered curses following behind. The detective sighs and begins his long trek to the Arcade Flower Shop. ... It's empty when he enters the shop. There's no one in sight, so Jack rings the bell that was thoughtfully placed on the counter; among it are flowers and flowers and more flowers. "Just a moment!" A silvery voice calls from the back. Jack waits patiently, picking at the scattered flower petals. He steals a few glances toward the archway of what he assumes is the back room where more flowers must reside. It's another few moments, and then finally a figure emerges. The woman is short. Not devastatingly so, but short nonetheless. Her hair is dark and cropped, reaching just below the nape of her neck. Jack thinks it compliments the slight tan of her skin and the rich, earthy brown of her eyes. She's wearing a red buttoned blouse, tucked into a navy tight pencil skirt. If the man had to guess, since he can't see over the counter enough to get a look at her choice of foot ware, he would guess nude colored heels. Maybe black. Either way, this woman could probably both defend him and prosecute him in a court of law. The thought leaves a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Hello, there," the silvery voice hits him again, "Welcome to Arcade, how can I assist you today, sir?" Her smile is as bright as a neon sign, he'll give her that. However, the dark circles give her seemingly flawless features away. Jack digs into the inside pocket of his jacket and feels around for the card that Roper bestowed him. He finds it and flips to the back where a word is scrawled out with a pen. A name of a flower, maybe? "Uh, a friend of mind wanted me to pick up some flowers. He handed this to me. Think you can read it?" The woman leans a little closer, allowing Jack the pleasure to get a whiff of her floral perfume. The smell penetrates his senses for a moment, enough to get a high and curl his toes. She squints adorably and scans the word several times. Jack stares for a while. He's slightly startled when she suddenly speaks. "Hyacinth. We have a variation of colors; any specific preference?" "It's for his wife. A ticked off wife." "Ah. Purple, then. He needs purple." She turns and leaves the safety of behind-the-counter to search. "What's the meaning?" Jack inquires, following her move. "'Sorrow. Please Forgive Me, I'm So Sorry'," she fingers a couple of flower stems and manages to acquire a handful of, what he guesses is purple Hyacinth. The flowers are beautiful. Mrs. Roper will love them. "These flowers are beautiful. His wife will surely love them, that is if she generally loves flowers." Jack's eyes shoot back to the woman, taking in every facial feature and every word. "You're Janet Wood, yes?" There's a glint that flashes over her dark eyes. They stare each other down, and eventually, she nods. "Are you...a friend of Larry's?" Jack lets out a breathy chuckle. "I apologize on his behalf for anything he has done or said to you." Janet purses her lips and nods again. They talk for a while and Jack leaves the shop as empty as when he came in, a brunette florist following closely behind. ... "I hate when young children are involved," Jack turns to look at Janet, her grip tight on the steering wheel and her brows furrowed. He sighs and glances back to the photo in his hand. "Where did you say you worked out of? What office?" "Building on Ocean Vista," "Okay, I know where that is." They drive to Jack's office. Entering said office, the duo makes haste of the case. With more detail, Jack catches her up to speed and relays what he has done so far up until that point. "Are there any more family members to question?" Janet asks, searching eyes too busy scanning documents in hand. "Uh, yeah. A lot. Most live out here in California. Some are scattered throughout the country. Some out of the country. All of them cleared." Janet clicks her tongue. "Sheesh, not off to an easy start." "No kidding. I'm currently looking into non-family members. Strangers off the street, see if it's some random kiddie abduction." Janet's face contorts into a crinkly frown, desperately wishing that the child is not suffering harshly from this kidnapping. A young girl so precious, so curious, so worthy of life, doesn't deserve a kind of world where monsters and dangers can arise for tiny tots like her. It settles uneasily in the short brunette's stomach, forcing a heavy breath of exhale. Jack notices the uneasiness from his new partner and suddenly regrets taking her on. Cases like this tend to weigh drastically on a person's mind, no matter who. Even Jack himself is slightly more perturbed than usual. He decides to reach out a tentative hand to cover Janet's own soft one. He easily engulfs it, and it puts the man a little at ease. "I'm sorry for asking for your help," he says soothingly, "it's a lot to think about. Especially since we're going against time." Janet manages a slight tug upwards on the corner of her lips, looking eternally grateful for the caressing words of a man she's met a few hours prior. "I've handled worse. It's just never easier." The words live on forever in the depths of Jack Tripper, and when this is all over, he thinks, he wants to stay by her side. ... There's a sister-in-law they've never checked out before. Chrissy mentions her offhandedly during one of her tearful visits, and the duo decides to pay her a visit right after Chrissy detangles herself from a bone-crushing hug to Janet's smaller frame. Alan's sister-in-law, more specifically. Well. Ex, really. The good news is that she resides right there in Santa Monica. They jump into Janet's red car and speed off. It takes a total of 14 knocks for there to be an answer at the door. The answerer is someone they wouldn't expect. A man shorter than Jack, and still taller than Janet, albeit only slightly. He sports a goofy surprised expression, and kindly declines their offer of being let inside. While Janet attempts to talk their way in, Jack steps back a bit and cranes his neck to peek inside the large home. All he can scope out are expensive looking furniture and an ugly carpet. There's a dragon vase on top of a mantle over the fireplace that catches his attention for a nanosecond, before he decides he doesn't like it and continues to glance around. A small, framed photograph on the wall half obstructed by the door snags his attention too, but before he can stare at it a little longer, the door is being softly shut and Janet exhales a tired breath. She turns to face Jack and notices his wide look. He beckons her to silently follow him back to her car. "We need a way in," He says as soon as they slide in beside each other. "Yeah? We just tried the polite way. What's the probable cause?" "There's no search warrant yet. I saw a picture hanging up on the wall," "And?" "Of this." Jack holds up the school photograph of Cindy Snow. The very same one given to him by Chrissy Snow over a week prior. Janet nods and drives away. ... "Motive?" "We know she's babysat more than a few times years ago, we know she's become estranged after supposedly divorcing Alan's brother, we know the man who answered the door is Alan's brother, we know the home belongs to the sister-in-law, and we know she's had a past filled with petty theft and bribery, not to mention many threats directed at her co-workers. They sure loved throwing her under the bus when we questioned them." "And," Janet continues for him. "And?" "She can't have children. Biologically." Jack smiles at her, and he stills for a moment as he watches Janet Wood solve the world. ... They go back to the large house. It's dark now, and this time they're knocking a lot longer than when they did the day before. The lights are off, and they don't sense any form of movement from inside. Jack doesn't like the looks of it. At all. He tells Janet to wait on the porch while he jumps over the side railing and continues on to the back of the house. His hand inches closer to his holster strapped to his belt and rests it on his gun. He circles the house and finds nothing. Janet waits for him to meet her where he left her and sees the detest in his eyes. She offers a weak smile with furrowed brows as if to say that they have done way more than they should've, so they should at the very least not blame themselves for the outcome. It's simple to register that they've gotten away. Obviously, they packed up what they can and ran. A tiny 8-year-old in tow. Jack doesn't care anymore and kicks down the door. Janet is only slightly startled but follows him in like a shadow. She looks around on the first floor while Jack jogs up the stairs. There's plenty of evidence to see that there lived a young girl here. Scattered crayon drawings lay around, dozens of pink hair clips and purple headbands, a rainbow child sized rain jacket and a pair of small pink sparkly jelly shoes. The brunette stares at the shoes solemnly. The sound of someone running down the stairs catches her attention. "Do we know where Phillip lives?" "Even if we find out, they wouldn't have run off there." Jack's shoulder slumps defeatedly because of course, they wouldn't run off there, Jack. "But maybe there is someplace we can check out..." Jack follows Janet's stare and finds himself facing a large portrait of two people. Vicky Bradford and an older man. They can both guess whom that might be. ... James Bradford lives outside of Santa Monica. Way, way outside. They drive for what seems like hours, and finally, make it to his enormous estate. Someone answers after the first ring of the doorbell. "May I help you?" She's a plump, young woman, with beautiful curly hair tied in a ponytail. She's also wearing a rather plain housekeeping uniform. "Yes, hello," Janet speaks for them, "I'm Janet Wood and this is Jack Tripper," "Hello," Jack waves politely. The housekeeper nods. "And we're here to visit Mr. James Bradford. Is he available?" "Just a moment," the housekeeper turns and disappears back into the house. She comes back after a few seconds. "Please, come in. You can wait in the study." The two follow after her, giving their thanks when she leaves to find the man of the house. They wait for a total of seven minutes. Jack kept count. "I'm James Bradford," The duo immediately perks and stand up from their seats once they hear him introduce himself. "Who are you and why are you here?" Jack swallows almost audibly and casts a look to Janet. Her mouth forms into a line, holding out her hand for the older gentleman to shake. "I'm Janet. This is Jack. We're here to discuss a few important things regarding your daughter, Vicky," A flash of knowing ghosts over James's face, his eyes twitching slightly. Jack notes this and lets Janet continue their introductions. "We went to see her earlier, but she wasn't home. Do you mind telling us about her? If you might've seen her lately? Where she might be?" James stares at her as if she grew another head or two. It makes Jack a little uncomfortable and wants to punch the look off of the guy. Instead of answering straight away, the man moves to make himself a drink from the bottle of brandy that was sat out for anyone to take. Jack and Janet watch him intensely, silently beckoning him to say something on the matter. Silently, for the time being. "Well," he starts, after taking a long, hard sip, "Vicky. You see, I haven't seen or spoken to my daughter in months. I honestly have no idea where she might be if she isn't home. Out shopping, perhaps?" In his mind, Jack knows that he's lying. He decides to take the initiative to press further. "No. Not out shopping, is she? We asked around. We talked to her neighbors, her coworkers, we gathered a general draw up of her day to day schedule, and no. She's not out shopping." The intense stare that was shared between the two could melt mountains. Whatever that means. Janet decided this was a little too forward, so she easily stepped between the two who seemed as if they were going to throw down at any moment. "Mr. Bradford, we all know Vicky is not out...shopping. We need you to cooperate with us, please," she said, on the verge of pleading but not willing to at the moment. "A young girl is involved. Think if this was your daughter, if this was Vicky. 8 years old and away from her parents." The idea of a missing 8-year-old Vicky seemed to do some kind of trick. His tense shoulders sagged, elating a sense of hope within the duo detectives. He allowed his eyes to roam around the room, avoiding any gazes with these two strangers. It irritated the older man; how much they could look into this, respectively. A sigh escapes him. "I would like to help you, I really do. My daughter...is an emotional person. I don't ever wish harm upon her. I love her," Jack and Janet anticipate a reveal to help further their investigation. James finally looks to the two of them. "I don't know where she currently is. I want to help you, but I can't. I apologize. I am of no use." Jack clenches his jaw at the remark, silently willing himself to walk away before he explodes at the older man. Janet doesn't succeed in that, however. "No. You are not useless," she whispers and her gaze is set on the floor, "you are completely useful. You are completely useful to us because you know exactly where your daughter is. You know, and you've known this whole time," her tone is venomous, it almost makes Jack's skin crawl. He looks to James and smirks at his uneasiness at the moment.   "I-I really can't help--" "Mr. Bradford. If we find your daughter--excuse me, when we find your daughter, you all will be in a lot more trouble than if you just told us where she is. You can help us. You can help her." He falls silent. Janet is losing her patience rather quickly. Jack stares at James with a stern gaze and a frown. Janet clears her throat. "Well? We can stand here all day." "South of here. We own a summer cabin. Spacious, livable. I can jot down the address for you. I honestly don't know if she's there or not, but if she isn't at her home, and she isn't here, then she may very well be there." The relief that washes over the two is astounding, to say the least. Janet doesn't thank him when he hands her the slip of paper with the address, and just tugs on Jack's sleeve to lead him back to the car. James calls out and wishes them luck. They ignore him and drive off. ... The cabin is pretty much secluded. There's a trail that leads up to it, but many hikers would split off from the path in favor of not stumbling upon a private abode.   Janet parks her car at the start of the trail and the two begin the fair trek. Just before leaving, however, they call in for backup on Jack's radio, just in case things turn awry. The sun is already setting by the time they reach it. "You stay here, behind this tree, and I'll take a walk around the cabin," "Hold on a second, Jack!" Janet said, pulling on his arm. "Why do I have to hide behind a tree? I'll knock on the door while you go around back, that way they'll have nowhere to run." She suggested instead. Honestly, that idea didn't sit too well with him. Jack didn't want Janet in the middle of the action in case one of them had any weapons. He didn't want her to get hurt. He never wanted her to get hurt. The fire and pleading in Janet's eyes were unfortunate enough to not to want to let her down, so he reluctantly nodded his approval of her plan. "Jack, she's got to be in there. We'll return her back to Chrissy." The smile she formed shined brighter than the stars that began appearing above. Jack stared after her as she made her way to the stairs of the cabin. Shaking his head, he himself made way for the back of it. Janet knocked on the door without hesitation. Waiting patiently, she strained to hear any movement coming from inside. So far, no dice. Knocking again, she put her ear up to the door. She decided to say something. "Hello? Is anyone in there?" As soon as she said that, she heard a loud crash coming from inside and shuffling. Janet tried for the doorknob, but it was locked. She started pounding on the door and calling out to whoever was making the noise. She can finally make out a door being slammed open and Jack shouting. She darted from the front of the cabin and hurriedly dashed toward the back, where she can see Jack pointing his gun. He saw her running up from the corner of his eyes. "Stop right there, Janet," he said. "Jack..." "Don't move! Anyone!" Janet whipped her head and found two adults standing with a child. Cindy. She was being held protectively by whom they assumed was Vicky. The man they met at Vicky's home stood in front of them with his own gun aiming at Jack. Phillip. "Phillip," Janet started, "please. Put that down," she stepped a bit closer, her hands raised. "Don't fucking move!" "Janet, please, stay where you are!" Everything was unfolding too fast and too intensely. Neither party was enjoying this. "Make the guns go away!" Cindy shouted. She hid her face into Vicky's side. "We will, sweetie," Janet said in reply to Cindy, she looked back at Phillip. "Put that down! You're putting Cindy in danger!" "Shut up! I will never hurt my daughter!" "Phillip, she is not your daughter. She is your brothers and we need to return her back home where she belongs," "She belongs to us! Don't you dare touch her!" This time it was Vicky yelling, her face red. Janet shook her head. "No, Vicky, no. You couldn't have children. We know how much you wanted them, but this is not the way. This is hurting Cindy, this is hurting Chrissy and Alan and her friends," Janet steadily made her way closer and closer to Vicky and Cindy as she continued talking to them. "Chrissy misses her so much. Cindy, your mother wants to see you again. She wants to hold you in her arms, and braid your hair like you would every night before bed. She wants to sing you songs and teach you how to care for animals. She wants you back." Cindy eventually looked away from the safety of Vicky's side and shyly glanced at Janet as she crept closer. All the while, Jack had his eyes trained on Janet and on Phillip, his heart thumping heavily and his head swirling with worry and ache. The palms of his hands are beyond wet with sweat, and he just wants all of this to be over. For the first time in a lengthy while, Jack is genuinely terrified. "I want my mommy, too..." Cindy whimpered, looking at Janet. The brunette nodded her head and chanced a look at Vicky. Her eyes were wide with anger and her nostrils flared. Her grip on Cindy tightened uncomfortably for the young girl, making her squirm. "Vicky, please..." It was a whisper, and it was all it took to shove Cindy aside and charge after Janet. Everything happened at once. While Vicky knocked Janet to the ground and rolled on top of her, Jack automatically ran to Janet's aid. Phillip took the opportunity to grab Cindy and whisked her away. Jack was thankfully able to tackle Vicky off of Janet, which gave her the chance to spot Phillip running off with Cindy sobbing and dangling over his shoulders. She pushed herself off of the ground and sped off after them. With Vicky clawing at him, Jack felt helpless as he watched the three of them disappear into the woods. ... Her heart is pounding. Luckily, she hasn't lost sight of them yet. She yells, and he ignores her. He almost drops Cindy when the girl wriggles violently in his grasp. Janet urges Cindy to wriggle some more but keeps her mouth shut when she fears that the girl will get hurt. It's all about keeping that girl safe. Phillip doesn't look like he'll be stopping anytime soon. ... Jack manages to restrain Vicky. Being stronger and a lot taller can go a long way in this business. Unwilling to wait any longer for that backup, he leaves her handcuffed to the railing of the cabin in favor of going after Janet and Phillip. He prays things haven't escalated quite yet. ... Janet corners (not quite) him near a river. She can see that Phillip is out of breath and Cindy remains to be a hassle in his arms. Janet resists a smirk at the way Phillip's eyes blow up in anxiousness and fear. "Phillip," she says, cautious as ever. "There's nowhere to go...put her down." "I just...I just wanted a family," his voice wavers, and tears begin to build up, but don't fall. "Sure you do, Phillip. Wanting a family isn't the problem here. It's that you hurt an innocent child," "We never hurt her!" "She's right now sobbing and is probably uncomfortable by the way you're holding her and running off!" "Shut up! You don't know anything! Just leave us the fuck alone!" He shifts Cindy onto one of his arms and pulls out his gun with the other. He points it right at Janet. "Turn around, keep running and I won't shoot." "Stop this, please. Shooting me won't solve anything or make things better for you or Cindy." Phillip hesitates. Cindy sniffles. Janet holds her breath. ... Jack is running. With his gun pulled out and ready, he's running. Jack is severely unsure of where he's going, but he continues to go. He sees bodies way up ahead, and a stream of water. He also sees a familiar gun and a familiar brunette. Jack stops running. ... Cindy finally speaks. Softly, but speaks nonetheless. "Please...I want to go home and see my real mommy." Janet can see the way his heart breaks at that statement. No ounce of sympathy is given, however. "Do you not love us anymore, Princess?" "I want to go home." Phillip's jaw clenches and his hold on the girl tightens to the point where Cindy winces in pain. She lets out a whimper, and Janet wants nothing more than to pounce on this man and punch him in the groin or something. "You'll go home, honey. I'll let you go home." He suddenly drops the girl onto the ground roughly, and she scrambles to get up and run towards Janet. The gun is still pointed at her. Janet reaches for the girl and pulls her behind her, away from the wrong end of the gun. Her heart has not stopped pounding. She realizes her grip on Cindy is tight, so she loosens it. Hastily swallowing and licking her lips, Janet has lost all adrenaline and is now in a state of pure panic. Phillip has not dropped the gun. Someone can still very well end up hurt. Possibly worse. "Put it down," she whispers pleadingly. She'd drop to her knees and beg him if she has too. The tears spring to life and trickle out of the corners of her eyes. This whole situation is stressful as hell, and if she makes it out of this, she's gonna put all of her energy into taking a thorough nap. After making sure Cindy is reunited with Chrissy, of course. "That man," Phillip says, "Alan. He's not my brother." "We know he's your half brother, Phillip. That's still family. He is still your family, and you are hurting your family." "No! He's never been, nor will he ever be my family!" The statement clings heavily to the air, spoken too harshly and intensely for it to be considered a bluff. Janet can recognize the hatred and passion in his voice. She doesn't doubt his exclamation in the slightest. She wonders about the history between the two men, but she quickly remembers their current situation, and any sort of curiousness is dissolved. She has to put a stop to this; it has gone on for far too long. "Okay. He's not your family. But, does that mean you get to have the right to hurt him like this? To hurt Chrissy and Cindy?" "No...this has nothing to do with Chrissy or, or, Alan, even. I hate the guy, but what this is has nothing to do with him." "Phillip...you stole their daughter. This has everything to do with that." "We just wanted a family," Phillip is beginning to sob. "Vicky...she deserves a daughter. I wanted to give her a daughter. We tried so, so hard, but it just couldn't happen. We went to all of the best doctors. We went to foster homes. We even tried just getting a fucking cat or dog. But she didn't want that. She wanted her own little angel, someone she can hold and love, and protect and teach, and, and---" he chokes up a bit. Janet waits. "And...she couldn't have that with me. She wanted her own child." His tone shifted. He lowered the gun considerably. "Every time Cindy would come over, Vicky's eyes would light up in a way I wouldn't see if it were any other time. She laughs more, her smile doesn't seem...farce. She touches me a lot more. And those times, those times make me the happiest. I just want to be my happiest with her always. And when Cindy had to leave, leave back to her mother and father, Vicky isn't the same. I couldn't keep living with that. I told her one night that I was growing tired. She started crying, and told me over and over again that she'd change. That all she needs is this extra warmth in her life, and we'd go back to how things used to be. The happier times. It didn't take a lot of convincing on her part, so I agreed to help her in any way I can. I knew this was wrong. I knew this was harmful. That's why I tried to be as careful with Cindy as I could be. I never tried to hurt her, or do anything dangerous, but Vicky...once we had her, she didn't want to let go. She was desperate." Janet glanced at the gun. "That's her gun, isn't?" Phillip nodded. "I really did try to talk her out of this, but...Vicky had her heart set on it. Cindy was the one. Cindy was her daughter. Everything else be damned." Phillip said as if quoting Vicky herself. So. The truth has finally been brought to light. Janet had a lot to swallow but was more than capable of doing so. She still had a protective grip on Cindy, who stayed hiding behind her and sniffling every so often. Now that the confession was out of the way, Janet had to bring this situation to a complete close. This would...probably be the most challenging part. No ideas have been formulating, so Janet's gonna have to wing this. It unsettles her to no end, and she's gonna wanna word with her mind later about this... "This can end, Phillip. We can end this whole thing right now. Put down the gun." A flash of movement from slightly afar catches Phillip's attention. He peers over the shoulder of Janet, while she continues to watch him. The sight of Phillip not glaring at her, but at something behind her, starts to make her sweat and tremble a little more. This delicate moment is going to start crumbling in the most undesirable way in any second, she can feel it. She truly wishes for the ability to stop time, or teleport, or see into the future, or something. No such powers surface and Janet is stuck to rely on her normal self. Or, whoever may be lurking behind them. She prays for Jack. It's a prayer that adds to her pros and cons list of the existence of God because here he is. And there Phillip is in all of his panic. It all happens so rapidly, that all Janet can register is the high shrill scream of Cindy and the vigorous force of being shoved to the ground. A thundering shot echoes throughout the forest. A thick layer of silence envelops the surrounding area; only the distinct sound of the stream of water serves as background noise. That, and the sound of Jack cursing. "Shit," Janet hears this and immediately sits up to survey the current situation. Cindy is thankfully tucked into her side, her face buried near Janet's chest. A sigh of relief escapes her, her eyes softening as she quickly inspects the young girl, only to find that she is physically okay. Then, she looks up from the girl. Her breath hitches at the sight before her. It becomes a little---or a lot---more difficult to just breathe properly and things are getting a tad fuzzy and words are really failing her at the moment. "Shit, shit, shit." Jack is trying to put a lot of pressure on the wound, but blood just keeps pouring out. If he could, he would shrug at it, but he's hit in the shoulder and it would hurt too much. Well, a better term would be grazed. It hurts like a bitch, nonetheless. Jack curses again, and when he does, he notices the rest of the world. He sees many figures running past him, and people shouting, and people asking if he's okay. He realizes that it's the backup they called a while ago, which leads him to question where's the second part of they, which further leads him to finally find Janet and Cindy, on the ground, not that far away from him, staring as if he were a ghost. Jack entertains the thought for a moment, but the look of utter desperateness on Janet's face is too much and Jack wants nothing more than to assure her over and over again that everything is going to be alright. He's fine. She's fine. Cindy's fine. Jack, at that revelation of a conclusion, offers her his signature goofy grin.  His goofiest grin yet. It's more than safe to say that he is relieved to see Janet beam right back at him. ... Jack forgets how much he hates hospitals. It seems as though Janet loves them, however, because she hasn't left his side in hours, despite telling her multiple times that he is really okay and that the shot wasn't as fatal as it could've been. Janet doesn't listen. A blonde nurse walks into the hospital room and he watches as Janet squeals like a schoolgirl and gets up to hug the taller blonde. It's fascinating to see, and it allows Jack time to recompose himself as Janet turns to him to introduce her friend, Terri the nurse. "The best nurse in Santa Monica," Janet asserts confidently. Terri laughs at the statement, and Jack doesn't try to argue. He's delighted to find Terri just as friendly and skillful as Janet, and he's told that he's well on his way to a full recovery. He notices the way Janet breathes a sigh of relief but doesn't say anything about it. Terri manages to convince Janet to have a snack with her in the cafeteria,  and Janet leaves Jack for the first time in a while, promising to bring him back something to eat. "So," Terri starts, when they're out of the room--and out of earshot of Jack. "So?" Janet has a strong feeling she knows where this may be going. "That's Jack, huh? He's cute." Terri waists absolutely no time and Janet is rather amused by it. But she's not gonna give Terri the smug pleasure of teasing just yet. "You think he's cute? Terri, you think everybody's cute. You called Larry cute." "Well, I can't help it if everyone I meet happens to be cute! And that's not the point here, Jan." The brunette rolls her dark eyes sharply and the two stop just in front of the vending machine in the cafeteria. "What's the point, Ter?" Now Terri's rolling her lighter eyes because Janet's really going to make her say it. "Janet Wood, I can't believe you. Every day for a week all you could talk about on the phone with me is 'Jack this' and 'Jack that', and now that I see you two together in the same room, it's clear as day." "Please indulge me! What is clear as day?" "As our dear friends, the Brits say: he fancies you! And you fancy him!" If anybody ever asked Terri, she would without a doubt, straight up say that when it comes to the absolute obvious, Janet is shit at acting. The woman spends a total of ten seconds just scoffing and rolling her eyes as if merely doing so would distract the blonde long enough so that she could change the subject and hope for it to be never brought up again. Terri is a brilliant cookie, though, so Janet is severely out of luck. "Janet. You're gonna give yourself a headache. Relax, honey. If anything at all, I approve. He's sweet and charming," Terri begins to walk ahead of Janet, only stopping once to make another comment over her shoulder, "and cute." The short brunette watches her walk away. Standing there alone, it gives her the opportunity to truly process this whole mess of feelings and emotions she's got going on. Cute, huh? Janet, thankfully, has enough sense to not try to act innocent to herself. Terri returns to Jack's room to find Dr. Tom Miller and a shorter older male laughing with Jack. Dr. Miller is the first to notice Terri standing in the doorway. "Terri! We were just talking to your patient, here." "Hello, Dr. Miller. What are you doing down here? Shouldn't you be in the mental ward?" "I came down here for a chance to be with him for a few moments. Don't you worry, Terri, the patients aren't going anywhere," the Doctor says with a wide, toothy grin. He turns to his companion and scrambles to offer introductions. "Oh, this is Ralph Furley!" The older man smiles at the nurse and gives a big show of waving. "How goes it? It's good to see that my buddy Jack is in great hands!" Jack laughs. "Hey, Terri, he's a handyman that works in my apartment complex." Just then, Janet makes an appearance from behind Terri. She is slightly startled to see new faces in the room. One of them being a doctor. "Is everything alright?" "Yes, Jan. This is Dr. Miller, and his partner Ralph Furley," Terri gestures to the two men, while they both bow their heads rather gentlemanly. "Dr. Miller works upstairs. I guess he's here making friends with Jack." "Oh, I heard about the accident and I rushed over to see if Jack was okay. And here he is! As good as new! No need to worry about all of those men now thinking you're dead!" Mr. Furley lightly jabs at Jack's good shoulder, earning a nervous chuckle from the detective. Janet covers her mouth in an attempt to smother her own giggle, as she's heard of the wacky tale of Jack's sexuality being mistaken by his landlord and their building repair man. Terri stands just a lot more confused and will need an explanation at a later time, but for now, at such a late hour, Terri has to shuffle everyone out so Jack can properly have his rest. Janet is, of course, the hardest one to kick out, but is kicked out regardless. With many, many promises of being back the following morning. Jack doesn't doubt that for a nanosecond. ... Jack gets many visitors in the three days that he had to remain in that hospital room. Including the visit of two lovely blondes. Chrissy and Cindy came bearing gifts. Gifts, and lots and lots of kisses and hugs. Janet feels a flood of warmth at the scene before her, and she would very much enjoy a camera right now so she can capture the moment forever. Memories will do just as well. Jack's landlords even stop by for a bit, and it takes a few moments to realize that Jack wasn't kidding when he said that Mr. Roper will not listen to him when he tries to correct the older man of his true sexuality. He brushes it off for another day, anyway. Jack is checked out, and Janet offers to drive him home. "Actually, I'd rather go to my office. Some things I have to do." Janet doesn't ask him about the things and happily drives him there instead. She does ask if he needs any help, or a ride home later, and it gives Jack the perfect excuse to have Janet stay with him. If only for a bit longer, because the case is solved, and all. Janet really doesn't have any more business to be with him anymore. The thought sits heavy and uncomfortably in his head. The feeling sits the same way in his chest. This will be a horribly dragged out goodbye, it seems. Jack spends a good ten minutes mentally cursing. And then he sees her smile. A tired smile, granted, but a smile nonetheless. The smile allows him to reevaluate it all. They did it. They found Cindy. They brought her back to her real parents. Safe. That, truly, is enough to contrast the negative emotions in Jack and gives him the strength to smile too. With that strength, there is more. "How do you feel about...being partners?" Janet knows--she knows, dammit--he means that in a detective way. Business partners, law partners, PI partners. It doesn't stop her from pretending he meant that any other way. "Partners. That'll feel good." Janet's life is never the same again. Jack knew he should've shoved the tissue box into his overcoat pocket when he left the apartment that morning two weeks ago, for he can definitely use a tissue right now. ... Y'ALL WTF DID I JUST WRITE. Fun fact: this took me all year to write this. It's because somewhere in the middle, I lost interest. But, baby. I'm back. THAT WAS LAME BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS WEIRD AU. Also. Since I love hurting everyone, I left this kinda ambiguous, but you know DAMN WELL they hook up not that much longer after this and they marry and have a hundred kids and retire together. They also solve a million more cases along the way! Go JackET!