#but somehow tumblr does not really fit my schedule anymore

[mystery-star]

No, I'm not dead or left.

I just am so busy and tired due to my new job (the job itself is cool tho).

But I'm just not very productive anymore. And I noticed that taking a little break from Tumblr / social media is quite freeing.

My inbox is always open if you wanna talk and I will soon be back with some little goodies I created these past weeks. (not as much as before but hey)

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 12

(Yes, I turned my Sims4 screenshot into the banner)

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family. 

We are getting into some history now. Got your theories?

**Warnings will be need to be updated in the next chapter, but forewarning that they are coming and this chapter does lead directly into the heaviest section of this story**

New to this fic? Please be aware for this story that parts are posted in sections here on tumblr before I upload the chapter to Ao3. Chapter 5 has been updated on Ao3 and will bring you to caught up. Chapter 6 is long enough on its own, so here ya go:

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3 Chapter 6 Part 12 (you are here) | Ao3

A/N: I’ve had this chapter ready for a week... full disclosure, getting nervous now. I hope you enjoy.  Also - tumblr has been doing some weird formatting on the paste in, so I’ve sent this one back to Ao3 after the snippet instead of under the read more.

*****

Part 12 (Chapter 6)

Mocha wouldn’t leave his side.

Well, his shoulder really, since that’s where she’d jumped up to when he entered the coop. She distracted him from his task of spreading the feed and collecting the eggs, as if sensing that he’d had little to no sleep the night prior with Virgil’s words ringing in his ear and the pressure of the party sitting heavily in his stomach. Mocha was a good girl, and chickens were intelligent creatures. She knew, and in Gordon’s opinion, the hens were his second-best therapy.

First-best therapy were the conversations with his actual therapist, a colleague of Jules’ with whom she used to work. The young woman often had a busy schedule between her other clients, and Gordon only called her ad hoc anymore. But last night wasn’t an isolated incident; it had been a few nights in a row of the same lack of sleep, and he recognized that it wasn’t just one-off restlessness but a deep insomnia that was keeping him awake.

They scheduled an appointment in the following days since it wasn’t urgent. In the meantime, he could talk to Jules, as she would lend him an ear often - as a friend, though, and not as a client. Having a licensed therapist on site, in his employ, and married to his best friend, came with the additional perk that it was easy for them to fit a conversation into their day to day. And certainly, any questions she asked that challenged him, he knew came from a place of true care. That made all the difference for him, but Jules’ professional services were for the guests only, not Gordon himself. 

They were too close. 

She was his people, which is why she knew exactly what he needed and where he needed to be. It’s not like the chicken coop was the most relaxing or aesthetically pleasing of places, but it had always helped Gordon ground himself. Some people preferred meadows and beaches; Gordon preferred feathers and clucking and dirt-crusted boots. 

The previous night had stirred up fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was one thing for him to reconcile the grudge he felt had been over destroyed canvases and his anger management; it was another thing altogether to learn that his brother had felt as alone as him the whole time. The unforgivable, somehow forgiven.

Managing just a few hours sleep, there was a weary, facetious part of him that had been tempted to skip preparing Virgil’s coffee for him that morning. He could easily have said it was because he had so much on his mind with the party tonight, and it would’ve been partially true. But even as he was thinking it, the coffee filter had been set and the reservoir filled, and it was easier to keep going than to stop. Maybe muscle memory, but maybe he also just wasn’t that person anymore. 

 Even still, he left it to run and stepped into the dawn, already outside and dodging loose rocks on his way towards the coop when the Colonel signaled morning. He called Scraps to discuss the preparation plans while he collected the eggs, keeping his hands free with the earbud that linked to his phone. She must’ve heard something in his voice. They really only needed one person to work the coop, but Jules had been sent anyway. Gordon was grateful and decided ultimate-best therapy was the company of both his hens and the family he’d chosen.

Read on Ao3

[crisisdparity]

Game Master Akuma AU

(Note: Originally submitted to @justanotherpersonsuniverse, on their advice I will be using my own tumblr for anything in the future related to this AU.)

Xavier Duchamp was rather proud of himself. What he had before him was an absolute masterpiece of a campaign if he did say so himself. The product of over six months of study, research, and rebalancing efforts followed by two weeks of discussion with his five players to hash out schedules, meeting times, characters, backstories, potential character arcs, and getting them set up with a messaging app that was really good for sending discrete messages between the GM and the players.

Valentine and her boyfriend Justin were onboard in an instant. Within days, he'd greenlighted their Half-Elf Bard of the College of Glamour whose spell list was 100% Illusion spells and Half-Orc Fighter (Eldritch Knight) who was focusing entirely on Abjuration as Rena Rouge and Carapace respectively.

Olivia had spent a few days coming up with a Halfling Rogue and debating subclasses with him until settling on Scout. Along with some discussion over how her special magic item's stunning and paralysis effect would work with Sneak Attack, the campaign had its Vesperia.

Jeanette had gone back and forth with him for a week looking at various homebrew subclasses for her Gnome Artificer before they both agreed on one particular Master Tinkerer entry that would be balanced and do the character justice. And with that they had their Ladybug.

Even Matt was on board with a stealthy human Chat the Barbarian using the Path of the Beast. The class choice was something Matt had insisted on (and that Xavier would have suggested anyway just for the high hit point totals given Matt's history with characters dying) and he'd even come up with a backstory that Xavier felt was quite compelling compared to Matt's usual efforts. Morally ambiguous, likely to be tempted by promises of power, but with a great deal of story potential to work with.

Which was a relief. Getting a new player into their group to replace Matt was not something Xavier really felt comfortable with. There were too many unknowns with introducing a new person, far too many for him to risk his masterpiece on an unknown factor. He knew Matt. He could work with Matt. Despite the history.

He'd put everything he had into this. Every known Akuma ever fought by the heroes had been made into a boss-tier foe. He'd carefully documented each and every power the heroes had shown to craft special legendary magic items based on the Miraculous. Hawkmoth and Mayura themselves were going to be the final bosses of his campaign.

In response to criticism about the difficulty of his campaigns (he tried to make them fair, but still challenging enough to be memorable), he'd made several guest NPCs based on every other hero that had ever been called upon, statted out like player characters that might show up in a pinch to help. He even had a genuine Deus ex Machina that he was ready to use to get the players out of a truly impossible jam if they found themselves in one.

Not always, but a few times at least. Enough to get them to the point where they wouldn't need it anymore.

-----

It was thirty minutes in, right in the middle of exposition from the Guardian NPC, when Xavier got his first message on the app.

Matt/Chat - Chat's going to wait until everyone breaks up and follow Ladybug stealthily.

Xavier/GM - Starting party conflict on the first session? Not what I'd advise, but it's your character. Go ahead and make your Stealth roll now.

Matt/Chat - <photo> 17

Xavier/GM - Yeah, that beats everyone's passive Perception easily. You'll sneak off handily without anyone noticing.

-----

"Jeanette, Ladybug is grabbed from behind by an unknown assailant. Roll to resist the grapple."

"Geez, already? Okay, what did my assailant get for their grapple? How screwed am I?"

Xavier pretended to roll a die while consulting the message from Matt.

"19."

"Okay, difficult, but not undoable... Crap."

"What'd you get?"

"Nat 1..."

"Hah! I rip off her earrings and claim them for myself! The Wish is mine!"

"Seriously Matt?! What the hell?!"

"Because it's payback time! Payback for every character of mine killed in these hellish campaigns!"

"Oh, come on! You're not the only person whose had a character die at this table! Xavier runs some pretty challenging campaigns, but they're always fair!"

"What about the time he killed Allric the Allmighty in a single round of combat?"

"Dude, you tried to Leroy Jenkins straight into melee with a 4th-level Wizard that had a CON penalty. Even at full health you had like 10 hp."

"14!"

"Not much better, dude."

"Guys, it's fine. I can handle this. Okay, Matt. Chat the Barbarian managed to get the earrings-"

"Yeah, Ladybug screams bloody murder when he rips them out. Good luck getting out of this in one piece."

"The moment Rena hears Ladybug scream, she bolts for the sound."

"So does Carapace."

"Vesperia too."

"-and with their current locations and movement speeds, I assume you're all using the Dash action?, you've got maybe one round to decide on your Wish before they're all over you, so choose carefully. And be aware that I plan to grant whatever you wish for in the worst possible way, just as I would if any of the others pulled this."

"Rena screams 'What the HELL, Chat?! We're supposed to protect the Miraculous, not use them for our own selfish purposes! Didn't you listen to the Guardian? Such actions always bring misfortune upon those who misuse the Miraculous!'"

"Because I am Chat, avatar of Destruction and I WISH THIS WORLD NEVER EXISTED!"

There was dead silence at the table.

"Matt... What... just... WHAT?!"

"Hah! You like that?! How does it feel now that the shoe's on the other foot, huh?!"

"What the hell is your problem, Matt?!"

"My problem? MY problem?! Do you know how much time I've spent making characters for these shitty campaigns only to have them turned into paste in one session?!"

"Because you made primary spellcasters and played every last one of them like a barbarian, charging in headfirst without thinking! All of us breathed a sigh of relief when you revealed that your character finally matched your playstyle!"

"I HATE BARBARIANS! THEY'RE BORING! I SHOULD GET TO PLAY CHARACTERS THAT CAN AT LEAST CHUCK FIREBALLS!"

"THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD STOP RUNNING THEM FACE FIRST INTO ENEMY SWORDS!"

"NONE OF YOU COULD EVER HANDLE THE FACT THE I MAKE MORE AWESOME CHARACTERS THAN ANY OF YOU, SO YOU JUST LET THIS DOUCHEBAG KILL THEM OFF SO YOU WOULDN'T GET OVERSHADOWED BY HOW AMAZING I AM! WELL NOW I KILLED SOMETHING YOU ALL WORKED HARD ON, SO SUCK IT! I'M DONE WITH ALL OF YOU FOREVER!"

"MATT! HEY! GET BACK HERE YOU JERK! MATT!"

"Crap, I think Olivia might actually kill him this time..."

"It's going to take all of us to stop her from getting arrested at least."

Xavier just watched numbly as the rest of the group ran out of his apartment. Over six months of work. Gone in less than an hour.

He'd given so much to making sure this would work. He'd apologized to Matt at least twice for every character of his that had died to get him to come back. He'd agreed to demand after demand just to keep a familiar face on board, never dreaming he'd pull something like this.

He'd nearly gotten fired from his job trying to rearrange his schedule to fit with everyone else's. They'd somehow, miraculously, gotten the whole day with no other obligations among any of them and decided to make the first session a true marathon. They'd meet in the morning after breakfast and eat both lunch and dinner at the game table before calling it a night late in the evening.

It was barely 10:00 in the morning and the whole campaign he'd slaved over for months was kaput.

He never noticed the butterfly landing on his custom Miraculous-themed Game Master screen and being absorbed into it.

"Game Master, I am Hawkmoth. Few people appreciate the kind of effort that goes into making something truly grand and memorable. I shall give you the power to bring your entire world to life and in return, I ask only for a few simple things."

This was wrong. Hawkmoth was the worst of the worst. The kind of person who would be at home among all the final bosses he'd ever made for his campaigns. Heartless, manipulative, cruel.

"Not enough? Ah, but what is a game without players? How would you like to have the Miraculous heroes themselves run your great campaign? Surely they would be far more appreciative than those ungrateful peons that left you alone with nothing but the broken remains of your efforts."

He knew all these things, but the allure of bringing the world he'd spent so much time on to life... What creator could ever turn down an offer like that?

"I, the Game Master, accept... Hawkmoth."

"Excellent. And in exchange, you shall bring me one of two things: The Miraculous, or the identities of their wielders."

"No."

Hawkmoth was silent for a moment.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no. I am the Game Master. I make the world. I craft the challenges. I decide the rewards. But I do not do anything for anyone. If you want these things, get them yourself."

"If you refuse me, it shall be very unpleasant for you."

"No. As Game Master, I decide the limits of all powers within my realm. And I decide that you have none over me."

And with that, he unleashed his creation over all of Paris, drawing everyone and everything within into his sphere of influence.

-----

Ladybug blinked the spots (ha) out of her eyes as the flash of light died down and looked at herself. She didn't remember transforming, but she was clearly in her spots. Except her red and black superhero uniform didn't usually look like it was headed to a steampunk convention. Looking around, she tried to figure out what had happened and her eyes landed on a familiar belt and pants combo.

Problem. Whoever this was, their groin was at eye level for her.

She looked up.

And up.

To find a grinning Chat Noir, sans anything resembling a shirt and having put on at least a foot of height and apparently a hundred pounds of pure muscle, grinning down at her.

"How's the weather down there?" Chat Noir chuckled as he flexed his unfairly attractive muscleman physique.

"I WILL END YOU!" the heroine snarled, already 100% done with whatever new insanity Hawkmoth had cooked up.

Characters:

Ladybug - Gnome Artificer (Master Tinkerer - Homebrew)

Chat Noir - Human Barbarian (Path of the Beast)

-----

Vesperia had to admit, as Akuma attacks went, this was pretty dope.

She was currently a halfling. A halfling! If it wasn't for her fantasy ensemble being yellow and black, she'd have thought she stepped straight out of Lord of the Rings.

Of course, fantasy setting or not, there were still things she'd have rather left back in the real world. Like racism. And stigma against mixed couples. Not directed at her, but rather at the two walking down the street next to her.

"You know, people are staring..." she said as she craned her head to look at her companions.

"Let them," the Half-Elf Rena Rouge (who looked like a cross between a musician and a belly dancer) said from her perch atop the shoulders of the heavily armored (and surprisingly buff) Half-Orc Carapace. "They're just jealous because their boyfriends can't carry them everywhere."

Characters:

Vesperia - Halfling Rogue (Scout)

Rena Rouge - Half-Elf Bard (College of Glamour)

Carapace - Half-Orc Fighter (Eldritch Knight)

-----

Ryuko blinked as she studied the apparent snake-man-thing before her who claimed to be Viperion. She lifted a hand to study it and found what appeared to be bronze scales covering every inch of her skin.

She sniffed herself, smelling the sharp tang of ozone. What was she?

And why did she appear to be wearing wooden armor?

Characters:

Ryuko - Dragonborn (bronze) Druid (Circle of Storms - Third Party)

Viperion - Naga Sorcerer (Divination Magic - Homebrew)

-----

Polymouse giggled as her friends ran over her. Okay, she'd freaked out a little to find a swarm of mice (with hair like hers no less) crawling all over her surprisingly mouse-like body when she'd come to in the middle of some forest somewhere. But she'd gotten over it pretty quickly. It helped that her new friends were adorable.

It might help more if she could figure out where she was.

Or find another person.

Characters:

Polymouse - Kobold (rodentlike) Ranger (Swarmkeeper - Reskinned)

-----

Purple Tigress sighed as she felt the hair (fur?) on the top of her head being shifted around and twitched her new catlike ears in mild annoyance.

"Are you quite done?"

"Almost!" Pigella's cheerful voice answered. "Your fur is so comfy!"

Tigress sighed. Of course Pigella would end up being a fairy, and having her normal cheerful enthusiasm cranked up to previously unimagined levels.

"I love you dearly, but if you start shouting 'hey listen' I will stick you in a bottle."

"Aw, I love you too! Hey, what's that?"

"I think it's my character sheet?"

Characters:

Purple Tigress - Tabaxi Paladin (Oath of Glory)

Pigella - Fairy Cleric (Order Domain - Reskinned)

-----

"According to my analysis, we have been placed into what appears to be a Dungeons and Dragons campaign under 5th edition rules," Pegasus stated in a mechanical monotone. "I am apparently a Warforged Wizard using the School of Conjuration whose spells create portals to bridge dimensions and summon or banish my intended targets. You are what is known as a Simic Hybrid, with the class of Monk, following the Way of the Drunken Master."

"Aweshum," King Monkey slurred, his generally human appearance clad in monk's robes marred by his monkey-like hands and feet as well as the monkey tail swishing behind him.

"Why do you keep slurring like that? According to my sensors, your gourd is filled with only water."

"Gotta keep up appearanshes!" King Monkey grinned as he continued faking drunkenness.

Characters:

Pegasus - Warforged Wizard (School of Conjuration - Reskinned)

King Monkey - Simic Hybrid Monk (Way of the Drunken Master)

-----

Hawkmoth studied the dark red horns growing out of his head in the mirror. The change in appearance was disconcerting, but he felt a rush of power in this new form that he'd never felt before.

"Hmm... perhaps I can work with this..."

"Speak for yourself..." Mayura muttered off to the side, ruffling her peacock-like feathers in annoyance as she tried to glare at the beak on her own face.

Characters:

Hawkmoth - Tiefling Dark Lord, Warlock Patron, Contracted by Lila Rossi, Volpina, Queen Wasp, and many others.

Mayura - Kenku Assistant to the Dark Lord, Creator of Monsters

-----

"Oh, come on!" A figure in a cyan and white hooded robe complained as they waved a similarly colored umbrella around angrily. "Everyone else gets to be part of this adventure, why can't I join them?"

"Because you're too OP. You'd completely break everything and remove all challenge from the adventure."

"But sitting around is no fun at all!"

"If you like, I can put you in the position of the main quest giver. Your job would be to direct them towards their enemies and means of becoming stronger."

"That's it?! I'm on 'mysterious hooded figure' duty? Boo! Why can't I fight with them?!"

"Because you're too OP. But if you insist, I'll allow some Deus ex Machina interventions."

"YES!"

"Five."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'll allow five interventions at your discretion to aid them when they are in peril. Once you have come to their aid five times, I will allow no more meetings save to impart quest information."

"That's it?"

"Yes. Choose your interventions wisely."

"So... if I manage to save one for when they fight Hawmoth and Mayura in the final battle...?"

"Then I would allow you to join them of course."

"Score!"

Characters:

Bunnyx: Mysterious Hooded Figure, Deus-ex-Machina (5)

Game Master: Akuma Lord of the Miraculous Campaign

-----

Addendum

When the Game Master is finally purified and the damage reversed, it turns out that he took the effort to trap all of Paris in a temporal stasis bubble so that no matter how long passed inside no more than a few moments passed outside. Meaning that after what seemed like months in the bubble, it's basically less than a minute after he was akumatized when everything is put back.

All his friends, minus Matt, come back in bringing a new person named Zack that they vetted themselves to take Matt's place in case he pulled something like what he did. And while he has a similar playstyle to Matt, he's savvy enough to know what kind of characters that is suited for and he loves playing barbarians.

They all sit back down and restart the game they were all looking forward to.

[spicyfloaty]

Give & Take | Chapter 1

pairing: kacchako 

genre: slowburn/fluff

words: 1.5k

summary: Ochako's grades are slipping. Bakugo is dangerously nearing suspension, or worse, expulsion. A certain twist of fate pairs them together for tutoring sessions. He teaches her math. She keeps him from getting suspended. A simple exchange, but what if this only brings them closer than necessary?

note: i accidentally deleted my tumblr account and now im gonna post these all over again god fucking dammit sdkjfhkjhkfd 

header credits: @alexbenedetto

[READ ON AO3]

Chapter One: Hesitation and Acceptance

“I don’t think you need anyone telling you what you most likely already know, but you’re failing almost all of your classes, Uraraka.”

Ochako already had an inkling as to what this sudden meeting was for, but the news still hits her as hard as it would if she were hearing it the first time. She was aware of how fast her grades had been slipping these past few weeks, but she couldn’t really do much about it since she already had her part time job to worry about, let alone the extra training she had been doing to make up for the classes she had been missing because of said part time job. She barely even had any more time to visit her parents to give them the paycheck she just got that month, how is she going to find the time, hell, the energy, to cram 2 weeks-worth of homework in one night?

Her eyes drop to her feet, “I know, Mr. Aizawa, it’s just that I can hardly fit anything into my schedule anymore.” She knows this wasn’t an excuse her professor would accept that easily, she just knows. She grips the fabric of her skirt as her guts sinks lower and lower, shame and disappointment weighing on her like a ton of bricks. A few seconds pass and she hears Aizawa sigh. She looks up to see a piece of paper being slid across the table, “I heard about your father’s injury. Balancing your responsibilities here at UA and the responsibilities you have at home isn’t an easy thing to do, but I thought of a schedule that might lighten the load.”

Ochako scans the schedule her teacher had made for her, tears threatening to spill from her eyes upon realizing that he was right, it did lighten the load. Her attention then zeroes in on the text written beside Thursday and Friday, Tutoring Session, but what catches her off guard was the name directly below it.

Bakugo Katsuki.

“I see you already noticed the cost that comes with this proposition,” Ochako didn’t even realize her mouth was open until Mr. Aizawa pointed his pen at it. Bakugo? Is he seriously going to have Bakugo Katsuki, the boy with the fuse as short as the width of a hair, the boy whose every waking moment was dedicated to being angry at absolutely nothing, tutor her, someone he’s barely spoken more than 10 words to, most of all someone who’s friends with the apparent center of all his rage. Well, the friends part was still debatable.

“You’re joking—” It was only until her palm flew straight to her mouth when she realized that she already spoke her mind.

“Does it look like I’m joking?” Mr. Aizawa asks pointedly. “I already made arrangements with the rest of your teachers to accommodate for the time you will be spending on your part time job, you will be having at least 4 hours of tutoring a week with Bakugo on Thursdays and Fridays to make up for it.”

Ochako was still staring at her new schedule, as if looking at it any longer would change anything about it. Her thoughts began to race, desperately thinking of some kind of alternative she could offer, “What about Momo?” She looks up at Aizawa only to find his gaze locked on his computer screen. He clicks a few keys, “She already has her hands full with Kaminari, Mina, and Jirou.”

Ochako takes a deep breath and thinks harder, “Iida?” Aizawa presses a few more keys and takes a sip out of his coffee mug, “He’s already helping Momo out with those three.”

She looks away, eyes darting to anywhere but the god forsaken schedule in front of her hoping for another idea to fly by her mind before it’s too late. Another name pops in her head, she wouldn’t even think about considering being alone with him again given their history and the awkwardness that followed it, but these were desperate times and it called for desperate measures.

”What about…Midoriya?” This time, Aizawa faces her, a part of her hoped that it was because she had given him an option he hasn’t considered yet, but to her dismay, she was wrong.

“Yes, Midoriya was my first choice while putting all of this together, but after checking with All Might, he said that it would “interfere” with Midoriya’s schedule.” Aizawa explains with a hint of annoyance. Ochako should have known this, she should know more than anyone else that Deku’s time had been spent more and more with training lately.

Ochako felt defeated, she couldn’t think of anything else to say to try and convince her teacher that she would do anything else except being taught by Bakugo. It’s not like she was scared of him or anything, sure, she didn’t want to have a one on one session with someone who would flip the table if she forgot to carry the one, but the truth is that she admired him almost as much as she did Deku. It was a no-brainer to anyone that as hot headed as Bakugo might be (is), he is consistently one of Class 2A’s, if not UA’s, top performing students. The main reason she was against this unfortunate match up was because she's a hundred percent certain that Bakugo wouldn’t consent to it.

“Is Bakugo okay with this?” She asks, Aizawa’s gaze shifts to the back of the office, she follows and instantly gets her answer. She didn’t notice it when she first came in, but there were prominent scorch marks splashed across the wall with soot dusting the floor beneath it. If someone were to just pass by without giving it a second glance, it would almost look like shadows. Judging by how fresh it looked, she assumed that Bakugo’s talk with Aizawa wasn’t long before hers. It’s either that or her professor was simply too lazy to clean it off.

“He obviously had more…opinions regarding this, but after further…discussion, it was mutually decided that this would be the best option that would benefit the both of you.”

Both of us? Just how could Bakugo possibly benefit from tutoring her?

“No one gets to stay at UA with above average marks alone.” Aizawa adds. Turns out Bakugo was dangerously nearing suspension because of his recent behavior, sending 2 2C students to the infirmary would be the highlight of said behavior, Ochako still remembered that day as if it were yesterday. How could she not? She was the first one from their class to walk by and see the altercation, obscured by a growing crowd egging on the fight. She never found out what it is Bakugo was yelling about, but she knew enough cuss words to decode part of a sentence or two, but it wasn't what he was saying that stuck with her though, it was the way he looked. She had always seen him angry on a daily basis to know what he looked like upset, but as he was being dragged away, she could have sworn that for a split second, she saw his expression slip from one of anger to that of sadness.

"Simply put, Bakugo's conduct, despite his grades being top notch, could very much end up being the cause of his expulsion."

Aizawa offered Bakugo a way to somehow salvage his conduct grade by pairing him with a struggling classmate in order to show the Administration Board that he was displaying compassion and camaraderie. Aizawa saw this as an opportunity to hit two birds with one stone.

If only one of the birds didn’t know how to hit back, harder.

After explaining, he asks her once more, not like she had much of a choice, if she was on board with the plan. Her mind drifts to an image of Bakugo suspended, spending the week alone in the dorms while everyone else spends it in their classes. Ochako wasn’t blind for her to not notice the expression Bakugo wore, almost the same kind as the one she remembered from the fight, whenever she saw him during the mornings when he and Deku were placed under house arrest last year. They haven’t spoken to each other that much, if you can count tch and outta the way, round face as conversations, but she knew that if there was anyone who genuinely wanted to be in class, as much as he doesn’t care to make it obvious, it was Bakugo. Her heart ached at the thought of Bakugo missing out on classes and training when the first thing about him was his unrelenting drive to be the best in all of them.

With terrible timing, another idea floats inside her head, but Ochako already knew what her answer was. She knew that she can easily offer to take supplementary classes with one of their teachers instead, but she realized that maybe Bakugo needed this more than she did.

Which is why she agrees.

[artificialqueens]

oh, my sunlight, chapter two (branjie) - holtzmanns

(read on ao3) | (tumblr: plastiquetiaras) | word count: 5060

AN: Chapter two! I love this verse so, so much. Thank you for all the sweet words on the first chapter, I appreciate it endlessly. Thank you writ for betaing and being wonderful <3

“Stupid blazer, so much for being a maternity fit-”

“You good, baby?” Vanessa pops her head out from their en suite bathroom, half dressed in the pantsuit that she’s going to be wearing for the German Chancellor’s state visit.

Brooke huffs. “Can’t get these buttons to close. How am I supposed to look professional if I can’t even button my damn blazer over my belly?”

Vanessa walks over, a soft grin taking over her face before she leans down to kiss Brooke’s stomach, grabbing both sides of her blazer. She fiddles with it, tongue poking out and lets out a whoop when she gets the blazer closed. “I don’t know why you’re so insistent on keeping up the pantsuits. There’s gotta be other clothes that are more-”

“Nope. Still gotta match the rest of the agents.” Brooke doesn’t even see it as an option. She can still keep up with everyone, she’s still the agent in command and she’s not going to be sitting back unless she fully has to.

“You’re seven and a half months pregnant, B. Don’t think that I didn’t hear you grumbling about your back aching earlier.” Vanessa comes up behind her to massage out the knots in her shoulders and Brooke can’t help but sigh into the touch.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, Ness.” Brooke’s good at handling herself. She’s been trying her best throughout the pregnancy to keep up, to not let things change, despite Vanessa’s tutting about it.

Brooke knows that she’s going to have to cut down on the work soon, for Vanessa’s sake more than anything else. Her wife’s been more worried than she has, always willing to let engagements and presidential business slide for any prenatal appointments, or any moments when Brooke hasn’t been feeling the best. Not that Brooke wants Vanessa to worry too much about her.

As little as she wants to admit it, Brooke’s been enjoying the doting. It had irritated her slightly at first, Vanessa being overly worried and willing to push anything aside for her needs. It had reminded Brooke of when she had been recovering from being shot years and years ago - her natural tendency of wanting to fold in on herself and silently carry on not being possible with Vanessa at her side. But she’s learned, over time. To accept help from those who want to give it. Especially her wife.

“I’m gonna give you a full back massage tonight, regardless.” Vanessa places a kiss to Brooke’s shoulder before coming around to face her.

Brooke grins. “A massage, huh?”

“Get your dirty ass mind out of the gutter. Though that can be arranged, too.” Vanessa winks at her. “Do you need help with your pants?”

Brooke huffs. “I’m pregnant, not incapacitated-”

“-Your belly is also starting to block your view of your feet, baby.” Vanessa ignores Brooke’s protests and grabs her pants, holding them out for Brooke to step into.

Brooke scoffs when Vanessa buttons her pants for her (’There, was that so hard?’), but has to admit to herself that Vanessa’s help speeds up her changing process by quite a bit.

Vanessa tugs on her own blazer as Silky barges into their bedroom. “You got approximately twenty minutes before we gotta go down to the first floor and debrief.”

“Ever heard of knocking, Silk?” Vanessa grumbles underneath her breath when Silky is followed by two baby faced interns, jotting down notes as they look around the room. “These ain’t open quarters.”

Brooke forgets, sometimes, that they’re living in the White House. That the high ceilings and ominous portraits that line the walls hold a long, detailed history. That the low hum of noise that’s always present is because their residence holds not only their living quarters, but also government offices and tours for the public.

“But I’m your best friend and also part of your staff, and the one who has to tell you that your ass is going to be late to meet the Chancellor of Germany, and that ain’t a good look for anyone.” Silky turns towards the interns, whispering something to them before they run off.

Vanessa waves a hand airily. “Angela won’t even be mad. Hell, she gave me a hug the last time that we met. We’re cool.”

Silky shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you got the nerve to call her ‘Angela’.”

Vanessa shrugs. “That’s her name, ain’t it?”

Brooke has to hold back a smile. She never gets tired of watching Vanessa. It’s refreshing, really, the way her natural charisma tends to lend itself to politics. The way she’s been able to actually accomplish things during her time in office because she can use her likeability to her advantage. It’s an art, one that Vanessa’s truly perfected.

Silky leans back against the bedframe, turning towards Brooke. “Wilson’s looking for you. Something about perimeter mumbo jumbo. Hell if I know.”

Brooke snorts. “So helpful. Thanks though, I’ll contact him.” She pulls out her work phone to call the other agent, talking through the security measures for the Chancellor’s visit.

It bothers Brooke more than she wants to admit, the fact that she can’t physically do the work anymore. Being the one on the front lines, protecting Vanessa. Brooke feels like she should be the one doing it, because how can she trust other people not to make stupid mistakes and put Vanessa in danger?

But she’s been trying. To let go, to relax. To delegate.

To prioritize the fact that she’s growing a small human. Their small human.

She still can’t believe it sometimes, that it’s actually happening.

The one line on the pregnancy test is staring back at her, taunting her, because-

It didn’t work.

Maybe she should take another one. Maybe this first one is lying. Maybe it did work this time. This is their third round of IVF, after all, shouldn’t it have worked by now?  

What are they doing wrong?

What is Brooke doing wrong?

“Open up, B. What does it say?”

Vanessa’s fist banging on the door makes Brooke squeeze her eyes shut tight, because no, no, no, Vanessa’s going to be heartbroken because it’s happened again-

“Brooke.” Vanessa’s voice, again. Softer this time. “Can I come in?”

Brooke sniffles (she’s not crying, she’s not crying, when did she start crying?), reaching over from her cross legged position on the ground to unlock the door.

It didn’t work.

Again.

She’s not pregnant.

Again.

“Oh, baby.” Vanessa’s looking at Brooke and scooting onto the floor beside her and her arms are wrapping around her shoulders, squeezing her so tight and for a second the deep pressure is grounding, making everything okay, before their ugly reality rears its head again because the test is still in her hand. Staring up at her. Mocking her. Leering at her.

Brooke’s a failure.

Again.

“I’m sorry, Ness.” The words feel like lead in her mouth, because saying them makes it true - that this cycle of IVF failed. Like the last one, and the one before that. Because the injections, the supplements, the doctor’s visits were all in vain. They made no difference, in the end.

It didn’t work.

“Shhh.” Vanessa’s hand is gentle on her cheek, wiping the tear that’s threatening to fall. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Let’s make that clear.”

“But-”

“We’re doing everything right, baby, okay? It’s not your fault, it’s not my fault. It’s not either of our faults.” Vanessa’s other hand is running through her hair and a small part of Brooke wonders if she even deserves the comfort.

“But it should have happened by now, what if I’m doing something wrong, what if-”

“Brooke-”

“I can’t, I-”

“Shh.” Vanessa’s arms are around Brooke again, squeezing her tight and somehow it cuts through the fog of her thoughts, the beating of her heart that’s getting faster and faster along with the spiralling in her mind. Vanessa’s bringing Brooke back down, keeping the various pieces of her all together that are so prone to shattering from her thoughts and memories.

“We’ll try again. If you want. Or we don’t have to. But we don’t have to talk about it right now.” Vanessa’s whispers are warm in her ear, soft and reassuring and Brooke almost hates it. That Vanessa has to do this. Be the one to keep them from breaking.

Because that’s Brooke’s job.

“…And then the Secretary of Commerce’s office wants to set up a meeting about the tariffs on the lumber exports, we’ll need to do that before the bill goes in front of the legislature.” Blair’s voice squeaks as she speaks, her eyes flitting between Vanessa and the rest of her team.

“Thank you, St. Clair. Call them and set it up for late next week, maybe Friday in the a.m?” A’keria’s voice is all business as she rifles through her agenda. Vanessa’s glad that she’s got A’keria on as her Chief of Staff. Being in charge of overseeing the office’s day to day flow, she’s adept at keeping everyone in line, from the interns like Blair to Vanessa herself.

Vanessa has to admit, she’s more of a headache to A’keria than any of the interns.

A’keria dismisses the rest of the team, letting them leave the Oval Office before closing the door. “Question, while I work on your schedule. You still serious about this whole parental leave thing?”

Vanessa looks at A’keria as if she’s grown two heads. “Obviously. We’re about to have a baby. Do I look like I can focus on running a country?”

“You’re the President, Vanj. That’s your damn job description.”

“Hey, if the New Zealand Prime Minister took maternity leave when she had her kid way back when, so can I.” Vanessa shrugs, leaning back in her desk chair. “Break the glass ceiling here and all that.”

A’keria rubs at her temples. “Okay, so we’ll get the VP to step in as deputy, fine. You’ll still have to consult here and there during the leave, though, or this whole place will fall to shit.”

Vanessa waves a hand. “Everyone will survive. I’m gonna have more important things to focus on.

The thought makes her stomach do flips every single time.

A baby.

Her and Brooke are going to have a baby.

It’s now been eight months since they found out, since their world had flipped on its axis because it finally became real and now it’s happening, really happening.

Vanessa looks up at the clock. 7:35 p.m. She knows about Brooke’s tendencies to overwork herself, which normally she doesn’t want to interfere with. But the pregnancy has turned Vanessa into a mother hen, one that wants to hover around Brooke and make sure she’s safe and okay, even though she knows it’s probably annoying.

She dials Brooke’s number, waiting for it to ring.

“Hey, V.” Brooke’s voice is soft and Vanessa can almost hear the grin in it.

“Hey yourself.” Vanessa’s brow furrows at the rustling noises in the background of the call. “You still working?”

“Finishing up a meeting.”

Vanessa sighs. “Brooke-”

“I know, I know. We’re done, now.”

“Good.” Vanessa’s can hear how soft her own voice is, in relief more than anything else. “Wanna grab dinner together?”

“Just us?” Brooke’s question makes sense - they’re both used to working through meals a lot of the time, having lunchtime meetings or dinnertime conference calls with those in other timezones or others that they haven’t been able to reach during the day.

“Just us. I don’t have anything until nine, a conference call with the U.S Embassy in Japan.” Vanessa smiles. “Well, the three of us.”

“Yeah. The three of us.” Brooke’s voice is full of marvel. The fact that they’re going to have a baby is becoming more and more real as the months pass. As Brooke begins to show more and more, as every prenatal appointment passes and while confirming that their baby is healthy. But the fact that they’ll get to meet their child in a month and a half, the fact that they’ll go from being a duo to a trio-

It feels unbelievable.

Vanessa’s been through so much with Brooke. Experienced so many highs, so many lows. Experienced so much of what life has to offer, and experienced brushes with death, too.

Soon, they’re going to have a chance to add to their team.

Vanessa heads from the Oval Office over to their private wing of the White House, getting stopped along the way approximately four times to sign various papers and answer questions from harried members of staff. The answers roll off of her tongue like second nature, like she was born to do this.

At the beginning of her first term, Vanessa had felt way, way, over her head, as if she had jumped from a small pond to deep into the Atlantic ocean with no life jacket to keep her afloat. It had been a learning curve despite her many years in politics - learning how to stay on top of things, how to manage not only a bigger staff, but an entire country. The voices of her opponents on the campaign trail had begun to sink into her inner monologue, droning on about how she was too young, too inexperienced, too incapable of the job. They’d made her feel like she was faking it, like she wouldn’t be able to get through.

But Vanessa’s learned, over the years. And now, into her second term, she’s gotten more comfortable with using her natural confidence and abilities, because she knows what she’s doing.

There’s no way she could have gotten this job if she didn’t.

Brooke’s already taking out plates for the two of them when Vanessa reaches the dining room, and Vanessa has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss her, leaning over her belly.

“Baby was extra antsy during the meeting today.” Brooke grabs Vanessa’s hand and places it on her stomach, where a small bulge is protruding.

“His little feetsies!” Vanessa practically squeals when she feels it sticking out.

“Or her.” Brooke grins. “We don’t know that yet.”

“And we’re not finding out until they’re born, so may as well use any and all pronouns.” Vanessa presses a kiss to Brooke’s stomach. “Hi, baby. Been good for your mama all day?”

“Pressing on my bladder like mad.” Brooke huffs. “I had to pee practically every five minutes.”

Vanessa tries to hold back a laugh. “Not gonna lie, I’m glad that it’s you who’s carrying first.”

“Oh, just you wait.” Brooke tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I’m going to have a great time basking it when you have to go through all the pregnancy stuff.”

They grab their food from the trolley that’s been brought up from the White House kitchen. The fact that they don’t have to cook if they don’t want to would be a lot more enjoyable to Vanessa were the two of them not so incredibly busy with work. Though it’s moments like these that Vanessa appreciates not having to grocery shop or wash dishes or work away in the kitchen. She just gets to spend her downtime with Brooke.

“Wanna eat in the den?” Vanessa nudges Brooke’s side. “More comfy.”

“Yeah. My back has been killing me all day, I want to veg out a bit.” Brooke holds up a hand before Vanessa can even open her mouth in concern and say a word. “And yes, you can give me a back massage, and no, I won’t take an easy day tomorrow.”

“Brooke.” Vanessa huffs as they walk over to the den. “You shouldn’t push yourself if you’re-”

“I’m not, V.” Brooke falls down onto the couch with a sigh as she tries to get comfy, shuffling the cushions by her back. “I just want to be active for as long as possible, that’s all.”

Vanessa sticks another cushion behind Brooke for good measure. “Just take care of yourself, okay? You know yourself better than I do, but you also once accidentally cut your finger on a jar and said it was just like a papercut, and then it wouldn’t wouldn’t stop bleeding and then you needed stitches. Stitches!”

Brooke snorts at the memory. “Good times. That was funny. Still got the scar from that. The stitches didn’t even hurt.”

Vanessa’s about to huff, go off again because Brooke is too blasé about her own health sometimes and it worries her, it really does, when Brooke grabs her hand and kisses it. It’s a flimsy tactic, but never fails at making Vanessa absolutely melt.

“I know my limits, Nessa, ‘kay? I’ll be careful, you know that.”

Vanessa sighs. “I do.” It’s just that it makes her nervous, she wants Brooke to be okay, and wants the baby to be okay, and doesn’t want anything to go wrong.

She’s gotten too close to losing Brooke in the past. The sleepless nights Vanessa’s spent in a chair beside a hospital bed, fears that Brooke would never wake up.

Vanessa never wants to experience that ever again.

“Here, watch this.” Brooke puts her now empty plate on the table beside the couch, moving a hand to rub her belly. “I’ve learned exactly how to make him all mad. Discovered it today, during the meeting.”

“Mad?” Vanessa scoots closer, resting a hand on Brooke’s stomach. “And what happened to ‘we don’t know yet?’”

“I know, I know.” Brooke shrugs. “It’s fun to guess, though. Now, watch this. He reacts when I rub the side of my stomach, right here.”

Brooke presses her hand to her side, and Vanessa watches with wonder as her belly moves, their baby active and shifting around. She can’t help but reach out and put her hand beside Brooke’s, letting out a little whoop when she feels their baby kick.

“She’s so active! Or he. Or they. I love them so much already.” Vanessa can’t help the way that she’s already tearing up.

“And here I thought that I was the pregnant, hormonal one.” Brooke’s sniffling too, and Vanessa burrows herself into her side, her heart full and all of the possibilities of the world laid out in front of them.

She’d never thought in her wildest dreams that she would ever get so lucky.

Brooke’s therapist had told her not to bottle things up, stick them in the pretty boxes in her heart, never to be opened again because everything would eventually crumble. The pile of boxes. From all the bad thoughts and thorn laced memories that she didn’t want to think about.

“It’s okay to lean on your wife sometimes,” he had said, “Just like she leans on you.”

They’re in a fancy suite in Boston, because Vanessa is meeting with the state’s senator tomorrow and then has a media blitz day. But Brooke can’t sleep, even though they’re going to have to wake up at 6 a.m. so that Vanessa can look ‘media ready,’ as A’keria puts it.

Brooke tries to distract herself with the plan for tomorrow - how many cars they’re going to take, the way she’s going to distribute the agents for the myriad of events and locations. It normally calms her, soothes her; being a creature of preparedness and having the need for everything being under control. But tonight her stomach is cramping, the pain hollow in her abdomen a reminder of what they’re going through.

The cramping is normal, the doctor had told her. After implantation of the embryos.

But will a pregnancy take?

Will it work?

Or will it be like the last three cycles?

Brooke can’t help but think that maybe it has something to do with her.

She has half a mind to poke Vanessa, wake her from her slumber. Spill all the worries that are building up in her head and threatening to escape at any moment, unless they drive her insane first.

But Vanessa’s fast asleep, her mouth slightly parted as her waves frame her face and for a second she doesn’t even look like the President of the United States. She’s the woman that Brooke fell in love with in a cabin in the woods and nearly died for.

It baffles Brooke every day, the fact that Vanessa loves her. Is married to her. Despite everything, all that’s happened.

Everything that Brooke’s done in her life.

It’s not her, not anymore. But it used to be.

Brooke had murdered people in cold blood, murdered people for money. She had her own fucked up moral code that she used to guide herself in the direction of what was least societally reprehensible, but still.

Doesn’t take away from the fact that she’s extinguished lives. Ended bloodlines, shattered families. No matter if they belonged to douchebags or criminals or whomever. Brooke had still done it. Willingly.

Who is she now to even want to bring a life into this world?

The universe is probably laughing in her face right now, at her absolute audacity to even try again. They’re probably going to find out the same thing a fourth time.

Not pregnant.

It’s not like Brooke deserves to be, anyway, not after what she’s done.

In the past, Brooke had never been one to believe in karma. But the way that her and Vanessa keep trying and trying, the way that they keep seeing friends and coworkers and even people on fucking television announce that they’re pregnant feels like a huge cosmic joke. Like the universe wants to rub it in her face.

Fucked up real bad in the past? Well, she’s going to pay for it now, while bringing Vanessa down with her. Sweet, amazing Vanessa, who deserves better than this. Better than Brooke and all her karmic baggage.

Brooke doesn’t want to wake her. Maybe she’ll talk to her in the morning instead.

Brooke really, really needs watermelon.

Really needs it.

Desperately needs it.

She’d had insane cravings during her second trimester, constantly on the hunt in the White House kitchens for a certain type of ice cream, or her favourite dill pickles. The cravings had died down during the recent weeks, but now they’re back with a vengeance. At nearly nine months pregnant.

Brooke has to get work done for the diplomat visits to the White House over the next few weeks, review the security plans submitted by her agents that are waiting in her email before she officially has to go on leave, but all she can think about is watermelon.

A nice slice of watermelon. The kind that’s super sweet, super juicy, the kind that’s the best in the summer months when it’s hot outside.

She needs some watermelon.

BLH: I need your help.

VVM: What??? Ok coming to your office in 5.

BLH: No wait, just-

Vanessa’s flinging open the door before Brooke can even send her text. It’s convenient, really, that Brooke’s office is so close to the Oval Office. But Vanessa’s looking around the room wildly, looking at her for any signs of distress or pain, and Brooke suddenly feels guilty.

“What’s wrong, baby? Are you hurt? In pain? Do we need to go to the hospital?” Vanessa’s hand is brushing the hair away from her face, her eyes looking her up and down.

“No.” Brooke mumbles because now she’s almost embarrassed. Almost. “I just…”

“You just what?” Vanessa’s crouching beside her desk chair, eyebrows raised. “Spit it out, baby.”

“I want watermelon. I really really want some.” Brooke squeaks out the words, because one of her agents is standing in the doorway, and she’s truly never going to hear the end of the teasing if they catch any of their conversation.

“Watermelon?!” Vanessa’s voice echoes around the room and really, so much for keeping it on the down low. Brooke nearly facepalms. “I ran here in these high ass heels for watermelon?”

“Well, technically I didn’t make you run-”

“Watermelon. Watermelon?”

“In my defense, I really, really need some?” Brooke gives the most angelic smile that she can down to her wife, who’s crouched down on the floor and having a crisis.

“Watermelon.”

“Please?” Brooke pouts and she can see Vanessa’s resolve break, her features immediately melting as she stands back up to press a kiss to her lips.

“Okay, baby. I’ll head down to the kitchen and get you some watermelon.”

Brooke beams, because she really does love her wife. “Thank you.”

Sure, Brooke finds it hard to accept help sometimes. But her pregnancy brain is quite adept at overruling her rational side, something her therapist would be quite impressed with.

Brooke’s happy with the watermelon when Vanessa brings her some, using her stomach like a shelf and resting her bowl on top of it as she types. Her abdomen has been bothering her all day, cramping off and on, though she’s not too worried after their last prenatal visit. Her doctor had said that such cramps were normal towards the end of pregnancy.

Brooke knows to expect it. She’s not going to be a wuss that shows up at the hospital way too early, thinking that she’s having contractions.

Nah, Brooke’s fine. She’s going to keep working. She needs to finish sending these emails, anyway.

Brooke pushes against the armrests of her desk chair to stand up once she hits send on the last email, letting out a grunt as she does. The bathroom’s been calling her name all throughout the work, the baby once again pushing on her bladder with no signs of letting up. She’s ready to waddle over, go to the bathroom for the fourth time today when she feels a slight whoosh.

Her pants are wet.

Brooke lets out a groan, because has she really peed her pants? Does being nearly nine months pregnant make women incontinent?

How embarrassing.

Brooke looks down to assess the state of her clothes, and she’s definitely got a wet spot on her pants, along with one on her chair.

She’s about to grumble and attempt to deal with the mess, except she realizes that she still feels like she needs to pee. So maybe, she hasn’t just peed her pants?

But then…

It doesn’t make sense to Brooke. Her water can’t be broken. She’s still two weeks ahead of her actual due date.

But she’s definitely feeling some sort of leakage, and she still has to pee, and her abdomen is really, really starting to hurt.

“Brooke, baby, I can’t bring you more watermelon, the Chief of Security is in my office right now-”

“Ness, I think my water broke.” Brooke whispers into the phone at her desk, because there are still agents on the other side of her door, and she doesn’t want to cause a stir, really, because maybe it’s not that big of a deal if it’s happened so early-

“WHAT?” Vanessa’s voice blares through the phone and Brooke has to pull the receiver away from her ear, because Vanessa is loud.

“I think so, at least-”

“Forget this meeting, fuck it - whoops, sorry sir - my wife is in labour, I need to go, we can reschedule this, right? A’keria! Reschedule it! Brooke’s in labour!”

Brooke can practically hear Vanessa yelling as she gets closer and closer to her own office, heaving the door open and it’s a good thing Vanessa’s here now, because fuck.

The pains are definitely contractions now.

“Do we need to go? Should I tell one of the interns to call a car? Who should drive? Should I drive?” Vanessa’s pacing in front of her desk and Brooke wants to laugh, really, except she’s having to breathe a little bit harder through the pain.

Not that the pain is that bad. She’s okay, really.

“You’re not going to drive, babe. We’re-” Brooke takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as she can feel another contraction start. “We’ll get someone to drive us.”

“Should I ask Kiki? No wait, I can’t ask Kiki, she said once that she’d failed her driving test in the past. What if she crashes now with us in the car? What if-”

“Ness. We have drivers. We have people employed here who are quite literally drivers.” Breathe, she’s going to breathe. The contraction’s ending.

Vanessa pauses. “Oh. Right. Wait, your baby bag, we haven’t packed one!” She spins on her heel, starting to pace again. “What do we do?”

“Get one of the interns to do it.” Brooke grimaces because damn, her abdomen hurts, and it’s still so early, and are they really about to have a baby?

Vanessa barks an order into her phone and comes around Brooke’s desk, pulling her close. Brooke leans her head against Vanessa’s stomach, who’s still standing and running her fingers through Brooke’s hair.

“Okay. Okay. We can do this. Stay calm.” Vanessa’s muttering under her breath and Brooke looks up at her with an amused smile.

“I am calm.” Brooke is. She’s trying to be, at least, because panicking isn’t going to help and she doesn’t want to start to spiral too early. Maybe she’s not even in labour yet and this is a false alarm.

“I was talking to myself.” Vanessa’s voice is sheepish and Brooke lets out a snort, because of course she was.

Brooke feels another wave of pain hit, stronger this time and lets out a whimper because it hurts, more so than before. Vanessa’s suddenly on the floor beside her, and Brooke can hear her talking (‘It’s okay, baby, you’re okay, you’re okay’) and tries her best to focus on her. Though the way she’s gripping the armrests of her chair is certainly going to make them break.

It feels like an eternity before the contraction passes, even though Brooke’s clock tells her that it’s only been forty five seconds.

“Hey. Hey. Kiki brought the driver. You ready?” Vanessa’s looking up at Brooke expectantly, as if she’s asked the easiest question in the world.

Ready? Are they ready for a baby? Will they be able to be parents? Will they be good parents?

Is Brooke ready to push out an entire baby?

“I am, with you.” It’s true. They can do this. Brooke’s been through so much with Vanessa, survived deadly past careers, wayward gunshots, federal campaigns. Protected her physically from the world while Vanessa kept her together on the inside.

Who’s to say they can’t do this too?

“Yeah. We’re ready.”

[nova-friends]

Hello, Mr. E and fans. This letter will he a bit harsh, but I only speak the truth. I’ve been a big fan of the NVTFOA franchise for awhile, but the spark is dying down. Hell, we’ve been waiting for E to write a “new chapter” for more than a YEAR. Whenever he’s asked about it, he always says it’s coming soon. I was happy with the NVTFOA Tumblr because at least he’s keeping fans satisfied, but now he’s not doing THAT. It’s been months and he hasn’t answered anything. I’m angry with Mr. E right now

E: I am going to preface this entire thing with this: You are allowed to feel angry. You are allowed to feel that negative emotion because it is a healthy response. We as humans have those emotion to help us express what we are feeling and helps us get over our issues. What you should never do is act on that negative emotion because then you do something like this and I am forced to respond in kind. Don’t worry I am simply sharing insight with you. 

I don’t want anyone to respond omg this anon is a jerk and such a blah blah because based on the way this is written they were trying to be polite but firm which is a nice change of pace from the occasional asshat that leaves stuff in my inbox that I just delete because they’re just being an ass. It is well meaning ask but a little misguided. 

I am a person. I am not a machine that just cranks out stories because that is what I am forced to do. I have a life. I have responsibilities to people who depend on me and you are not entitled to anything. Do not get me wrong I greatly appreciate all the love and support I get so much that mere words can never properly express it but I do this for fun. I do this because I find enjoyment in it and I really wish I could get paid for this. I really wish I could sit back and write for the rest of my life with that being my job. You have no idea how much I wish I could make living off just doing something I love. Alas right now that’s not how it works. You say you speak truth but you don’t. You speak from the view of a reader whose favorite content who hasn’t been updated in 2 years which makes me honored you think highly of my work that it’s mere absence angers you. It’s kinda flattering. and I know you wrote this to express your frustration which as I have previously said is allowed. You were kind enough not to call me horrible words or demanding I write a chapter right now or you hate me. You express anger which I suspect might actually be more disappointment.  

I am human. I am one person and run this tumblr by myself. Deth does not run this and there’s no one helping me answering any of these questions. Deth has her own life and she can do whatever she wants because she is her own person. She is the official Nova artist because she’s a fan and I always so grateful for her work because she could give you things I never could as a writer. Many are not that lucky. 

Now let me enlighten you to the daily life of an E.

For 2 weeks every month I am the caretaker of my grandma whom I am lucky to have. She is 99 years old as of last week. She has a broken leg but she can walk because of a metal plate in her leg and a walker. She is very sharp and smart but she’s not there anymore. She suffers heavy from memory loss and pride. She doesn’t understand her leg is broken unless you remind her. She doesn’t understand she can’t help anymore or that she has asked me have I eaten breakfast for the 5th time in an hour. She loves me which is a testament to the work I do. When she is here I don’t sleep. From midnight to 6 am I watch her. I sleep with my door open. I listen for her in case she has nightmares (Rare but they happen) and I have to help her to restroom and then tuck her back into bed then maybe sleep for 20 30 minutes. an hour or 2 if I’m lucky until it is 6 am or she gets up again. I am getting older. I’ve finally shoved my pride and bought a baby monitor to ensure I don’t lose my mind. My grandma is getting older too and she’s getting more and more problems that are not easy to deal with. I’ve been watching her for 6 years but I have been taking care of her for the last 14.

Did you know that post I made a month ago was literally the first time I’ve been on vacation in 2 years? The first time in 2 years that I didn’t have to worry about anything aside my fear of heights which luckily I was able to control on my flight.

Then recently this last week we decided to change the flooring in our rooms. I had to physically move every single piece of thing I owned out of a tiny doorframe and find space for it along with my grandma’s stuff while my grandma was here and let me tell all that stuff in the living room really threw her off. 

Today was literally the first time in a month that I could actually hop on a computer to answer asks (Excellent timing btw). And honestly some days I look at that 141 asks inbox of nova (and the 22 stories prompts I haven’t written in my writing blog) And go “I don’t know if I am up for it today.” And I legit feel bad. I feel I should answer this consistently but last year really fucked with me to be honest.

Last year I lost my favorite uncle. I didn’t want to mention it because I didn’t want to hear I’m sorry or my condolences for your loss. I was angry because for the first time in my entire life, the first time ever I felt cheated. I felt robbed. It was a whole background of problems but long story short is that I didn’t really get to see him often and his death felt like a sucker punch. I...yeah. 

And that messed with my writing schedule and I am the type of person that once that is gone, it is so hard to get back in the groove of things. It is a very unfortunate flaw I have and I have been trying to get back into it but it’s hard.

I have been writing for 16 years of my life. I can write 1,335 words an hour if I’m focusing. it still takes 2 to 5 hours for me to write an average story of mine because boy am I wordy and that’s just my style plus an 30 minutes to proofread (which I still make mistakes) and another 30 to answer reviews. Then the last two season for star vs I personally don’t think they were good and that really hurts my motivation. and sometimes I want to write other stuff. Other stories or ideas, original and other series because damn do I have too many ideas. 

and of course I have to decide what to do with Nova. I love this series because this was the first time I felt like I could be a real writer. To create original ideas and series and have people love them. Like them. Invest in them. Like a real author. I’ve been writing since a time fanfiction was considered lesser. You weren’t a writer if you wrote fanfiction or aus or put ocs in a series and it took me a long time to get over that finally show Nova to the word. and my own original stuff. And of course the show threw so many curve balls at me and went in such wildly crazy directions that it directly affects nova since nova takes place 20 years in the future and I had to decide, on my own because Deth is a reader too and doesn’t want spoilers, what to do. Do i change the story I had plan, do i find ways to fill in the holes accidentally created for me? do I keep on going and just call it a future au where different choices and events just happened (Which i decided yes). I decided to keep the original plan. The plan I created when I first started this. and of course I left the cliff hanger on a fight scene. Fight scenes are very hard to keep engaging and epic yet clear and I haven’t properly written an like a year and I have to come back to a freaking fight scene. 

Literally the next chapter of the story is to show you this is the next arc of nova. this is the main arc of the entire story.

First Movement: A Magician’s Forte.

I’ve been waiting to unveil that chapter title for 2 years. 

Look I am not doing this to shame you or to make you feel bad. I doing this to remind you that I am a human being. Writers and Artists are human beings. I do this with my own time, effort and finding ways not to get burnt out and keep fitting this whole thing I love into my life. And I have always been honest with you. I answered an ask openly stating there was the real possibility that maybe I couldn’t finish Nova. That I would post my notes up so you all would get to at least know the things I had plan. 

If you are still angry, then I am sorry I lost you as a fan and as a reader. It is what it is. But you need to understand I am a person. it is super easy to have this blurred view where somehow your favorite content creator is somehow beyond the issues and problems of the world. But we’re not. We’re people too. I am just a guy that likes to write but I have a life beyond that too. 

Hope you have a great day and I hope you’re a little less angry now. 

[lovemesomesurveys]

...Third time I’m doing this because first I accidentally highlighted and deleted the whole thing and the second time I accidentally clicked to go back. It’s supposed to ask you if you want to leave or stay on the page, but somehow it bypassed that. I’m so annoyed, but here we go again... -______-

What’s something that makes you feel more creative? Nothing. What are the last three nail polish colors you wore? I last recall wearing black, which was a few years ago so I don’t know what I wore before that. How often do you switch up your nail polish cover? Not often apparently. What’s the last thing you binge watched? Catfish. Do you watch youtube videos or tv shows more? Both.

Who’s the most shallow and superficial person you’ve watched on youtube? I don’t consider any of the YouTubers I watch to be like that. What’s the last magazine you’ve read? I don’t remember. What’s a DIY project that you don’t think actually works? I don’t know. Do you collect Mason jars to use for crafts? No. What are you tired of right now? This survey because it’s now my 3rd time doing it. What gives you a quality of life? Uhhh. What would give you a high quality of life? Good health. Do you have any rugs on top of carpet in your home? No. What color is the last teddy bear you bought? I only buy stuffed animal giraffes, and they’re the color you’d expect a giraffe to be. Have you ever gotten rid of something and then regretted it? Yes. If so, what? (or what’s one thing?) A lot of things. I have a hard time getting rid of stuff. How does your stomach feel right now? It’s been bothering me. What color is the zip-up hoodie you wear the most? Black. Do you have a mattress cover on your bed? Yes. Do you live in an apartment that has inspections? I don’t live in an apartment. Do you hate taking naps during the day? No. Who in your immediate family has the best natural hair? My mom. Who has the best personality on youtube? Shane and Trisha Paytas, and the many ASMRists I’m subscribed to such as GibiASMR and PrimASMR to name a couple. Which youtuber seems uber confident? One of the ASMRists I watch, ASMRxBABEE. What is the funniest youtube video you have ever seen? I’ve seen many in over the past 11 years that I’ve been watching YouTube. Would you ever audition for American Idol? Um, no. I can’t sing and I know that. Do you know anyone who thinks they’re more talented than they are? No. Do you buy gum? I haven’t in awhile. What’s your favorite dollar store? I don’t have one. How many cell phones have you had in your lifetime? Like 5 or 6. Can you play the ukulele? No. Do you correct spelling and grammatical errors? Sometimes I will in a survey, but not in the question itself. I just correct it in my answer. Did you get a perfect SAT score in any subjects? I didn’t take the SATs. What is the origin of your last name? (i.e., Italian, French, etc.) Irish. Do you know the meaning of your first name? Yes. If so, what is it? "to be crowned.” Have you ever been inside a Victorian mansion? No. What was the most boring field trip you ever want on? I didn’t consider any of them boring, really. The last time you went, what were your favorite rides at Cedar Point? Never been. Have you ever ridden a horse? Once, at a fair. Sorry horsey, I was a kid and didn’t know any better. Do you enjoy watching videos of babies being born? Um, no thank you. If you had a boy and a girl, what would you name them? Which country do you have no desire to visit? *shrug* Which country would you most like to visit? Sweden. What is your nationality/what are your origins? American. ^What is the stereotype associated with that nationality? Probably that we love guns or something and that we’re fat. ^And do you feel like you fit it? Nope. What are your favorite types of videos to watch on youtube? ASMR and vlogs. What’s a DIY craft project you want to try? I don’t do any. Is your room clean? Mostly. It’s a bit cluttered. Are you a hoarder? A bit. When you think of your past, do you hurt? When thinking about parts of it. I also miss parts of it, though. Is there a guy (or girl) that you wish things had worked out with? Yes. I do wish things had worked out between Ty and I. I wish we had least remained friends if we couldn’t be anything more. I truly loved having him in my life. Do you ever call yourself stupid in your head? That and many other putdowns. “Stupid” is the least of them. What was your favorite Barbie doll? I just loved Barbies. If you were to start a collection, what would it be? I do, I have a ton of stuffed animal giraffes. If you were rich, what things would you get done cosmetically? I’d just want to get my teeth fixed. How old were you when you got your license? I haven’t still. Are you parents too controlling? No. Do you think “Sarah/Sara” looks better with an “h” or without? Whichever. Would you ever give your daughter the middle name Marie? Do you think “Ann/Anne” looks better with or without the “e”? Again, whichever. Who is your favorite fictitious redhead? Archie Andrews and Cheryl Blossom. Name 5 fictitious redheads that you can think of. Those 2, Merida from Brave, Daphne, and Wilma. Do you like musicals? Some. What shows have you seen on Broadway? The Phantom of the Opera. What big cities have you been to? Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Atlanta. What other big cities do you want to go to? New York for sure. Do you follow through with your new year’s resolutions? I don’t even make ‘em anymore. Do you make bucket lists? I did one years ago. What’s number 1 on your bucket list? I do wanna travel. Do you have a relationship with God? Yes. Do you hate haters? Haters gonna hate. What do you want to be for Halloween this year? I don’t dress up anymore. Do you like unique spellings of names? Sometimes. Do you trust anyone? Yes. What kind of milk do you drink? I use soy or almond milk for stuff, but I don’t like to drink them by itself. Have you ever “fired” a doctor? No. What’s your favorite type of cheese? I love cheese. American, cheddar, provolone, mozzarella, ricotta, parmesan... What store do you want to win a shopping spree at? Hmm. What clothing store would you like to win a shopping spree at (if different)? I don’t know. Do you wear heels or flats more? Neither. Do you love shopping? I like online shopping. Who is the prettiest Asian youtuber that you can think of? I’m not sure. Do you watch a lot of youtube videos? Yes. What is the best news you’ve heard lately? Ummm. Do you use a sunlamp? No. What was the temperature where you live today? I think mid 60s F. Is your sleep schedule all messed up? Yep. Has been for many years. Do you keep up with trends? Some. Did you wear green last St. Patrick’s Day? Nope. Name three positive things about the Internet. Tumblr, surveys, online shopping. Have a lovely day! Thanks.

[philcphobic]

[ ONE / THREE ] hello ! it’s KRIS with my first of three muses, and she is known as ANGEL, an assassin for the most iconic gang, DRAGON EYES ! she is a FORMER MEMBER OF RED LIONS and lasted almost two years, before taking her leave about a two months ago because a dragon eyes member ( shout out to @bladehoney ) convinced her to ... so ... there’s that. if you’d like to plot, smash that heart & i’ll come to you as soon as i can either through tumblr im’s or through discord !

[ TRIGGER WARNING ; DEATH, PARENTAL LOSS, BULLYING, VIOLENCE, RUNNING AWAY, UNDERAGE DRINKING, DRUGS, MANIPULATION, MURDER ! ]

LIFE BEFORE GANG ACTIVITY !

born as kim jangmi on november 05, 1997 and she was born to two loving parents and the youngest of five children in total !

( DEATH, PARENTAL LOSS ) paradise doesn’t last forever, and she and her siblings lost their parents when she was 7 years old. she doesn’t know much about her parents, as she lost them to what police would call ‘ an unfortunate accident that should’ve never happened ’, but she knows that her father was a big time attorney & businessman.

he’s known to never have lost a case up until his death. let’s just say some people higher up on the ladder were NOT fond of him and wanted him GONE.

after their death, all five kids were sent to an orphanage. one by one, she would watch as her siblings were either all adopted or headed to live with a foster parent, and wondered if they were all ever going to see each other again. reassurance can only go a long way.

eventually it was just her and her oldest sister, and they were considered a package deal, which is why no one wanted to adopt them; everyone that came around always wanted one & one only.

they soon entered the foster care system but it turned out to be a lot more hellish than they’d presume. the first family was extremely promising, and could’ve been their best bet to a normal life again if jangmi just wasn’t so disobedient.

jangmi was confused and scared, and wanted to go home to what she was used to. she wanted her parents and these people were not them.

it was an endless cycle of going back and forth between new homes for a couple of years, and by the time jangmi was twelve, she and her older sister were finally separated, everyone believing they would be better apart like their brothers were.

all she had of her family now were unspoken goodbyes and one last family photo, taken on christmas day, a month before everything shattered.

luckily, a family chose to adopt her. they had other foster kids, troublemakers like her, and they wanted to test if adopting one would change them for the better before adopting the rest.

this … did not sit well with these other kids.

( BULLYING, VIOLENCE ) these older kids did not like her. they had a lot of reasons, but usually pinning it on her beauty at a young age. jangmi was used to rough housing with her own siblings before separation, but the way they ‘ played ’ with her was nothing like that.

she always had cuts and bruises, and told her ‘ parents ’, she was just really clumsy when they asked. her foster ‘ siblings ’ frequently told her that she wasn’t pretty, forcing her to look in the mirror with all of her injuries and tell her this is what she truly looks like.

( RUNNING AWAY ) there is only so much a young girl can actually take. she thinks it’s easier to run far away, where no one else could hurt her or make her cry. she takes whatever can fit into her backpack, and runs as far as she can physically handle.

an old couple end up finding her passed out on a bench in the park late in the night and take her home. they end up becoming her new parental figures, and they take care of her ( and hide her as she pleaded them to, ) as she is still considered a missing child.

the woman is an ex-professor and the man is war veteran, so she believed she had all she needs in order to live what’s considered a ‘ normal ’ life. she plays with the other kids in her neighbourhood leisurely, but is homeschooled for the fear of being found out, despite already having another identity as ANGEL. she’s taught everything she needs to know from them; everything from english & japanese to self-defence & how to use a gun.

life is perfect with them, and they’re the kindest, most understanding people she’s ever met. they give her a lot of freedom to be her own person, and they usually don’t discipline her, partially because they feel bad about her messy childhood and also because they thought she’d rebel if she was contained in a certain box …

despite their efforts, she turned out to become a rebel anyway.

( UNDERAGE DRINKING, DRUGS ) with so much freedom and little to no discipline, it was easy to push her boundaries away from her. they didn’t know about her getting involved with alcohol and drugs underage, her equally troublesome friends, nor did they know about her first boyfriend three years her senior, at the age of sixteen. they just believed she liked the freedom, and since she was obedient when around them, they didn’t feel the need to be suspicious.

( MANIPULATION, RUNNING AWAY ) it’s good up until she turns eighteen, when she’s about to attend university and meets … [redacted], and they hit it off quickly ! they convince her that she doesn’t need her parents anymore, and manipulating her into thinking she’s a burden for being so troublesome, and should leave them alone. this marks the second time she runs away from home, but this time hurts more than the first.

she left nothing but a letter and a necklace they gave her for her fourteenth birthday, and hasn’t seen them since. in her letter she apologizes for taking a gun from her father, and hopes they don’t try to find her.

[redacted is somehow connected to the gang red lions. she doesn’t understand why someone with so much money would be involved with a gang, but she doesn’t question them ... mostly for safety, in case this person was dangerous, but she’s always been curious.

( VIOLENCE, MURDER ) it takes a year for her to stop being naive with this person, who has isolated her for her ‘ safety ’ while being her biggest threat as they stay under the same roof. she realizes this one night when she looks in the mirror and sees a reflection of the same girl she was when she was thirteen, living with a bunch of foster kids who hated her. a fight ensues, and it’s clear who wins.

meticulous as ever, she erases her presence in their life to avoid trouble with the law, but realizes she’s alone again for the fourth time in her life.

LIFE WITH GANG ACTIVITY !

she slides her way into RED LIONS just days before her nineteenth birthday, already having connections on the inside. it’s the second ‘ unfortunate accident ’ in her life, but this time she’s involved and it’s anything but an accident.

she doesn’t know whether they genuinely thought she’d be a good addition to their growing empire or if they pitied her circumstance ( since she didn’t tell them the blood is on her hands ), but she finally found a stable family.

she is the story of [drake vc] started from the bottom now we here, as she went from having nothing for to her name to rising in the ranks as she proved her worth time and time again. she somehow rose high enough to be one of the trusted assassins in red lions, and was also taking money from outside sources ( coughs aka sugar daddies / mommies ) when she was really in need.

targets are mostly the wealthy, as it’s easier to maintain secrecy when they have reputations to live up to. she usually takes her sweet time with targets, ( no longer than a month ) just to know their schedules and … them as a person. sometimes there are hit & run opportunities but she doesn’t like doing spontaneous jobs like that too often … they get messy.

so she’s there for nearly two years, but during then she befriended sienna and she somehow managed to convince angel to leave red lions and join DRAGON EYES …

or is there more to the story? yes, but it’s not important tbh since it’s minor.

she left red lions at the beginning of september 2018, and joined dragon eyes at the beginning of october 2018. no one outside of dragon eyes knew this until recently … for obvious reasons. hopefully there’s no hard feelings because she still loves the members of red lions !! ( most of them, maybe? hopefully? )

still an assassin, that hasn’t changed ! — not sure what happened to their old assassin, but that’s not her problem — she’s still the same girl, who has tattoos for both gangs despite being only in one. she has been mostly independent in red lions ( except for those times she needed a warm body if ya’ get what i mean, ) and that hasn’t and won’t change. her allegiance is with one gang, but she usually works by herself unless specifically requested to do something other than kill.

red lipstick, pistols & pretty chrome daggers are part of her aesthetic.

ANGEL AS A PERSON !

she wasn’t always a strong person, but she’s stronger than she’d ever thought she’d be. there were nights when she didn’t think she’d see the sun the next day, so she’s proud of her growth. she’s not too in-touch with her negative emotions, so pride is what she feels.

this girl is always looking for improvement, and is constantly challenging her skills, her strength, her mind, & her perseverance when she has the chance. if you look at her desk, there are files of herself with records of her improvements. she’s extremely organized and careful, which helps for her job too.

she is a university student during the day, just to keep as a front if she’s to be acquainted with targets. she majors in criminology, ironically enough. she minors in chemistry, which is also useful if ya’ get what i mean.

she has a lot of money now, mostly because she has a bunch of unknown sugar daddies / mommies funding her every need. if you need anything just hit her up and she’ll get it … with a small price. it’s two way street, but she is more lenient.

she’s a social person, but she’s not extroverted … does that make sense? she doesn’t go out of her way to go out ( unless it’s a target ) and likes staying home a lot. she likes staying with her persian cat, sumi, and her cute lil rosy boa, nagini.

skills include self-defense, knowledge of & experience with most weaponry, lying, forgery, stealing, disguises … uh … driving? maybe one or two more but … whatever. she’ll do whatever the gang needs her to do, no doubt !

( DRINKING, DRUGS ) she drinks every week, but usually tones it down when she’s got a job. luckily, she doesn’t really do as many drugs anymore, but she smokes marijuana occasionally ( when someone offers it to her ) and smokes cigarettes when she’s really stressed, but also once biweekly if anything.

this girl is pretty much a clean slate. ever since she met [redacted], any life with the elderly couple is erased, and her life in and out of foster homes is so far gone that no one knows about it. her name was kim jangmi back then; NO ONE knows she’s kim jangmi unless she’s told them, or made the connection by themselves on their own time. as far as anyone is concerned, kim jangmi died as a missing child back in early 2010. she’s secretive about her past; don’t try digging into it unless you plan on digging your grave too !

she has a lot of repressed emotions, sadness being the biggest one, and isn’t the type to get angry very often, if at all. annoyed is the most she’d get, but she wouldn’t raise her voice. to be honest, she’s decent as long as people are as well? again, it’s a two way street. give respect & you get respect !

uh … these repressed emotions will eventually spill over : ) one day !

ummmm that’s it for now folks !!!!! pls plOT with Me !!!!!

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (30/45)

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

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

They are both horrible liars.

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

She was mumbling.

Or talking to herself.

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

God, this place was enormous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She missed the pillows.

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

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

She had fifteen minutes to organize her entire life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruby kicked at his ankles.

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

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

“Teacher voice,” Emma mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

Emma Swan wasn’t a sentimental fool.

She was just the biggest liar in the entire world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And fine didn’t feel like a complete lie.

He was last.

Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still on schedule?” Emma asked.

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

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

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

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

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

She certainly hadn’t told anyone about that.

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

It kind of felt that way.

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

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

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

“I mean, not technically,” Emma argued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do what?” Mary Margaret asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was a bit nervous.

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

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

Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope.

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

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

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

Mr. Vankald did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Swan?”

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

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

No such luck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary Margaret and David looked disappointed.

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

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

And maybe Emma could remember how to breathe.

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

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

“Are you following me?” Emma asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He probably had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” She believed him.

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

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

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

[mysticsparklewings]

NaPoWriMo 2020 Day 1: Self Portrait Metaphor

everyday I turn the key the tension builds then at the height a symphony emerges relief & when it's over we begin again ____ Well, I couldn't make it before midnight, but whatever (and in my defense, it would have been closer to midnight by my internet randomly decided to crap out for thirty minutes just now ). I'm submitting it now because the sooner I do, the sooner I can be properly on schedule. The official Day 1 prompt--and I wish somebody had told me the Early Bird prompt and the Day 1 prompt were not the same thing because that would've saved me a lot of grief and why oh why could we not just get a full list of the prompts like a week in advance--was to do a poem self-portrait, using a specific action as a metaphor for your life. As you can imagine, that prompt threw me for a bit of a loop, especially since it was specified that it should be an uncommon metaphor like, "shopping for socks." That was a particularly low blow because my first choices are all art, writing, and/or book-related actions and thus fall into "commonly used metaphor" territory. And at first, all the other options I could think of were not very compelling poetry-fonder. (I mean, I don't think shopping for socks would be either, but I didn't come up with that example, so...) After some thought, I settled on the winding of a music box/music toy (box is the more recognized term but most of the physical objects I own are like snow globes or other trinkets, not actual boxes) for my action. As music box/toy/whatevers are a knickknack I find particularly intriguing, especially if they play "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies"/"The Nutcracker Suite." It also seemed fitting since the winding of the mechanism to make them sing works well as a metaphor for anxiety or general stress, and I tend to be a pretty anxious and stressed out person. So that's the concept I ran with. Like the winding of a music box, each day a person (me in this case, but I'm sure I'm not alone) gets up and that little key of anxiety and/or stress or the pressure of life starts turning in your back, tightening that coil inside you until eventually it can't be turned anymore, or in some cases, it stops being turned prematurely. If you force the key to turn beyond its limit, you break the music component inside and it has to be fixed. If you let it go, the tinkly song starts to play until everything has unwound and you're free. That is until the process starts all over again the next day. And sometimes, music boxes have trouble with the musical component. They still work, but the little barrel with the nubs on it that turns to make the music might be stuck or having a hard time turning. Or maybe somehow the insides between the little music component and the inside of the trinket got misaligned so it struggles to play properly. But once you open it up and fiddle with it a bit, it works just fine, usually. ...I realize that's expanding a bit more to a whole music box/toy rather than just the act of winding the key to one, but I ask for a break because I ended up way stressing myself out while I was working on this one and reached something close to one of those breaking points I mentioned. Besides, they can't all be winners, yeah? I mean, I still think this one turned out okay as far as the poem goes, the thing is just, "does it really follow the prompt?" Which I guess really depends more on your own perspective. Anyway. The mandala was fairly straight-forward. This was supposed to, on some planet, be a "self-portrait" so I picked colors/pens that I really like or generally appeal to me and I tried to go with shapes and motifs that also really appeal to me. Though, I did have a false start that hurt my hand because I picked a gel pen that likes to skip and I wasn't liking where it was going, so I had to start over.  Fortunately, I like the way this one turned out much better. Once again, I know visually it's very busy to have the words on top of the mandala like this, but short of using gray paper and severely limiting my color choices (some of the gel pens won't show up at all or as nicely on darker paper) I don't have a good answer for it yet. Maybe I'll figure something out, or maybe we'll be stuck like this for a month. We'll see. Now if you'll excuse me, the prompt for Day 2 has been released and I'd like to get ahead of this thing while I have the chance so tomorrow I can just play Animal Crossing until my eyes are dried out and my hands are ready to fall off. ____ Artwork/Poem © me, MysticSparkleWings Inspired by FridgePoetProject ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[ijange]

What’s Important

If you were to scroll through my past posts, you would see I very rarely blog on tumblr.  I have used it only a few times to release my thoughts and also for my career path....The reason my lack of tumblr use is mentionable is because it shows just how important what I am about to discuss is.  There is a very serious reason why I turned to my blog at this moment in time.  The main reason is because I feel very strongly about a certain situation and needed somewhere to vent.  However, I came here, instead of the more traditionally and commonly used Facebook for two reasons.  For one, there is only a certain number of characters permitted which I knew I would quickly surpass.  Secondly, it is because I am not writing for comments or opinions or arguments, which so commonly occur on Facebook.  

What is the topic that has brought me to this point? Racism.  Human beings in which have been depicted one thing or another since the beginning of time, and answering questions such as why, how long will it last, what does it all mean, who created it, and when/where did it start? 

To start, I will say that although I have engaged in plenty of research, this is more of a free writing than factual, so I will not list multiple facts.  I will simply stick to the basics.  Clearly, (the majority of) racism began with slavery.  Sure there are several ideas and beliefs as to how and why slavery began, but the bottom line is black ‘versus’ white still exists today mainly because of slavery.   How did slavery begin and deem African Americans as slaves?  Simply put, “  the only justification by which humanity could face it was to divide people into races and decide that the Africans were an inferior race."

So without getting too in-depth, let’s think about the basics for a minute.  Africans were, no denying it, a part of slavery.  IMO, this is a huge factor in where racism stems from.  This is why so many Africans are against anyone who isn’t African.  This is why African's are bothered by their own race engaging in friendships and relationships with those that are not African.    

Oh, but wait....It really isn’t as previously mentioned, is it?  Is it not crazy to anyone else that the non Africans are the ones that have the biggest issue with their race and culture engaging in relationships with those that are Africans?  Because to me it is. Yes there are plenty of ‘blacks’ that are homeless, unemployed, living off welfare, in jail, absent from their children’s lives, thieves, murderers, etc., etc., etc.  But are there not people of every other race that all are/do the same????  Why is it that they are the ones constantly and continuously judged for honestly nothing more than their skin color??

Again, this is a personal writing so I want to get back to my own feelings and thoughts without anymore history of the subject.  Flat out, I am a Caucasian with many African friends.  I am the person who goes out for smoke breaks at work, out to dinner, out for drinks, and now currently lives with, an African-American.  I am the person so many people have an issue with, all the while, they don’t realize the bigger issue is the one I have with them, for even having an issue with me.

I come from an Italian family that ‘taught’ me I was never to date a man outside of my race.  (Particularly a ‘black man’).  On the same note however, my non-Italian mother always told me to never date an Italian, I guess because she did and was so dissatisfied with her decision (based off of my experiences and outlook on their dysfunctional marriage).  

Luckily enough for me, I never really listened or paid any attention to either of their idiotic ideas about who I should or should not date or befriend.  I dated an Italian at the age of thirteen, who was also my first kiss.  Was my mom thrilled? No.  I had a best friend who had an African friend, also at the age of thirteen.  The first time we all went to my house to go swimming I recall it being an issue.  Almost twenty years ago, it is a day that still sticks out to me because of how it made me feel.  I did not understand why it felt ‘not okay’ for a person of another color to come swimming with us.  

Somehow, even at that age, I was still innocent and ignorant to the awful truth.  Even thought I knew my friends’ friend was not allowed over because of her skin color, I had no idea the depth of it nor how serious it would become later in life.  

I didn’t have many friends of another race for many years after this, simply due to environmental surroundings.  At a later age, in my mid-twenties, I become super close with a co-worker.  Several years later, he is still one of the few people I can always count on.  He was the first person to begin my birthday celebrations with me this year.  He found my brand new sweatshirt at a bar the first time we hung out outside of work and made sure I didn’t drive home alone from Downtown Cleveland.  He is African-American.   Does it bother me? Not at all.  Would not even mention it if it were not the point of this blog.  Love you day1.

Last year on my 30th birthday, I went to Put-in-Bay.  Something I really, really wanted to do.  It took forever to plan and I had a very hard time trying to put a group of people together for it, mostly due to their schedules (work, kids, family, etc.). Like i said tho, I did go.  With one person.  Someone who also began as a coworker but became one of my very best friends.  Someone who also is of African descent.  Does this bother me?  Not in the least.  My wife means the world to me :)            

And last but not least, my best friend, boyfriend, partner, love of my life, and so much more, is also a different color than me.  And my favorite part is the fact that my daughter, only after having been exposed to the idea of racism, still only referred  to him as “he’s just a different color, I don’t understand what the big deal is”.  People, especially children, are so very innocent and unaware of the idea of racism.  It is NOT something people are born with, it is taught.  Although I was raised to turn away, I rose above the idiocracy of the idea and became a much better person because of it.  I would never change who I am who what I think or how I feel.  And I can only pray my daughter will continue to feel the way she does now and not be so unfortunately tainted with the horrible illusions that remain.

      Do I think black is all right and that none of them hate white people? Absolutely not.  Do I think it’s possible for it all to just disappear overnight? Not at all.  (I could only wish). Am I ignorant to the fact that there are plenty of ‘blacks’ out there that are racist too?  Nope.  There are.  I totally get it.  Are there several that fit the ‘stereotype’?  Of course.  But don’t plenty of other races fit their stereotype too, and yet we give certain ones a chance because they are different or mean something to us or impact our life in  an unforgettable way???  Or because their race isn’t so noticeably different immediately, on the outside? I have fallen in love with a person whom has a different skin tone than myself and it has caused several complications so early on and we both are aware that it will only continue to happen and although we are both more than willing to face any and all issues together, I cannot help but question WHY at the end of the day...Why must it continue to go on like this, to this extreme???    

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (25/45)

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

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

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: I’m not saying I’m a sports soothsayer, but Hans’ (partial) character inspiration got in a fight with Phillip the Rookie’s character inspiration when the Penguins played the Rangers at the Garden last night. So, you know. Let’s not talk about how that game ended though. We are, officially, back to hockey here and Regina knowing things. You guys continue to be awesome and I am nothing without @laurnorder, @distant-rose & @beautiful-swan.  Also living it up on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

He heard the heels before he saw her, the sound somehow finding its way to Killian’s ears through the jam-packed locker room. He resisted the urge to sigh.

Phillip the Rookie sighed anyway – and Killian must have supersonic hearing because he could hear that too and Phillip the Rookie’s locker was four lockers away from his, but Regina had been trying to get him to sign with her for the better part of the last three weeks, so he could understand the sigh.

The heels were accompanied by the squeak of a pair of sneakers, no doubt tied tightly onto the feet of a very excited six-year-old, and Killian turned in just enough time to catch Roland when he leapt at him. And Robin sighed at that, eyebrows pulled low and face twisted into disgruntled acceptance when his son just shouted “Hi!" at him while draped over Killian’s shoulder.

“Ah, well, at least I got that,” Robin mumbled, sinking onto the edge of the bench to relace his skates. Regina just crossed her arms over her chest, perfectly-fitted blazer not fitting quite as perfectly when she bent her elbows and started tapping out an impatient rhythm on her left forearm.

Phillip the Rookie sighed again.

“If you’ve come in here to torment the kid again, Gina, don’t try it,” Killian warned, shifting slightly so he didn’t actually drop Roland on the ground. Arthur probably wouldn’t have appreciated that.

It was another Pittsburgh night and everyone was a bit on edge – back into the second Wild Card spot after the Devils had lost the night before and the entire Metro was a mess, teams so jumbled up in the standings that things seemed to change every time Killian refreshed his phone.

They needed to win tonight and they needed to stop sucking so much on the goddamn PK and he was only three points away from cracking the top-five. That probably wouldn’t happen that night. He hadn’t scored in four games.

Not like he was counting – just getting obnoxious text message updates about it from Scarlet who found the whole thing hysterical.

“Hi, Hook,” Roland said, voice muffled by the jersey his face was pressed against as he knocked his fist against Killian’s shoulder blade.

“Hey, mate,” he muttered. He glanced at Robin who did his best to shrug without being noticed by Regina and it absolutely didn’t work because Killian was half convinced Regina had several different pairs of eyes in her head. “God, you weigh a ton.” Roland laughed loudly and Killian was smiling before he remembered he was supposed to be focused on a game and not getting into another fight with Soyer. Regina lifted one eyebrow and she still hadn’t uncrossed her arms, sitting down next to Robin until her back was resting against his.

It was a bargaining tactic – Killian had seen it all last season when she’d been renegotiating Robin’s contract. Regina had perfected the fine art of staring at another human being until they were so uncomfortable that they broke out into some sort of cold sweat and agreed to whatever terms she was demanding.

And she hadn’t blinked once she started staring at Killian.

“What do you want Gina?” Killian asked, doing his best to actually snap when there was still a kid hanging over his back. “You better hope Arthur doesn’t see you in here.” “How did you even get in here?” Robin added. He glanced over his shoulder and Regina didn’t move, just kept staring at Killian with her arms crossed. Robin let out a low whistle and pushed off the bench to fish his game jersey out of his locker, making a face as he tugged it over his pads. “God,” he laughed, but there was a nervous edge to the sound. “What did you do, Cap? Threaten Soyer before the game or something?” Killian shook his head. “I haven’t done anything. And Gina probably just stared at the security guards outside until they collapsed into a heap of fear and let her walk over them. They probably thanked her at the end of it.” Roland laughed again, body shaking just a bit and Killian wasn’t sure why they kept doing this – it always ended with a foot in his ribs.

“I did no such thing,” Regina said, practically hissing out the words. She definitely practiced that, there was no way someone in a pant suit could possibly be that intimidating without hours of practice. “And if you don’t put my kid down I’m going to tell A that you’re overexerting yourself and you’ll get a third appointment a week.” Killian sighed again, hands moving around Roland’s waist as he muttered hold on and he put him back on the ground. “I have no idea why you’re in here, Gina,” he said. “We’re two hours out of puck drop.” “I needed to talk to you, obviously.” “You’ve just been staring at me.” Regina’s lips, somehow, got even thinner, pressed together into a tight line and she blinked once. Killian glanced at Robin again – hand on Roland’s shoulder and helmet in his other hand and he shrugged again, not even trying to hide the movement from Regina. “This really isn’t about the kid and making sure he gets off his rookie deal so he can stop living in that crappy apartment in Chelsea?”

“It’s not that bad,” Phillip shouted from four lockers over. “And, you know, I don’t really spend much time there anyway…” Killian held up his hand, not particularly interested in the ins and outs of Phillip the Rookie’s relationship with Aurora, particularly when she seemed to be an endless source of frustration and insurance waivers for Emma.

“It’s not about the kid,” Regina promised, finally uncrossing her arms and that seemed important. She didn’t look quite as frustrated anymore either. She looked concerned. That was different – and disconcerting.

“Although,” she added. “If he does want to get off his rookie contract and maybe get an apartment that his girlfriend won’t absolutely despise, because I promise Phillip, Aurora absolutely despises your apartment, he should call me.” She leaned around Killian and there was a card in her hand like she’d just performed a magic trick in the middle of the New York Rangers locker room. Phillip reached a shaky hand out and he nodded slowly.

Killian just rolled his eyes. Robin looked impressed.

“Alright, Gina, I’ll bite,” Killian said, feeling as if he were giving into something. “What do you need to talk to me about two hours before puck drop?”

Regina shook her head. “Not here.” “What?” “Come with me.” She tugged on his wrist and Killian nearly fell face-first into the bench in front of him, not quite prepared to start walking on skates. He tried to look back at Robin, but hardly got the chance before Regina was chastising him for that as well. “Don’t look at him,” she snapped and they were back to frustrated so quickly Killian was convinced he had whiplash. That would probably earn him a third PT appointment. “This isn’t about him.”

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, but that was mostly because he didn’t really know what was going on. And, two hours before puck drop, with Regina’s hand still gripping his wrist like a vice, he wasn’t about to argue.

She pulled him into the hallway towards Arthur’s office, the only quiet part of the locker room and they were back to the staring.

“Don’t do that,” Killian sighed.

“What?” Regina asked. They’d found their way to opposite sides of the hallway as well and there was a deeper meaning in there somewhere. He’d left his phone in his locker too – a scheduled FaceTime with Colorado just a few minutes away.

Regina didn’t say anything, just dragged her heel across the open space of hallway in front of them and Killian rolled his head back, groaning slightly when he hit against the wall. “You shouldn’t have told Liam,” he said softly, staring at his skates. “That’s not part of your job.” “El would have told him eventually,” Regina argued and neither one of them could seem to bring themselves to look at each other.

“No she wouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have told her either, if we’re going to be completely honest with each other.” “Are we?” “You tell me, Gina.”

“Might not be a bad idea, since my phone’s been ringing off the hook for a week.” “About?” “You obviously.” Killian lifted his head, eyebrows pulled low and Regina was still staring at her heels. That caught him by surprise – if there was one thing Regina Mills was good at, it was intimidation and that generally required eye contact. She’d used it to get him into the hallway and away from Robin, but, now that they were actually alone she couldn’t seem to look him in the eye.

It made him nervous.

And if there was one thing Killian absolutely did not need two hours before puck drop – well, more like an hour forty-five at this point – it was nerves.

“What about me?” he asked.

Regina took a deep breath, pushing her hair back behind her ears and he could see her teeth sink into her lip before she answered. “There’s, uh, there’s been some interest.” “About?” “Jeez, Killian, you can’t possibly be this slow.” “You know what usually helps people understand things, Gina? Words.” She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders weren’t quite as straight anymore and Killian almost smiled. Almost. “Interest in you and your free agency status and, well, people in front offices talk and teams know that New York hasn’t made a move yet. At least not really and they’re trying to take advantage of that.” “New York hasn’t made a move yet?” Killian asked. “Since when? I thought we were good. Gina, you said we were good!” Regina held her hands up and took a cautious step towards him only to stop as soon as she saw the look on his face. “You were the one who wanted to explore other options,” she said softly. “And they’re just being safe here. You’re the face of the franchise, they’re not just going to let you walk. Although it probably wouldn’t hurt to get out of this goal-scoring drought sooner rather than later.” “You are a picture of confidence and support, your highness,” Killian mumbled, running a hand through his hair and his chest felt tighter than it had in months.

So, he hadn’t really told Regina to start focusing exclusively on New York talks or contract extensions, but he figured walking into the restaurant with Emma’s hand wrapped up in his might help and he knew Regina had seen the laces around her wrist. Her eyes had practically fallen out of her head when Emma moved her hand and the sleeve of her jacket shifted and they were just laces, but it felt like something a bit bigger than that.

It felt like his agent – his friend – should know that he might not be particularly interested in a trade anymore.

He should have said something out loud.

“I know you’re mad,” Regina said calmly, “but there’s no reason to fall back on insults.” “Who?” Killian asked, ignoring the apology that wasn’t really an apology.

“Who what?” “Who's been, what’s the technical term, expressing interest?” “A lot of teams actually,” she admitted, sounding as if she was giving up some sort of crucial information. “That’s why I figured you should know sooner rather than later. I just got off the phone with Dallas, trying to explain to them that green wasn’t really your color.” “Dallas?” Regina nodded, eyes wide and she took another deep breath before moving towards Killian. She tapped her nails against the plastic in his shoulder pads and the knot of anxiety in his stomach was so tight Killian was convinced it was going to do permanent damage to both of his intestines.

“And Carolina and San Jose and pretty much the entire Central Division. You’re a very popular guy.” “Just not here.” “That’s not true. They’re just biding their time. I mean, the Avs are ready to sign you at the deadline, probably before the deadline if you want.” “What?”

Regina just made a face – a this was your idea without actually saying the words again – and Killian leaned back against the wall so he didn’t slide onto the floor. The deadline wasn’t for weeks – just after the charity game because, of course, it was  – and Killian hadn’t even considered the possibility that teams would want him before the end of the season. Or that any team besides the Av’s would be interested in his grizzled veteran plan at all.

And he hadn’t really thought about anything except how goddamn happy he was in the last few weeks – a phone filled with text messages about team histories and updates on a wedding he was still hoping to be a plus-one to.

It was good.

It was better than good.

They’d finally gone on a date and he’d brought her hot chocolate at two o’clock every day for the last three days, laughing openly when she suggested that he’d made a mistake and actually brought french fries instead of the onion rings he knew she ordered from the deli buffet around the block.

“I was just testing you,” Emma had muttered, leaning back in her chair as she pulled the bag out of his hand and he could feel her smile when he kissed her.

He was happy and he almost didn’t care about the goal-drought, but Regina kept staring at him like he was a bomb about to go off in a few seconds and he probably should have remembered the trade deadline.

He’d just never really considered a possibility where the New York Rangers didn’t explicitly want him back on their roster – even if he’d thought about leaving.

Selfish idiot.

“They’d wait,” Regina said, completely unaware of whatever quasi-breakdown he was staging an hour and thirty two minutes before puck drop. “The Av’s I mean, they’re pretty set on being ready for you whenever you are.” “That’s because they haven’t won a game in a month,” Killian muttered.

“Earliest mathematical elimination from the playoffs in the history of the league. A perfect place to go and rot.” He scoffed, glancing up to find Regina staring at him accusingly. “A rather pointed opinion, your highness.” “And accurate. Why do you think I told El and Liam? They’re the only ones who would be able to change your mind. Just be thankful this hasn’t made its way into some sort of report. I’m almost surprised it hasn’t.” The knot got tighter and he could feel his eyes widen and Regina was looking at him differently – she kind of looked like the bomb now. “Oh, you idiot,” she half shouted, punching his shoulder hard enough to make him wince even through the pads. “Are you serious?” “You’ve only insulted me, Gina. I don’t even know what you’re asking.” “You got into some super serious relationship in the middle of a free agent season, you gave her laces that she’s wearing around her wrist like some sort of flashing billboard with neon lights announcing to everyone how in love you are and you didn’t even tell Emma Swan that you were thinking about maybe leaving New York at the end of the season?”

“I don’t know that I am,” Killian admitted, digging the heel of his skate into the tiled floor underneath him.

“You know who would have also been interested in that information? Me. The person whose job it is to make sure you have a team to play for next year. God, you’re an idiot.” “Alright,” he snapped, pulling Regina’s hand away from his shoulder before she could start punching him again. “I think you’ve made that painfully clear. This is me telling you now. I’m not leaving New York.” Regina’s face shifted slightly and she was trying not to smile. “You should probably score a couple of goals tonight then.” “A couple?” “I mean, feel free to set Robin up too if you want, but front office is always more receptive when you’re doing the scoring yourself.” He laughed softly, shaking his head and Regina was absolutely smiling now. “Noted,” he said. “And, you know, you’re not really disproving my multiple sets of eyes theory when you’re the only one who noticed the laces.”

“Please,” Regina argued and the punch was more of a swat that time. “Everyone has known since the preseason. Will told everyone that she was coming to the brownstone for Christmas like he’d just found out he’d been cleared to skate again. Although,” she amended, pulling her eyebrows low, “the laces thing might only be me. And Robin now, obviously, since I had to tell someone.” “But you didn’t tell him about the deadline?” “No,” Regina said immediately, jaw snapping together as soon as the two letters were out of her mouth. “The idea hasn’t even crossed his mind that you’d consider leaving New York ever.” She paused again and Killian could practically hear the gears in her head working, waiting for the moment when steam actually started to come out of her ears.

“What?” “You’re really sure?” Regina asked, voice a bit softer than it had been throughout this entire conversation. It almost sounded sympathetic. Or, at least, concerned. “About staying?” “Is that a subtle suggestion that I shouldn’t be?” “No, of course not. But I mean, El’s pregnant again and there’ll be more kids and missed moments for super cool Uncle Killian and that was why you wanted to go in the first place. I guess what I’m getting at, is, you’d really stay in New York because of Emma? What happens if you don’t win a Cup?” “You think we’re not going to win a Cup this season, Gina? Don’t tell Rol that he’ll be distraught.”

He tried to keep his voice light, keep the joking there and make sure the air didn’t actually start suffocating him in the middle of that hallway an hour and a half before puck drop. Regina glared at him. “That’s not what I’m asking at all,” she hissed. “And I’m not asking as your agent either. I’m asking as your friend and a person who is well aware that Rol will be distraught for a whole other reason if you guys don’t win a Cup and you leave.”

Killian considered his answer for half a moment before he realized there wasn’t really a point – Regina already knew the answer. And so did he.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I would. And we’re totally going to win the Cup this season.”

He expected a smile or a I knew it nod or even another comment about giving Emma laces that she hadn’t taken off since Christmas. He hadn’t expected a hug and his back up against the wall and Regina’s arms around his neck and it was all so incredibly out of character that Killian actually wondered if he’d stumbled into some strange, alternate universe for half a moment.

“Uh, Cap,” a voice called from the end of the hallway and Killian snapped his head around to find Phillip the Rookie fully dressed with his still-ringing cell phone in his hand.

“Yeah, Rook, what’s up?” “Arthur’s threatening to move you to fourth line if you don’t get back in the locker room and, uh, Robin said I should bring you your phone because it’s been going off for like ten minutes straight.”

Killian rolled his eyes, running his hand across his face, but Regina was laughing openly at him. “Thanks,” he said, holding his hand when Phillip came up next to him. Four missed calls – all from El – two very long text messages from Liam that included several choice words about missing FaceTime plans and another text message that already had him smiling.

“Come on Rookie,” Regina said, shooting him a look that practically announced she expected to be paid back in martinis at the restaurant later that night. “I’ve got a couple of questions about your contract and you can tell me all about this apartment your girlfriend absolutely doesn’t despise. Maybe we can work something out before we get back into the locker room.” Phillip’s eyes widened and Killian did his best to look supportive, but he knew he came up short, eyes falling back on his phone before the sound of Regina’s heels had quite disappeared from the hallway.

The golden triangle behind the Penguins’ gross, stupid logo is actually a representation of the golden triangle in downtown Pittsburgh, which is also a stupid name for a downtown anything, but also matches up pretty well with tonight. And you are just three points away from top-five. Plus, Soyer will absolutely lose his mind if you hat trick tonight.

I don’t think hat trick is actually a verb, love.

I live with a teacher.

And you asked?

Well, no, but that doesn’t matter. Are you going to hat trick tonight or not, Jones?

Guess it depends.

On? Are you asking for a hat trick, Swan? Seems awfully greedy.

Eh. Only a little bit.

Hey!

I’ll see what I can do.

His phone dinged again and it wasn’t another text message – it was a picture. And it wasn’t the hat she’d been forced into when they’d gone skating uptown. It was an actual baseball cap, the ones they sold for forty bucks in Chase Square, brim pulled low that he couldn’t quite see her eyes, but could make out her hair falling over her shoulders and the blue dress she had on underneath a blazer.

There was a fan event tonight – something with a group of kids that signed up for the fan club and they were going to be in the team suite above section 111 – and Emma had on a hat in case he just happened to score three goals.

And the idea of ever leaving New York just seemed absurd at this point.

A hat trick it is.

“How’s that brother of yours doing? Seen any good college talent lately?”

Killian groaned – and he wasn’t sure if it was because Hans Soyer seemed absolutely incapable of coming up with another insult or because the check he’d just sustained actually hurt a lot, particularly when he could feel the top of the bench collide with one of his kidneys.

“God, shut up, Soyer,” he muttered, pushing him off with his stick. “Go try and score a fucking goal or something.”

Soyer hit him again and Killian tried to breathe like a normal human being, but he could hear the crowd getting louder and there were twenty kids in the team suite who absolutely did not need to see him punch this asshole in the face.

He wanted to.

They were only a few minutes into the game and Soyer was on the Pens first line now and that didn’t make any sense at all, but the world seemed intent on playing some sort of joke when Killian was three points away from cracking the top five.

“Just waiting for that PK of yours,” Soyer shot back, skating away from Killian when the ref closest to them started blowing his whistle. The crowd got louder. “Hey, speaking of family members of yours, how’s your sister?” He tried to ignore him. He really did. He could barely even hear him over the sounds of the crowd and there was an offensive zone faceoff and he needed to get to the circle. Killian lined up just to Robin’s right and Soyer was still talking when he skated up next to him, making sure to hit the side of his skates with as much ice as possible.

“I mean I haven’t seen her in years, but from what I remember about her, I’d be willing to make a few minutes for Anna. Very enthusiastic.” Killian saw red and there could have been a million kids sitting in every single seat in the Garden and he still would have turned on Soyer in that moment, dropping his stick and his gloves and ignoring the whistle.

His hand collided with helmet and fuck that hurt, but he just hit Soyer again and that ref was going to break his whistle from sudden overuse.

Killian could barely keep his balance on his skates, rocking forward a bit when Soyer grabbed the front of his jersey, but then he felt an arm around his neck and Robin was trying to drag him away before he got whistled for a game misconduct.

“He’s not worth it,” Robin muttered, voice barely audible over the whistle and the crowd and Soyer actually said Anna’s name again. Killian moved, trying to pull himself out of Robin’s grip, but then there were more hands and Lance was there too and he couldn’t really fight against everyone all at once.

Soyer laughed, shaking his hair out of his eyes and bending over to pick up the helmet Killian had managed to knock off. “You’ve got to control that temper, Jones,” he said, sneering at him like he knew he’d won. “It’s going to get you into trouble down the stretch. Tell your little sister I said, hi, huh?” Killian moved again, the front of his skate sticking into the ice as he tried to pull away from both Robin and Lance. He didn’t get very far, but it turned out he didn’t have to – and Soyer didn’t even see him coming, far too busy laughing in Killian’s face to notice Phillip the Rookie moving towards him or his fist colliding with his face.

“Holy shit,” Killian mumbled, standing back up when both Robin and Lance dropped their hands, matching looks of disbelief on their faces.

“What’s that kid doing?” Robin asked.

Phillip the Rookie wasn’t small, per se, but he wasn’t exactly towering over anyone on the ice either and he certainly wasn’t taller or bigger than Soyer and he was distinctly lacking in the muscle-bound advantage.

He was, after all, a rookie.

That didn’t seem to bother him.

“I think he’s defending Cap’s honor,” Lance laughed. “Or his sister’s at least.” “Holy shit,” Killian repeated, shaking his head slightly and he hadn’t closed his mouth yet. Phillip the Rookie landed another solid right hook, left hand gripping the front of Soyer’s jersey tightly so the golden triangle looked a bit like a golden mess and it felt a bit like the entire Garden had frozen.

Except for that one ref – who would not stop blowing his whistle.

“Should, we, uh,” Lance continued, “should we help him or something?”

Killian flinched when he noticed the bruise blossoming under Soyer’s eye and he was groaning loudly now, barely able to stay standing on his skates. And he could hear everything perfectly now, the cheers and the fans behind the glass, pounding on it until he was certain they were actually going to break it.

And the realization hit him rather suddenly – almost as hard as that punch Phillip the Rookie landed again, somehow making contact when a ref started to pull him away.

He’d been so worried about being on his own in New York and missing everything in Colorado and, it appeared, he was as big an idiot as Regina claimed.

He didn’t need to go to Colorado to feel like there was something that mattered.

It was here.

He needed to get out of this goal slump.

Killian shook his head, ignoring the feel of Robin’s questioning stare on the side of his head and skated forward, pulling Phillip the Rookie away from the ref who was still, somehow, blowing that goddamn whistle.

“Enough, enough, Rook,” he said, pulling the shoulder of Phillip’s jersey back over the pad. Soyer’s jersey, meanwhile, was stuck halfway over his head. “God, did you try and strangle him with his own jersey?” Phillip blinked once – like he was turning off the fighting gene – and stuttered slightly. “I honestly have no idea,” he muttered. “It all kind of feels like a blur.” “Adrenaline.” “I just...you couldn’t get a gamer and, well, he shouldn't say shit like that. Not about your sister.”

Killian nodded slowly. “Don’t let Kristoff know you were out here defending Banana’s honor. He’ll be upset he missed all the fun.” “Ah, she could probably take care of herself. You on the other hand…” “Hey!” The ref blew the whistle again and Killian turned toward center ice, dimly aware that he probably should have been talking to the refs about the calls and the state of his team and slightly overprotective rookie wingers. Phillip and Soyer both got five minutes and, somehow, Killian didn’t get anything, which seemed wrong in the grand scheme of things, but he wasn’t about to argue that if it kept him on the ice.

Or gave him a few shifts without Soyer trying to impale him on the boards.

Phillip moved towards the box when a ref came over and the crowd was a mix of boos and cheers, not quite sure whether to applaud a fight that would, undoubtedly, get shown on a loop on SportsCenter that night or jeer a fight that ended with coincidental penalties.

“You better score soon, Cap,” Phillip shouted over his shoulder, smiling at Soyer when in the box next to him when they slammed the doors shut.

Robin was laughing when he skated up to him, stick held loosely in his hand and a slightly stunned expression on his face. “Maybe we should stop calling him Phillip the Rookie,” he suggested.

“Yeah, maybe,” Killian agreed. “Or maybe we could just win.” “That too.” The whistle blew again and they’d been on the ice forever,  but Arthur had that look in his eye – the one that had gotten them to the Cup finals four seasons ago and Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look.

And something seemed to click in the back of Killian’s head, some sort of determination he’d been certain he had all season, but was only just realizing he didn’t actually possess until that very moment.

It was like a light had gone off or possibly shattered and that was a bit more dramatic, but he could see Phillip staring at Soyer through the glass in between the boxes and they weren’t just going to win this game. They were going to win the Cup and he’d get to fourth all-time in points, just because he could, and then he was going to stay in New York.

He scored three minutes later – after Arthur had finally called for line changes and his legs didn’t feel like they were on fire any more – and Killian pointed towards the box as soon as he spun away from the net, Phillip’s smile obvious even from the other end of the ice.

It wasn’t an actual power play and they weren’t actually on the penalty kill, but they didn’t give up a goal during the five minutes or the entire first period.

Or, it ended up, the entire goddamn game.

They won 3-0 – and that Papa John’s promotion would actually get some use now, languishing as it had been when they’d been in that pre-holiday and post-holiday slump and maybe he wouldn’t be a post-game graphic or topic of discussion during the recap that ran before Rangers in 60.

It was a good game.

He’d had a good game – another goal in the third when Pittsburgh had pulled his goalie, but that had been it. There was no hat trick, there wasn’t even a secondary assist on Robin’s goal, Phillip getting the set up just in front of the net after Lance had knocked the puck out of the zone with just a few minutes left in the second period.

It wasn’t a hat trick.

Killian tried not to be too frustrated by that – or the text messages from El, Liam and Anna after the game, quick to point out that he could still use some work on his fighting technique and that shot he took in the opening minutes of the third probably would have been a goal if he’d just stick handled a bit better.

His fingers raced over the keys in the locker room, nodding almost instinctually when Robin asked if he wanted to split a cab uptown.

You’re all the most supportive. And if I had stick-handled any more I wouldn’t have even got the shot off.

The phone buzzed back almost immediately and Robin chuckled from the locker next to Killian, a knowing smile on his face when he turned towards him. “You shouldn’t have stick handled,” he said. “They’ve actually got an alright defensive line over there. You’d have lost the puck.”

“How could you have possibly known that’s what they were talking about?”

Robin shrugged. “I’ve been around you for awhile. You get this look on your face when they start critiquing your game.”

“Huh,” Killian said, not able to come up with something slightly more intelligent or meaningful. He probably didn’t have to.

He flexed his hand instead, wincing slightly when he felt the pain shoot up his forearm and it hadn’t really hurt during the game – only a slightly sharper than usual feeling when he’d been knocked into the bench.

Robin glanced down almost immediately at the movement, clicking his tongue in disapproval when he noticed the bruise on the back of Killian’s palm. It matched up pretty well with the slightly matted blood there, the same blood that was probably on the inside of his glove. Kristoff was going to kill him.

“I had no idea it happened,” Killian said, groaning slightly when he dug his thumb into the skin. “So don’t bother looking at me like I just played through the pain or something. There was nothing that dramatic about it.”

“How’d you know that?”

“You get this look on your face,” Killian repeated, stuffing his phone back into his pocket without actually answering his text messages.

“We spend way too much time together.” “Probably.” They split a cab anyway, despite the questionable amount of time they spent together and how, apparently, they could read each other’s faces and Robin didn’t say anything when Killian tried to flex his hand in the backseat of the cab again.

Ariel, however, was a different story.

She practically pounced on him the second he was in the restaurant, eyes wide and mouth set in a straight line that had Killian backing up out of instinct. Robin pushed him forward, muttering something that sounded like coward under his breath. Killian barely had time to glare at him before Ariel had his left hand in hers, fingers moving over bruises and tutting when she noticed the slightly haphazard bandage they’d wrapped around it in the locker room before hailing a cab.

“Are you kidding me with this?” she snapped, staring at him in disbelief. “Why didn’t you come find me after the game?” “I star’ed Red, I had things to do.” “That’s a stupid excuse.” “Well, that’s the only one I’ve got.”

Killian glanced around the restaurant, eyes narrowing slightly as he pushed up on his toes to try and find Emma. He ignored Robin completely when he started to grumble at the idea of being used as leverage, pressing the hand Ariel wasn’t still holding onto his shoulder to keep his balance.

“He’s not even listening to you, A,” Robin muttered.

“Oh I’m well aware,” Ariel answered, raising her eyebrows when Killian winced at whatever she was doing to his hand. “And don’t think you’re out of the woods yet either, Locksley, you could have done a better job playing medic.” “Not really my thing.” “Obviously.”

Robin groaned again and Killian pulled his hand away from Ariel’s with a bit more force than absolutely necessary. “I’m fine, Red,” he said, hoping it was actually the truth. “Where’s Swan? Did she come up with you?”

“Here,” Emma answered, two drinks in her hand and a worried look on her face. “And yes. And are you ok?” “It doesn’t look any worse than bruised,” Ariel said, not even giving him a chance to respond. Killian rolled his eyes, but Ariel wasn’t deterred. She glanced at Emma instead, pulling a roll of gauze out of her pocket. “Come on, Cap, Eric’ll let us in the back and I can fix Locksley’s shoddy craftsmanship.” “Do you just carry that around with you?” Killian asked and he was halfway to following Ariel when he noticed Emma shift next to him.

“Actually,” she said, tugging on the side of his jacket. “I could do it. If you want.” Two pairs of slightly stunned eyes darted between him and Emma. Killian just tried not to smile like too much of a fool. “Yeah, sure Swan. Red’s not even a real doctor anyway.”

“Jerk,” Ariel mumbled. She was smiling too.

“Let’s go, love,” Killian said and the two pairs of eyes staring at them, somehow, got even bigger at the word and the arm he’d draped over Emma’s shoulders.

Emma nodded, pushing through the crowd and towards the back of the restaurant. They weaved their way through the crowd, Killian nodded whenever anyone asked if he was ok after that rough hit and Emma kept licking her lips, gaze focused ahead of her.

It took more than the few minutes it should have to reach the back of the restaurant, but Eric ushered them into the kitchen and promised it’d be a little quieter.

It wasn’t.

There were still people around and pots being stirred and pans being clanged and Emma made a face when the door swung shut behind Eric.

“I’m fine, Swan,” Killian said and she scoffed under her breath.

“What’d he do this time?” “Talked about Banana.” Emma’s eyes widened and Killian answered her expression with one of his own – something that probably looked a bit like the disbelief he’d felt in that moment on the ice a few hours before. “He knew Anna too?” “I kind of knew about that, but that’s more El territory than me.”

“Did you ask her?” “No.”

“Why not?”

Because he wanted to get uptown and forget about Soyer and ignore how much his hand hurt or how he’d absolutely known it was bleeding inside his glove for most of the third period. And that might have been why he hadn’t stick handled as much as he probably should have.

He didn’t say that out loud.

He didn’t really need to.

Emma twisted her lips, hopping onto the edge of the counter by the sink in the far corner of the kitchen and crooked one of her fingers forward. “Let’s see the damage then.”

Killian lifted his eyebrows, but he didn’t argue either, just took three steps forward until her knees were on either side of him and he’d completely forgotten about the people stirring things behind them.

She reached up slowly, lip pulled tightly in between her teeth and he saw her shoulders move slightly when she took a deep breath, tugging on the end of the bandage. Killian tried to actually shake when she pulled the gauze off his hand, grimacing slightly when the bottom took off a bit of dried up cut with it.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma said quickly. “Are you ok?” “Fine.” He couldn’t even make it sound believable. Emma tilted her head, tossing the balled up gauze into the trash can that was almost too conveniently placed next to her. “That’s why Red let you take over,” Killian added, smiling a bit wider when Emma’s eyebrows pulled low. “Because you’d be able to get the truth out of me.” “Yeah?” “Absolutely. It hurts like hell.” Her shoulders sagged a little and that one piece of hair that had fallen across her forehead when she bent over to examine the now-purple bruise that covered three quarters of his hand was going to drive him crazy.

Emma still hadn’t let go of her lip, finger ghosting over that one scar, the one she always seemed to find, tracing up from his wrist in between his middle and ring finger. Actually, maybe that would drive him crazy. She moved slowly, eyes following the line she made with her finger and Killian found himself tugging on the inside of his cheek, trying to make sure he was still breathing and standing up.

“It’s not exactly pretty,” he mumbled and Emma rolled her eyes.

“If you’re trying to scare me off or something it’s not going to work.” “No?”

The question – and the question within the question – was out of his mouth before he realized what he was even saying and Emma’s head practically snapped up when she heard what he’d asked.

Sentimental idiot.

She didn’t let go of his hand, thumb brushing over skin and scars and she stared straight at him when she answered. “No,” Emma answered. “Not anymore at least.”

“Good,” Killian said, not entirely trusting himself to say anything more.

Emma tapped her finger against the side of his hand, the one spot that wasn’t bruised. “Give me your hand, Jones. You know, between tripping over yourself on the ice and reinforcing NHL rivalries that have an entire group of school children convinced you’re dead, you’ve had quite a week.”

She ran the water over his hand, narrowing her eyes slightly when she noticed that particularly green color the one side of the bruise had shifted to. “Was it like this all game?” Emma asked, grabbing a towel Eric absolutely left for them on the counter.

“Nah. Not the whole game.” “You’re not counting those few minutes before you started punching Soyer in the face aren’t you?” “See,” Killian smiled, twisting his wrist so his palm was facing up as Emma started unrolling gauze. “Getting the truth out of me already.” “Didn’t it hurt?” Emma asked, seemingly intent on getting answers.

“Eh, not as much when I was scoring. It doesn’t really matter though, we won.” She rolled her eyes, muttering martyr under her breath. “Come on, stop holding out on me. How’d tonight go?” “Really good actually. I mean the kids were worried you were dead after the fight. They were thrilled during it and I think we probably sold out of Phillip the Rookie jerseys afterwards. He’s got a whole new fanbase chock full of middle schoolers.” “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. And we’ve dropped the Rookie now.” Emma’s eyes widened, lips tilting up slightly in amusement. “That so?” “Ah, well, when someone defends your honor, it only seems fair that we drop the nickname. He’s just Phillip now.”

“Look at you. A benevolent captain.” Killian shook his head, but he hissed in his breath when Emma tied the gauze he’d almost forgotten she was still wrapping around his hand. “Ah, sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said quickly. “What happened?” “You wrap wounds like you’re trying to make sure my hand doesn’t actually fall off my body,” he laughed.

Emma glared at him, clicking her tongue impatiently as she tucked the end of the gauze under the rest of it and Killian’s hand looked just a bit bulkier than usual. “I’m not actually the team doctor,” she pointed out.

“Ah, but this seems to fall decidedly within relating to the community.” “Don’t pull that line again.” “Again?” She hummed in the back of her throat, glancing up at him from underneath her eyelashes before flicking the front of the jacket he still hadn’t taken off. “Yup. The first time we were in Tarrytown, you gave me your number and told me to call if I needed any communities to be related to. It was, hands down, the worst line I’ve ever heard.” “Is that why you didn’t call then?”

“No,” Emma said quickly. “Because I might have fallen for the line from the get-go and that was slightly to moderately terrifying.” “And now?” “Not quite as much.” Killian smiled at her, pushing that piece of hair back behind her ear and letting his fingers linger on the back of her neck. And then he kissed her. Because he couldn’t come up with a reason not to – even if they were still in the middle of Eric’s kitchen.

She moved to the edge of the counter, legs wrapping a bit tighter around his until he could feel her feet hook around his calves and her hands found their way into his hair. It wasn’t more than kissing – it couldn’t be because they were still in the middle of Eric’s kitchen and there was a counter involved and that one person behind them who seemed determined to make sure they hit the side of the pot every time they stirred whatever it was they were stirring – but Killian almost didn’t mind.

In fact, he probably could have stayed in the middle of Eric’s kitchen kissing Emma Swan for the rest of the night.

“I think I got robbed of my hat trick, you know,” Emma mumbled against his lips and he couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing.

“I was walking wounded all night, Swan.” “That first goal was pretty incredible though.” “No thoughts on the second?” “Are you fishing for compliments?” she laughed and her hands had found their way to the open front of his jacket, tugging on leather until he somehow managed to find a few inches of space to move even closer to her.

“Just from you.” “God, I take it back. That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.” “How’d it work though?” “Pretty well actually,” Emma admitted. She tugged him forward again and, eventually, he would learn how to move on actual floor. It just wasn’t that night. Or maybe just whenever he was around Emma.

That was another line.

Her lips had barely brushed against his when the door to the kitchen swung open and Killian barely noticed the red hair before he heard the loud groan. “Jeez,” Ariel sighed dramatically, “I sent you guys in here to make sure Killian wasn’t dying. Not destroy my husband’s entire kitchen.” “It’s hardly the entire kitchen, Red,” Killian argued. “Just, like, this corner.”

“I don’t care. How’s your hand?” “As previously discussed, it’s fine.” “Emma?” Emma made a questioning noise, tilting her head back and forth like she couldn’t quite come up with an answer. “I mean it’s a lot of colors, but it really does just look like it’s bruised.” “See, Swan,” he said, taking a step away from her and widening his eyes until she actually smiled. “You’re pretty much team doctor.” “That’s gross,” Ariel grumbled, kicking back against the door. The restaurant was as loud as ever and Killian could dimly hear Will shouting something about Phillip’s right hook. “You guys have, like, ten seconds tops before everyone starts wondering where you went and talking about it for the rest week. Just so you know.” She was gone half a moment later, a blur of red hair again. Killian turned towards Emma slowly – Ariel’s declaration ringing in his ears – but she hadn’t shifted at all, hadn’t even stopped smiling when his gaze met hers.

“You ok?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian said and that might have been the most honest thing he’d said all day. “Of course. Thanks for fixing my hand, love.” “Well, you make promises about being a gentleman or whatever, consider this me returning the favor.” He lowered one of his eyebrows and, he swore, Emma’s eyes actually flashed, bright and green and staring at him. “Consider the favor returned, Swan. Come on, love, let’s go get some food and make sure Scarlet doesn’t try to get Phillip to start giving out fighting lessons. Gina will kill him if Rol starts punching things.”

She laughed softly, hopping off the counter and they walked back into the restaurant with fingers laced and smiles on their faces and no one even looked up. It was, just, normal.

And he was still one goal short of the top-five, but if he was going to stick with particularly bad lines, then even Killian would have to admit thatthis one, particular goal was even better.