#concave dave

[3starart]

@diardri and @concaviddavid took me through the heavensward alliance raids recently

[diadoescomics]

If you play a miqo please confirm if your wol also gets in ley lines like a box please and thank you

Light Party ft. Concave Dave 

[diadoesart]

Liturgy of The Bell Fashion Line 

The idea started as making an outfit based on the Liturgy of the Bell skill but ended up being more of a general WHM haute couture 

Might do more of these in the future for other classes, are there any in particular you’d like to see? lmk

Borrowed my two favourite White Mages to model for the non lala design, ty to Rana Echowalk and Concave Dave y’all (literally) keep me alive.

Kofi || Patreon 

[harpagornis]

Enantiornithean Earth

Yungavolucris and Halimornis by midiaou and xenopleurodon respectively. Both are real life Cretaceous taxa, showing that these birds were already diversifying into aquatic ecologies.

Enantiornithes are a group of extinct flying theropod dinosaurs that you could reasonably call birds, being the sister group of Euornithes (the group that includes modern birds). However, they differ from our birds in a variety of ways (their name literally means “opposite birds” for a reason):

Several skeletal details, including a tarsometatarsus that is either unfused or half-fused (beginning at the top rather than at the bottom, the opposite than in modern birds), an articulation of the scapula and coracoid that is oppositely shaped (hence the name; the coracoid joint is convex and the scapula joint is concave shaped in enantiornitheans, while the opposite happens in modern birds), a shallower sternum keel with bizarre antler-like projections (which, combined with large crests in their humerus, suggests the muscles lifting the wing were attached to the back as in bats and pterosaurs, rather than all flight muscles being attached to the keel as in modern birds), and a large, rod-shaped pygostyle (which will be relevant later).

Usually toothed jaws instead of beaks, though some taxa did become toothless. Even then, these weren’t capable of cranial kinesis like modern birds (i.e. watch a duck or your pet parrot yawn and you can see them moving their upper jaw; enantiornitheanss are many things but they’re not that abominatory).

All known taxa thus far seem to have been superprecocial: ample sites show buried eggs like those of megapodes, and the hatchlings were already fully flight capable soon after birth.

Unlike modern birds, enantiornitheans lacked a tail fan. They either had contour feathers on their butt like in the rest of the body or had long, streamer-like display feathers, also found in other Cretaceous bird groups but not in modern birds. Some species did have retrices, but they were arranged along the rod-like pygostyle and were not a movable fan, so essentially they were a variation of the tail fronds seen in Archaeopteryx and kin. Note that this did not make flight harder; even modern birds can fly reasonably well without a tail.

Why the opposite birds died out at the end of the Mesozoic while ours survived is unclear. Often, a bias towards arboreal niches is cited, as many enantiornitheans were in fact arboreal, but as the examples above show they also occured in marine and terrestrial niches alongside the ancestors of modern birds. Another possibility is their supreprecocial habits, meaning a more complex ecology as the birds matured since they were already functionally independent since birth, and this did hinder reptiles like lizards so the answer might lay there.

Or, most likely, it was just dumb luck.

Anyways:

Senmuruy hvare by Dave García. A four meter wingspan predator vaguely analogous to the golden eagle and cinnereous vulture, soaring across the northern hemisphere for corpses to dig its long snout into or live mammals and birds to sink its talons into.

Many Cretaceous enantiornitheans were already suspected of being raptorial, so it is only natural that, once pterosaurs were gone, they’d increase in size. Some reach wingspans of fiver meters, but most are more moderately sized at 1.5-3 meter adult wingspans. Smaller sizes are handled by the young, which like all enantiornithes can already fly since birth and occupy distinct ecological niches. Most species protect the nest and moderate its temperature like our megapodes, and a few even display mild parental care, allowing the young to remain in the vicinity until they’re large enough to be competition.

Euodontopteryx anatosuchus, a six-meter wingspan pelagic soarer that occurs in tropical and temperate waters, using its massive wings to ride on thermals like frigatebirds while landing to feed like albatrosses. Males sport streamer-like display feathers. By Dave García.

As noted above, some Cretaceous enantiornitheans were already aquatic, so this trend continued. Some species became divers, mostly wing propelled and some even flightless like our penguins, while others inversely invested in supreme gliding abilities, able to either ride thermals like frigatebirds or wave winds like albatrosses.

The most impressive species are reccord beaters. Divers can be as tall as a man when on land, while soarers can reach wingspans of over 7 meters, competing with flying multituberculates for largest living flying animals. Both groups tend to have long, toothy maws, the teeth alloted into a single row rather than individual sockets; this condition is known in both extinct sea birds and reptiles as well as some living cetaceans, and is known as aulacodonty.

Ghaltavis rex, a three meter tall predator that stalks African and Asian savannas. An apex predator of its own right, an echo of the distant unrelated tyrannosaurs in the form of a bird. By Dave García.

At least one real life enantiornithean, Elsornis, appears to have been flightless. It’s descendents were quick to occupy roles previously taken by non-avian theropods, from ratite-like herbivores to formidable predators that look like the fusion of a terror bird and a tyrannosaur, using their powerful jaws to crush bone.

The relatively long enantiornithean pygostyle allowed them to balance their pelvis/femur joints (a known size inhibittor in our birds) and grow to sizes larger than our timeline’s birds, though species above a ton are fairly rare seeing as mammals got their footing as well.

Bennu seti, a filter-feeding bird from Africa, Eurasia and Australia. Like flamingos it metabolizes carotenoids, giving it an orange colouration. By Dave García.

The Cretaceous Lectavis had long legs in some aspects convergent with those of flamingos. Thus, several enantiornitheans developed wading ecologies, ironically more associated with their euornithean competitors. Some became probers, dipping their maws (or toothless beaks) into the subtrate, while others became piscivores like herons or aquatic plant specialists like some cranes and magpie geese.

Most spectacular is a filter-feeding clade, Bennuidae. These birds modified their teeth into thin, delicate strands like some Cretaceous pterosaurs, and feed by swallowing water and expelling it, trapping prey in the teeth and keratinous spikes in the tongue. Having the nostrils still at the end of the snout, these birds usually feed in a different position from flamingos: rather than upside down, the lower jaw is submerged, in a manner similar to avocets.

Like most opposite birds the young are superprecocial, starting as plover-like birds before transitioning into a filter feeding lifestyle months later. Though some taxa form protective creches like flamingos, though unlike them they do not feed the young.

Like many of our shorebirds, these are continuous flappers, displaying remarkable endurance as they fly non-top for days in their migrations.

[infinite-jest-again]

New Episode of the Great Concavity Podcast

For those who don’t know The Great Concavity is a podcast completely dedicated to David Foster Wallace, hosted by Matt Bucher and Dave Laird. In every episode they have one or more special guests over, so the discussion is really varied. This episode’s guest was Kyle Beachy.

I’m almost finished listening to the episode, let me know your toughts!

[astro-teeny-art]

@recycled-bees-butts asked me to draw dave with a concave ass and unfortunately my hands are cursed

[spiritheyregone]

Cutbank

"A cutbank is a concave section of a tube wall formed on the outside edge of a meandering passage. Much like a moving stream, a flow of lava will erode sections on the outside side edge of a meandering passage, where the erosive force is greatest because velocity and turbulence are higher here. Evidence is strong that the primary means of erosion is via melting, and not by mechanical erosion."

Source: The Virtual Cave by Dave Bunnell

[hamiltonimagines]

Starstruck

Pairing: Oak x Reader

Request: “can you write a oak fic where reader sees him riding his skate board at venice beach and she is kinda starstruck and he thinks it’s cute” - @lonelydance

Word Count: 1.5k

I was currently walking down to Venice Beach. I had just moved to Los Angeles and I was excited to spend as much time as possible at the beach.

I got to the beach and I found a park bench that was facing a skate park. I pulled a book out of my bag. Before I opened my book, I looked at all the skateboarders who were doing tricks.

One of them caught my eye. The guy looked familiar to me and I couldn’t seem to figure out why. He was super handsome, but I didn’t know why I felt like I knew him.

I ignored it and started to read my book. I would occasionally look up and see if I could remember why I knew this handsome stranger, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I put my bookmark in my book and decided to check my phone. I checked my Instagram. One of my close friends had posted something on their Instagram story, I decided to see what it was. It was a screenshot from Spotify of the Hamilton soundtrack.

Then it dawned on me, the guy was Oak from Hamilton. I had seen the show maybe a year ago back in New York. I couldn’t believe that we ended up in the same place. I hated to admit it, but I had a little bit of a crush on Oak.

I looked up from my phone and watched as Oak did a trick. As I watched him, I knew for sure that it was him. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off of him. His tricks seemed so flawless and I was captivated.

Then, he did a jump and landed back outside of the concave part of the skate park. He stopped his board and stood there catching his breath for a second. He wiped some sweat off of his forehead.

Then, he looked over at me. I froze him, I hadn’t even realized that I had been staring this whole time. I could feel my cheeks heat up, as he stared back. I could see him start to smirk to himself. He winked at me and I quickly looked back down and pretended to read my book.

This was so embarrassing. It was one thing to embarrass yourself in public. It was a much worse thing to embarrass yourself in front of your celebrity crush in public.

Maybe, I had imagined it and he hadn’t noticed at all. I couldn’t help myself, I sneakily looked back up to see what Oak was doing. I saw him in the middle of a trick. He landed the trick and I looked down before he could catch me again.

I continued to read my book, but I couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching me. I figured I was just being paranoid, but what if I wasn’t? I had to look up to check again.

I wasn’t being paranoid, I saw Oak, across the skate park, staring right back at me. He smirked and waved to me. I panicked again and went back to my book. I couldn’t help but wonder how I got myself into this situation.

Then, a few minutes later, I heard a loud sound. I looked up and saw Oak, maybe ten feet away. He was skating along the outside part of the skate park and had fallen down.

I rushed over to where he was currently laying on the ground. I kneeled down next to him. “Oh my god are you okay?” I asked him, as I checked his arms for any major cuts. My mom was a nurse, so it was in my blood.

“Hey hey hey, I’m not hurt” he said, trying to calm me down. He grabbed both of my hands and stopped me from checking his arms. “Are you sure? You fell and you might of hurt yourself” I told him.

“I figured that if I pretended to fall, then maybe I could get the pretty girl, who keeps staring at me, to talk to me” he explained. I felt my entire face heat up. I quickly pulled my hands away from him and put my face in my hands.

I felt him grab my hands and pull them away from my face. “You can’t hide your pretty face” he said, smirking.

“I’m Oak” he said, sitting up. “Oh...uh nice to uhm meet you. I’m Y/N” I stuttered, feeling very nervous. “You recognized me, right?” He asked me. I felt like I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t of been doing.

“Pshh, recognize you? What do you mean? I have no idea who you are” I lied, unconvincingly. “Are you sure?” He asked, smirking.

“This is so embarrassing” I muttered to myself. “Don’t be embarrassed, I think you’re pretty cute” he said. “You what?” I asked, in shock. “I think that you’re cute” he said, slowly taking one of my hands into his own.

“Oh...well, um...that’s...or....um thank you?” I said, completely fumbling over my words. Oak smirked to himself. “Come on, let’s go sit” he said, standing up and pulling me up with him. We walked to the bench where I had been sitting, and sat down.

“So you come here often?” He asked me. “Not really, I just moved to Los Angeles. I figured I would check it out” I told him. “Oh you’re new to LA? Maybe, I could show you around sometime” he flirted. “I would really like that” I said, smiling.

“So do you skate?” He asked me. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that a no?” He asked, chuckling to himself. “Yeah, not even a little bit. I think I would break every bone in my body” I told him.

“How about I teach you?” He suggested. “Did you miss the part about breaking every bone in my body?” I asked, giggling. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I won’t let you fall” he promised me.

“Okay fine” I said. We both stood up and walked down the sidewalk, a little farther away from the skate park. “Okay, first things first” he said.

He took his helmet and placed it on my head. It was super loose on my head. “Look up” he told me. I looked up at the sky and I could feel him tightening the strap under my chin.

“Okay all good” he told me. He placed his board down on the ground, next to me. “So you’re going to stand with your feet parallel, and try to balance” Oak instructed. “I’m going to fall” I said, nervously.

“Then let me help you” he said. He held onto my forearms and I held on to his. I carefully stepped on to the board and then put my other foot on the board.

He moved my hands to hold onto his shoulders. I held on for dear life. I felt like I could fall at any second. “Your balance is off, do you mind?” He asked, as he put his hands in front of my waist. “Uh no, not at all” I told him.

He gingerly placed his hands on my hips and then repositioned the way I was standing. “See, much better” he said, smiling.

“So what now?” I asked him. “Do you want to try and move now?” He asked me. “I’m scared” I whispered. “I won’t let you fall” he said, holding my hands.

He started to walk with me and I held onto his hands super tightly. He let go of one of my hands and I kept going. I wasn’t really doing much. I was just standing there and balancing, but I was thankful that I hadn’t fallen yet.

Then out of nowhere, a dog came running across the sidewalk. I panicked, I didn’t know how to stop and I didn’t want to hit the dog. Oak saw it and stepped in front of me, stopping me from moving.

Unfortunately, I'd been going faster than I thought. I pushed Oak over and he fell backwards into the sand, next to the sidewalk. Since he had been holding onto my hand, I got pulled down with him.

I landed laying completely on top of him. “Oh...uh hi” I said, softly. “Wow, you’re gorgeous” he said, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear. I leaned in and softly kissed him.

His lips were soft and smooth. I felt like I was in heaven. He grabbed onto my hips with his hands as he kissed me back.

We pulled away and rested our foreheads against each other. “Wow” we both whispered at the same time. This caused us to both start laughing.

“So how about we get back to the lesson?” He asked me. “Oh, yeah” I said, standing back up. I grabbed his hands and helped him back onto his feet.

“So how was that for my first time skating?” I asked him. “Well normally I would say that it’s bad that you fell on top of me, but it did lead to me getting to kiss you, so I won’t knock off points for that” he said, smirking.

taglist: @someinsanefangirl @outcasted-aloy @geekycatlover @fanfic-addict-98 @romanoffs-heart @multifandomwriterx @andreasworlsboring101 @criminallyhamilton @imatyoursurrvicesurr @irlydontknoanymore @sayweird99 @nyxie75 @elizard-hamilton @daveeds-whore @trost-town @notebookgirl30 @teenag1jealousy @royalstans @elizasfaith @kmsmedine @brunadesuu @roxanne2020 @grandpa-agustd @athenawinchesterx @labellapeaky @rthoney @nerd-88 @theatrenerd86 @riiyy

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for all my imagines!!

[a-dorin]

simplicity | daveed diggs

warnings: sexual innuendos, cursing, nudity

a/n: okay first of all i have no idea what the fuck is raining down on him. is it tampons? something else? no idea. anyways, this is my first daveed blurb ever! so i hope you guys like it! :)

summary: the life of a broadway star can be quite extravagant, but he tends to adore the simpler things of life.

keys turning in the lock startle you from your slumber, quiet steps ringing through the space as he enters the apartment. the light of the t.v. dances across the ceiling, the sound mute. the only noise is the faint tick of a clock in the den, yet it’s white noise.

“baby i’m home,” his voice is soft, plump lips grazing your temple as he leans over the couch, “i didn’t wake you, did i?”

“no,” you string out a mumble as a yawn settles in, eyes squeezing shut momentarily, “not at all. i was just resting.”

“resting your eyes?” his tone is lighthearted, yet his voice is hoarse.

rising to your feet, you pad over to the figure, his curls bouncing as he set down his duffle, “do you need me to make you a cup of tea? i’ll add right amount of honey, just how you like it.”

lips curl in the corners, a wide grin enveloping his features, “i’m all right love, but thank you. i was just looking forward to a shower and then some sleep.”

“carrying the second act again, were you?” you arch a brow, prodding him with your index finger.

“as always,” a low chuckle rises in his throat, “but really, everyone did great. pippa was phenomenal, and anthony always has that wonderful voice of his.”

“and lin?”

“he did well,” daveed shrugs, his gaze softening as a thumb caresses your cheekbone, “i really wish you could’ve came tonight.”

collapsing into his chest, you nuzzle into his hoodie, “me too.”

“hey,” lips connect with your forehead this time, “do you want to shower with me?”

“is there going to be some sex involved with that?”

“you just gotta ask and i will provide,” he flirts, grasping your chin with his fingers, “i’ll give you anything you want baby.”

your heart sinks as your eyes fall on the deepened circles underneath his eyes, the way the skin is puffy and swollen. wrinkles are beginning to etch their way into his skin. and you can’t help but notice his eyes.

his mocha depths, always alight with happiness, always glimmering with flirtation, were now a hollowed obsidian hue, dull with exhaustion.

the toll was beginning to reflect in your beloved diggs. whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“daveed,” you begin, the words delicate, “how about i start the shower for you, and then i’ll help you wash up?”

the jovial grin transitions into a weary, gracious smile, “there’s nothing that i wouldn’t want more.”

taking his hand, you lace fingers together, leading him to the bathroom. leaning over, you turn the knobs, stretching out fingertips to test the temperature. he peels off his clothes, the sweats dampened from a hard night’s work.

“make sure it’s not too hot,” you murmur, shedding off your own hoodie and leggings, “i know you always tease me about the water.”

“yeah because you and satan happen to like the same temperature,” a laugh escapes from his lips, “it should be fine.”

you allow him to enter first, shutting the glass door behind you. once you’re both in, he stands underneath the stream, soaking in the warmth as the water runs down his body.

for a second, you can’t help but admire your boyfriend as he stands before you. the droplets of water litter his built frame, muscles apparent, bicep flexing as he reaches for the soap.

the water streams down, magnifying every concave and convex.

god, was he absolutely gorgeous.

and he was all yours.

“you going to help me out or are you going to just keep staring?”

your heart skips a beat, “o-oh yeah. fuck. sorry.”

“it’s okay baby,” the bottle of body wash is placed into your hands, “will you get my back?”

“of course.”

carefully, you squeeze a sufficient amount into your palm, hands roaming across his shoulders and back as you apply the body wash. moments later, your hands start to knead, massaging out knots and aching muscles.

a content hum echoes through the bathroom as you massage, daveed nearly melting underneath your tender touch.

“there,” you exhale, “you can rinse now.”

daveed swivels on his heel, coming face-to-face with you. hands cup your cheeks, bringing you in.

his lips are soft and plush, the kiss gentle as his mouth molded with yours, his tongue running along your lower lip. arms loop around his neck as his tongue delves into your mouth, the tart taste of cherries lingering on your tongue.

the kiss is languid, as he was savoring the moment.

the moment of simplicity, where he wasn’t under the intense lights of the stage. where the roar of the crowd wasn’t thundering in his ears.

the simple moment of sharing a shower with the woman he loved more than anything. the woman who knew exactly how to make him feel better after the draining nights. the woman whose touch could send him spiraling into a state of forever bliss.

and for daveed, those moments of simplicity were enough to outweigh those extravagant moments, where the applause flooded his ears and blood coursed through his veins.

sure, he adored broadway. he was passionate about his career. he relished the spotlight. he enjoyed spending time with his castmates and the fans. he liked interviews with media outlets.

but god, there was nothing more that he loved than coming home to you.

[homestuck-headcanonymous]

dinosaurs eating people (they didn’t get to say goodbye)

a/n: this is a whole lot of angst. tw for suicide.

the moment of silence after you die, dave strider thinks, must be the loneliest moment in the world. dread has always been woven into his bones, his blood, polluting every second he had- but not like this. nothing was like this.

he remembers the day they pulled apart from the alpha timeline like it was yesterday- maybe it was. he does not know when or where or what he is in this strange too-dark-to-be-darkness, and maybe he is nothing at all. It was the littlest thing- a gear was fixed from where it had broken, something to do with a door mechanism nobody ever used- and then it was gone. shattered. like a dead butterfly’s wings in the palm of a child’s hand grasping too tight. it *hurt*, almost, the knowledge of it- like a recoil from the shotgun bro had tried to teach him to use, the one that was stuffed inside of the hall closet in the apartment he hadn’t seen in years. terezi and rose felt it too, he could tell. he’d never seen grief-and-guilt-and-pain and pure, exhausted, aching resignation mix on his sister’s face like that, and it almost made his chest tighten and sting all over again as he saw her feel the string holding them to a future draw taut and snap back on her, like the lash of a too-tight violin string breaking.

it was so quiet that day. it felt wrong, but what could he do? it was grief, in a way, but it never felt like it. it felt like the second after you drop something important on the ground and it shatters. the moment you realize that you have done something irreparable. karkat came into his room that night while he stared at the ceiling. the scent of sopor was thick around him, and he didn’t have to say why. dave knew. he understood. after all, if you’re doomed, why not try and do whatever you can to ease that pain? karkat’s shoulders were shaking, and his expression was softened and blurred with tears as red as the stained glass window of the cathedral he saw once on a bus ride. it was a portrait of jesus on the cross, bloodied and red but still resolute, still willing to die for the future of those around him. dave held karkat that night, but neither of them slept very much. karkat still smelled like home to dave, underneath the saccharine-sticky scent of slime, and when he dozed off in the irregular moments of what he thought would have been almost dawn, he thought christ was a fitting metaphor for karkat. born to die, in a way, but to save others. who was this saving? in a moment of bravery, he left the lightest of feather-soft kisses on karkat’s forehead. the troll didn’t stir from his fitful slumber. he could never understand, dave thought, what karkat was going through, but it could have never been easy.

it was so easy to fall in love like that- the space when there is nothing but you and those you care about. karkat woke late the next morning, messy-haired and sleepy-eyed in the soft light of the alchemized fairy lights, and dave strider wished that he could take a million photos, just to see the scene forever, because karkat vantas was the most beautiful sight in all of time and space like that.

“thank you, dave. for letting me stay. you know. last night. i...i think i just needed to not be alone for a little bit.”

his voice is bleary and soft, and it feels like soft rain during a houston summer. dave could listen forever.

“and i know that you’ll just say that it wasn’t a big deal, or that it was nothing, or that it didn’t matter, but it did. it meant a lot to me. so...thanks. i’m.. glad you’re here.”

karkat’s hand is cupping his cheek now, soft and gentle and so warm that he wants to lean into it like a cat being pet, and it is the kindest way anyone had ever touched him. he realizes that his shades are off, set aside to sleep. he realizes that he doesn’t care.

when dave strider kisses karkat vantas for the first time, it is knowing that the world has ended, and seeing the wild, bright unknown of whatever comes after. neither of them quite knows how, and it is awkward and new, and utterly, wonderfully, perfect.

dave’s never considered himself a romantic, but maybe, he thinks, one day, that could be changing. he knows karkat loves that stuff, and when he tries to set up a picnic for the two of them in a room without much in it, the alternian fruit salad bites him, and the candles are smoky and burn stutteringly, but seeing the way karkat’s eyes light up the room and his quiet laugh of gentle disbelief makes his heart melt in relieved affection.

dave strider is completely, utterly, head over heels in love, and he knows it.

here, now, in this space of nothing he is becoming, he wished that he had said it a million times.

they never talked about it, that much. the world ending. everything ending. *them* ending. dave wishes that they would have. it just hurt too much, in the late nights when he thought of it, karkat’s head rested on his chest and neither of them sleeping. it burned too much, to gaze into the blazing sun and face it. he knew that they were out of time, but somehow, he always thought they’d get just a little longer.

the day he died was a little like that. rose stayed in her room alone, that morning. he heard kanaya knocking at her door softly, and he saw the wine-red blood and the blood-red wine spilling across the metal floor when kanaya entered, soaking into the rug that rose had spent weeks crocheting, the colours of lavenders and sunshine and stormy skies in soft woolen doily-patterns. he heard quiet whispers of “no no no no please no” filling his ears and it was only as he fell to his knees, his sister’s blood smudging his face, that he realized that they were coming from him. kanaya was curling into herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze, and dave wanted to too. it was like a gnawing hollowness, the denial of something right in front of you, of watching a chunk of your sliced-off heart bleed to empty on the ground. it was the beginning of the end. or maybe it was the end of it. when he saw karkat coming out of the winding hall where terezi’s room was, teal soaking his skin up to the elbows, he knew too. the instant dave touched karkat’s shoulder, all the comfort he could think to give, it was like the troll shattered, falling to the ground.

“’rezi...i..i tried so hard to save her....but i was too late....the blood....there was so much blood...”

dave doesn’t know what to say, really. what to do. how do you comfort someone when the world is ending? he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around karkat’s shoulders, as though he can hold him tight enough to turn back time. he wishes he could. just to stay like this for a few more moments.

they hold each other like that for a while. neither of them have the energy to spare for tears, but they grieve together. it is quiet. and for a moment, it feels like someday, everything will be okay. when dave looks out the window, he sees the collision course they follow. cleanup for heroes doomed to die. he knows that there will not be a someday. not for them. when he goes back up to rose’s room to invite kanaya down for coffee of a late breakfast, or anything to not make her stay alone, the door is just ajar, and her sewing kit- the one she always kept in her pocket, the one she loved so much- with the ivy-patterned canvas and the vintage scissors and the tiny little star sketchbook for design ideas- is strewn across the hall, pins and needles and spools of thread scattered and thrown everywhere. the scissors are gone- he remembers, distantly, how they had been a present to her from rose- how he’d walk out of his room in the middle of the night and find her still trying to alchemize what she wanted. how relieved rose had looked behind her tired eyes on kanaya’s wriggling day party, when her eyes lit up at the delicate embroidery scissors, with their little brass handles carved like lace with tiny roses. it had been a happy day. a few months before the split. he does not need to look, now, to know where the scissors have gone. he notices the jade-green blood, half-iridescent, soaking into his shoe far too late, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach.

dave goes back to his room. he grabs one of the jugs of bleach from the cleaning supplies cabinet they never really ended up using. idly, he wonders what they could have used all the time they wasted on them for. how many days could he have spent with the people he loved? what could have happened in those days falling from the timeline? he wants to hit something with the injustice of it all, punch and kick and scream and cry, because how could he have been so stupid? to have wasted the hours he doesn’t get anymore because he lost them?

it’s his turn, now. he knows it.

karkat is waiting inside his room, the quilt kanaya made for him as a christmas present reddened and damp where his tears have fallen. in a moment, karkat wraps his arms around dave’s neck, clinging onto him. dave wraps his arms around him too, and buries his head in karkat’s shoulder. he still smells like home to dave, and it makes dave feel like his chest is collapsing in on itself, concaved to less than a hollow space. the jug of bleach is set on the ground for a moment. it is not forgotten.

karkat sees it when he lets go. dave knows he knows in a split second.

“dave, you...this is some sick joke, right? some sick fucking joke? you can’t be..not you too, right?”

karkat sounds desperate, devastated- and dave strider has never hated himself for doing something more in his life.

but he still cannot stay.

he steels himself with the same determination, the same icy chill he was raised to have. a strider man hurts people for their own good, a million times those words were blazed into his ears while he lay bloody on a rooftop ringing again.

“go away, vantas. i need to do this. it doesn’t concern you.”

he sounds like *him*- like bro- and it almost makes dave flinch back on instinct- reach for a sword and glance around and brace for the impact of a sword against his skin.

karkat’s eyes are filling with tears again, and the impact of it hurts more than any strife ever could have.

“doesn’t *concern* me? dave, what the fuck are you talking about? i *love* you! you don’t need to do this. please,- god, just....*please*, don’t leave me alone here. please, don’t leave me *alone*.”

dave freezes for a second. karkat stares back. the last card has been played. it is a second too long.

“god, y’know what! *fine*!! i guess i *can’t* fucking stop you! because *apparently* wanting the guy you thought was your fucking *soulmate* to not spend his last fucking moments alive with you chugging off-brand human clorox is an unreasonable fucking request! maybe....maybe you just didn’t give as much of a shit about me as i did about you! maybe i was a braindead fucking dumbass to think that you ever even loved me enough to give a shit about what i think!!”

karkat slams the door behind him when he leaves. dave slides to the ground, his back against it. he can hear karkat crying, now- his momentary desperate anger flickered out to nothing but loss and loneliness. dave’s guilt feels almost physical, now- like hot wax melted onto his skin that won’t let go. his hands are shaking. he realizes that his shades have fallen off, and that he must have stepped on them without noticing. one lens is cracked, the other shattered- the frame is twisted beyond repair. the jug is heavy- but not too much. his arms shaking, he slowly lifts it to his mouth. time is running out.

in the end, dave strider doesn’t need to kill himself. in the moment the bleach touches his tongue, searing it, the meteor crashes into another, shattering apart. the impact kills them all. there are no survivors. there is nobody left to remember them.

and now, dave strider is here. there is nothing. it is dark. *he* is nothing. the last thought he has before all he was is no more is that he just wishes that the people he loved did not die thinking that they were alone. that karkat did not die thinking he was alone. that he could have gotten just one last chance to say goodbye. it is what he has been thinking all along. it never comes true.

[3starart]

been hanging out at the praetorium a lot recently

[biogist]

sometimes dave posts something, like wanting to be concaved, and i have to block him or i'll go grim dark.

[steakbatter]

we're thick eyebrow lovers in this house only if you got wispy ass skinny brows you're a chump

thick eyebrows are litcherally the most gorgeous feature anyone can have, it just doesn’t go well with dave’s concave ass

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

kansas is flatter than the striders concave asses

FOR 👏 A 👏 FACT 👏

-mod dave

[infinite-jest-again]

DFW and Don DeLillo’s letters - podcast episode

Episode 49.1 from The Great Concavity podcast is out. The description of the episode:

“After a very busy summer, Dave and Matt reconvene to discuss the Wallace/DeLillo correspondence housed at the Ransom Center in Austin, Texas. This will be the first instalment of a several-part episode, as there's a lot here to cover!”

So jealous of all the people who get to visit the Ransom Center in Austin, Texas where the corrispondece between the two authors is kept.

Find Dave and Matt https://twitter.com/ConcavityShow

[artistic-writer]

Fragments of Home :: CS AU :: E :: Chapter 9

Title: Fragments of Home by @artistic-writer

Summary: Emma Swan must return home to her childhood town of Storybrooke when her mother dies and stays in the house left to her and her brother, David Nolan. Emma must juggle a temporary job at the hospital with her loss, something that has made her feel smaller than she ever was. When a tall, dark, handsome stranger comes into her life in the most unexpected way, and she begins to fall in love, will she stay in Storybrooke, or return to her new life back in New York?

Rating: E

Previous: Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: Just when you thought you were all safe...*evil cakcle* Many thanks to my lovely beta, @kmomof4 who persuaded me that this would work as a CS fic in the first place.  

——————————————————————————————

“Fifteen minutes,” Mary Margaret clarified in an almost silent whisper, her face scrunched up slightly as she peered through the smallest crack between the polished wooden frame and the door of David’s office. She was kneeling on the floor, her body quivering as she fought to keep her silent balance against the frame. Her knees formed concave hollows in the plush office flooring and she tried to ignore the itching caused by the carpet against her skin.

“Fifteen minutes?” David whispered back, pulling his gaze from the sight before him and looking down at Mary Margaret with a puzzled frown. “Are you sure?” He stood behind her, his full muscular arms bracing his entire body weight against the door frame as he was greeted with her nod. They both stared at each other surprised, and then as if in a choreographed move, resumed their peering through the door at the same time.

They were staring at Killian. He was sitting in David’s leather chair with his arms folded loosely across his chest, the action causing creases to form in the elbows of his suit. He had slipped down in the chair a little, his knees holding his body in the chair as they pressed against David’s hardwood desk uncomfortably. The room was silent and the gentle rise and fall of Killian’s chest was joined with a soft grunting sound that rumbled from his throat. His eyes were lightly shut and his messy haired head was rolled to one side, his lips caressing the woven material on his shoulder as he dreamed.

David chuckled a little, quickly stifling his giggles with a bear like palm over his mouth. Mary Margaret sprung to her feet in fright, jumping back and inhaling hard as she frowned at David and pressed her hand to her quickening heart. “I’m sorry,” David trailed off lightly as he felt the next eruption of laughter. “He’s asleep,” he announced excitedly as if his receptionist had not seen for herself. Mary Margaret opened her mouth to speak but David cut her off, his laughter faded and his curiosity had him eagerly pressed to the door once again. “He never sleeps. He’s a machine. Something’s wrong,” he said quickly between breaths, spinning to look at the silent Mary Margaret once again.

“There is always something wrong,” she began, her hand slipping from her chest and resting on her hip with a roll of her eyes. David ignored her words and narrowed his gaze at Killian’s slumbering figure once again.

“He hasn’t shaved,” he noted, his tongue casually parting his lips and moistening them as he thought. “He always shaves,” he thought out loud, his words leaving his mouth on a warm breath that left a dew condensation on the doorframe.

“Maybe he’s out of razors?” Mary Margaret offered with a shrug but the look David gave her confirmed exactly what she thought as soon as she had said it. Her words were ridiculous. Of course, Killian hadn’t run out of razors. The man probably had a years supply in storage, just in case.

David suddenly gasped and Mary Margaret jumped back another foot, her eyes widening with fear as David spun to face her like an enraged bull. “He wore that suit yesterday!” he declared in a hushed tone, pointing over his wide shoulders with his thumb. His face was frightening and his pupils had grown small because of how wide they were open.

Mary Margaret’s hand flew up to cover her own gasping mouth in shock. Even she knew how obsessively Killian kept a quota of suits so as not to wear the same one two days in a row. David’s silent and knowing nod told her he was thinking the same thing. “Oh my,” she whispered to him with a nod of agreement. “Something is wrong.”

The morning sunlight shone through the huge, lightly tinted glass windows of David’s office and danced across the room, warming the space they covered with silent heat. The rays never moved, but the fine particles of dust that jumped and flickered in the daylight made it seem so. David pushed his door open tentatively, the hinges keeping silent and the carpeted floor disguising the action as it absorbed the rubbing noise like a sponge. David’s head entered first, bobbing around the corner like an investigative dog and was soon followed by his body.

David’s footsteps felt awkward on the floor as he tried to keep his balance while tiptoeing into his office. His arms flailed through the air but he did not make a sound and his body was so rigid with trying to stay still and quiet that his muscles ached. Killian continued to snooze as his colleague approached inhaling hard and expelling a long breathy sigh in his sleep. The morning sun had begun to move around the office, leaving its warmth across every surface it touched, and was gently heating the side of Killian’s face.

Killian twitched a few times, his face gently contorting into a grimace. David froze dead in his tracks, his breathing almost non-existent as Killian’s hand flew up and absently tried to scratch away the sunlight from his prickly cheek. David’s eyes went wide, the whites clearly visible when he turned and displayed his panicked face to Mary Margaret. She held up her hands that had begun to sweat and held her breath as Killian’s hand flopped back down into position.

David had just turned back around, carefully avoiding the edge of his desk when Killian spoke. “I know you’re there, Dave,” he grumbled into the fabric of his crumpled shirt. His eyes did not open and his words were damaged and slurred from his exhaustion.

David straightened up with a slight frown and cleared his throat into a balled fist. “Just getting some paperwork,” he lied, searching his desk top with eager eyes for a folder, a piece of paper, anything to confirm his pretence.

Killian peeled open an eye slowly, blinking a few times to adjust to the warming orange glow of the room. Everything had been illuminated by the sun by now, and it turned everything as bright as Emma’s hair. Everything reminded him of her, and even though she had agreed to lunch, he couldn’t keep himself occupied enough to forget in the meantime. Killian hadn’t slept in the last five days, and his body felt heavy and argued against his awakening.

“Okay so I’m not getting some paperwork,” David admitted as he lifted his leg slightly to perch on the edge of his desk. “You were asleep,” he said, still surprised.

“Aye, I do that occasionally,” Killian grunted, his words stretched to a higher pitch as he sat upright in David’s chair, the leather material creaking under his movement. He yawned, his eyes pinching closed on his face and his jaw separating so wide he felt like it was going to break off. His arms reached out in front of him and a light shiver rippled down his spine as his stretch ended. “I haven’t exactly been sleeping well lately,” Killian admitted suddenly, casting his eyes downwards and taking in his appalling appearance.

Killian looked like shit. His silvery grey suit was creased and patched with stains. Some looked like coffee and were darker in the middle with a lighter radiating edge that resembled the edge of the ocean on a map. Others were powdery like dirt and were easily brushed off with a large sweep of Killian’s grubby hands. His shirt was crumpled beyond help and dust from the Storybrooke city streets had imprinted itself on the fair fabric. He knew he was a mess but he didn’t care. All that had crossed his mind over the last week was Emma, over and over, in reality, and in his dreams.

“Uh oh,” David said casually, tilting his head at Killian’s words. Killian’s head snapped up towards his partner’s and he took in the concerned look on his face.

“Uh oh?” Killian repeated his words as he used the same hand he had brushed his suit down with to rub the back of his aching neck. “Why uh oh?”

“Because you need sleep,” David pointed an accusing finger at Killian as he spoke. “Because this firm depends on you getting sleep,” he continued, his voice a little louder than before. “Because,” he paused and narrowed his eyes at Killian.

Killian suddenly felt uncomfortable and his cheeks prickled with a pink glow. “What?” He questioned timidly, patting his hands to his chest and inspecting his pants for anything that could have caused David’s sudden cessation of words.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” David asked calmly. His voice was a mixture of concern and intrigue that made Killian feel a little uncomfortable.

Killian sighed and scratched his blackened nails over his lengthening beard growth. The hair was short and bristly and it made a rustling sound as he clawed over it. “Woman trouble,” he said simply, his words but an echo in the office around him. David’s frame softened and he tilted his head sideways, taking in Killian’s broken exterior more closely.

“Killian,” he warned gently, calling his friend’s name until he saw the darkened greyness of his eyes. They were darker than usual, the hues of them shadowed by Killian’s complete anguish, and puffy purple circles had begun to appear under his eyes. “This isn’t another Shelley is it?” David tentatively asked with a sorrowful sigh. He feared for his friend, again, because every time he seemed to date, things always went wrong. “We can’t move the business again,” David finished solemnly.

“No,” Killian interrupted quickly with a shake of his head. His tongue darted out to wet his dry lips before he spoke some more, a penalty of not having been hydrated enough this week. “This is not a Shelley thing.”

“Well good.” David smiled nervously at Killian, waiting for his friend to mirror his action. Killian didn’t smile but instead just looked at David like a scorned puppy. He was emotionally drained, any fool could see that, and David didn’t know what to do. Killian had lost his drive, his passion, and his eagerness to work and that meant only one thing; his drive, passion and eagerness had been directed at another source. A woman. Killian yawned again, tearing his eyes from David briefly as he did so and covering his mouth with his tainted hand. “Is she worth it?” David asked out of the blue, fiddling with his own fingers on his lap.

Killian didn’t even hesitate as he shrugged off his yawn and answered. “She is,” Killian said with a quivering smile. His eyes fell closed and he saw Emma’s smile imprinted on his eyelids, her tempting locks bouncing on her shoulders and her eyes glinting with happiness. Killian gulped back tears and opened his eyes to meet David’s once again. “She is worth everything.”

“Then go get her!” David sprang to his feet and tore off his suit jacket, crushing the expensive silky material between his fingers before he watched it fall with a dull thud atop his desk. “If she loves you as much as you obviously love her,” David began, motioning up and down Killian’s tattered frame with a flat open palm, “then you have nothing to be scared of.” He smiled, leaning back against his desk and folding his arms over his chest.

Before Killian could respond, the inside pocket of his jacket began to vibrate when his cell phone began to ring. He scrambled for his jacket, pulling it aside clumsily and reaching into his pocket. The pocket was lined with purple silky material that soothed his skin as he stroked his knuckles against it, and the phone jiggled in his palm, vibrating violently with an audible buzz as he pulled it free. “It’s her,” Killian stuttered with a broken voice as he stared at the illumination of the caller ID.

David smiled weakly. “I’ll be outside.” He nodded with a wink and pushed his bulk from the edge of the desk and hurried from the room. Killian gulped hard and took a large, steadying breath before answering the call.

“Emma,” he said softly, her name meaning everything before he had even pressed the device to his ear.

“Killian?” Emma said quickly, a little confused by Killian’s changed voice. It was deeper, more rugged than she remembered it sounding yesterday. “Did I wake you?” She enquired politely, her own voice a tad raspy.

Killian shook his head and spun on his heel to begin pacing the office. “No, not at all. Are you alright?” Killian caught sight of David’s diplomas hanging on the wall behind his desk and quickly busied himself with straightening a crooked brass frame.

“Not really,” Emma began apologetically. “I’ve called in sick at work today. I think I caught a bug that’s going around the hospital,” she said, swallowing the urge to vomit once more. She was in her bathroom and her voice bounced off of the walls in the whitened room. “Can we reschedule lunch?”

Killian’s heart sunk lower in his chest and the hair on his neck stood on end. He flushed hot with a combination of nerves and defeat. “Oh,” was all he could manage on a tone overshadowed with hurt. “Are you alright, love?” Killian repeated his earlier question slowly and softly, concern lacing his words.

Emma shrugged to herself in her empty bathroom and a thin smile crept across her lips slowly. “Nothing some chicken soup can’t cure,” she smiled. “I’m sorry, Killian,” she said quickly, suddenly needing to expel the content of her stomach once again. “I’ve got to go,” Emma hurried, clenching her hand around her throat as the vomit crawled its way up from her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she repeated quickly and hung up.

The line had gone dead long before Killian pulled the cold, square-shaped cell from his ear. He gulped a hefty lump down his throat and stared at the phone in his hand. Killian’s heart hurt, and it still pounded a little in his chest, making his palms sweaty with anxiety, his hands clenched around the cell phone as he tapped its hardness against the light fuzz on his upper lip, staring intently at the carpet before him in thought.

Killian’s attention was diverted with an echoing knock on the office door. Killian looked up, his gaze blurring slightly as he did so, and caught sight of David’s inquisitive face poking around the door. He was funny, almost comical. The way he stood made him look like he had no body and his head was held up by a single arm, gripping for dear life to the roughly sawn door edge. “You need anything?” he asked gently, unsure as to how Killian’s conversation had gone. Killian was a hard man to read, and even harder to read when he was exhausted.

Killian’s lips crept into a twitching smile as he paced towards the door, causing David to jolt upright and pull the door open to let Killian past. “The rest of the day off,” he began.

David huffed and a small chuckle escaped his lips. “You weren’t exactly working in there, Killian,” David joked, winking at Mary Margaret whose rosy red lipstick smile widened with glee. He was just about to continue when Killian, who hadn’t heard a word he had said, interrupted in unison with the ding of the elevator.

“And some chicken soup.”

--

Emma felt like her stomach was trying to crawl its way out of her body through her mouth. Muscles she didn’t even know she had were aching. They hurt to touch, it hurt to breathe and no matter how hard Emma tried, she couldn’t shift the feeling of nausea. The thick, padded comforter on her bed covered her with eagerness, clinging to her tiny, clammy frame and desperately trying to warm her body, but she still shivered underneath it. Her jaw hung open slightly and her teeth chattered against each other which left her aching even more. She sighed with a breathy agitation, clutching the duvet even harder.

The room was light, too light, and Emma’s head hurt. It pounded audibly in her ears and tiny bursts of white light popped up behind her eyelids on every thump. Squinting didn’t help, neither did the agonising turn Emma made in her bed to try and face away from the taunting daylight. She let out a groan as she turned, the mere effort of which left her more exhausted. “Stupid hospital,” Emma cursed under her rancid smelling breath as she settled into a colder space on her soft, linen sheets. “Stupid bug,” she grumbled.

Her rant was interrupted by the chirp of the doorbell, high pitched and whistling its way through the silent house. Emma’s groan grew louder when the hollow knocking on the door followed. Her eyes argued as she tried to open them, staying open for just a second before pinching themselves tightly closed again. “Go away,” she whispered, balling the blanket in her fist and pulling it up to her chin as if hiding from the door would make whoever was on the other side go away.

The doorbell rang out again, screeching as the sound tore through Emma’s headache, making it pound harder behind her eyes. Emma heard a squeak as she clenched her jaw tightly, her anger for the persistent doorbell ringer finally causing her teeth to touch and rub against each other. She sighed, her breath smelling of vomit and the peppermint from her toothpaste as it breezed under her nostrils. Emma grimaced and finally peeled her eyes open, released the hold on her comforter and threw it off herself.

Her room wasn’t cold but to Emma the rush of air that hit her fully clothed body was arctic. Her loose-fitting red, cotton pyjama pants were gripped to her painful stomach muscles while the legs fell to cover her exposed flesh when she swung her heavy legs over the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked a little as she sat there, depressing the edge with her weight and waiting for her head to stop spinning. The doorbell chimed out again and Emma wished she hadn’t replaced the batteries her mother had let die so long ago. She swallowed back the urge to vomit now that she was upright, and pushed herself up, tussling her messy hair between her fingers but not really caring who was going to see her.

Killian’s feet tapped impatiently on the broken top step on which he stood. The hot take out chicken soup he held between his fingers warmed their tips, gently caressing and tingling through the white, Styrofoam cup. Steam would have been swirling into the air had it not been for the push on lid that had kept the heat in throughout his journey to Emma’s.

He had pressed his finger onto the cream coloured doorbell button three times now. Killian knew Emma was home. He could feel her radiate through every brick of the house. It was a good house, strong and stable and it felt safe. Emma had grown up here with her brother and her parents, and even through her darkest times, this was a sanctuary for her, and Killian respected the old red bricks. If he could ever make Emma feel as safe as they had, he would be halfway to happy. This wasn’t just a house, it was a home.

“Who is it?” Emma croaked.

Killian heard the weak, broken voice from the other side of the door and his heart skipped a beat. He burst into a smile, his lips spreading wide across his face as he took a small step closer to the peeling black painted door.

“It’s Killian,” he admitted with a hopeful tone but there was no answer. The smell of chicken soup wafted up into his senses, a smell he hated but a smell he would tolerate for Emma. Her silence worried him and his eyebrows pulled together in a small frown. “Emma?” He called gently, his breath laying on the black paint in tiny droplets. He stared down at the ground, straining his ears to hear her on the other side of the door. He could have heard her heartbeat in a thunderstorm, but his concentration was broken when the latch clicked open and a pale, sickly looking Emma appeared around the frame.

Emma’s eyes met Killian’s and they reflected their exhaustion at each other. Killian’s smile slid from his face and concern crept into his features at the sight of her, hair poofy and knotted and her oversized pyjama top looked like it was trying to devour her. Its red colour emphasized the paleness of Emma’s skin, who looked whiter than the hair framing her face. “Chicken soup,” Emma smiled weakly, lifting a heavy arm to point at the cup in Killian’s hand. His gaze followed hers and dropped to his hand that clenched the chicken soup deftly.

“I bought you lunch,” Killian attempted lightly, a quick one-sided shrug accompanying his nervous smirk. He had changed, his crumpled shirt long gone and now replaced for a casual henley and jeans. His prickly growth had been combed and his cheeks shaved, his smooth, blemish-free skin begging to be touched by her much softer hands.

Emma smiled a little. “Who knew Killian Jones did casual?”

“You said to wear something sexy,” he mused. His eyes lifted once more, and Emma’s emerald stare had been transformed into a darker, murkier colour. She attempted a laugh and dragged her heavy frame backwards to let Killian in. “You don’t look so good,” he offered honestly, stepping forward as Emma stepped back and into the hall.

Emma let out a slight chuckle as she pushed the door with no energy and it bounced open again. Killian caught it and pushed it closed with ease, turning back to Emma. Emma had her arms crossed over her chest trying to keep warm and she inhaled deeply. The muscles across her ribcage stretched painfully and she tried to hide her wince. “I’m okay,” she lied, her fingertip touching the light, dewy sweat that was collecting on her forehead as she brushed her messy locks aside.

Killian set the chicken soup down on the table Emma had just inside her front door being vigilant to make sure the hot cup didn’t touch the actual surface. And old envelope scribbled on and dog eared made a perfect coaster. “Are you sure?” Killian pushed gently, taking a step towards her and brushing the salty beads from her brow with his thumb. “You’re sweating, love,” he thought aloud as he cupped her face in his cool palm.

“Mmm,” she hummed incoherently, nudging her face into his palm. Emma found herself needing his touch. The cold temperature of his skin made her head feel better and soothed the thumping in her temples. Just to be touched made her feel better on the inside, but she couldn’t hide how much she felt like she was dying on the outside. She felt ridiculous. Doctors were not supposed to get ill, that’s why they were doctors. They stopped this from happening to people, or if they couldn’t, they helped fix it.

“And you’re burning up,” Killian noticed, his brow slipping into a concerned frown. He shifted his hand to rest the back of his knuckles against Emma’s damp brow, her skin burning his as the fever wracked her body.

Emma’s eyes blinked quickly and she couldn’t keep them open. Flashes of green met blue in a blurred mixture of hues as she tried to focus on Killian. The room seems to spin, whirling in front of her every time her eyes fluttered open. Emma swallowed hard, trying to gain her composure. “Emma?” Killian prodded gently, his voice etched with worry as his powerful hands gripped her shoulders to stop her swaying.

“I’m fine,” Emma whispered, her words barely audible as blackness took her over and she slipped from Killian’s grasp to the floor.

--

Killian's arms burned. Emma was a dead weight, limp and lifeless in his grip as he stepped into the ER. The etched glass doors slid open slowly, causing him to curse under his breath and bob impatiently on the balls of his feet. “Come on,” he seethed as they parted before him and the sounds of the ER poured out into the ambulance bay. Emma's car, engine still ticking over with a slight misfire, sat abandoned with the doors ajar in the drop off area.

“Help me,” Killian called around the almost empty emergency department. His face was pale but flushed with worry and he had lost all of his capacity to think. “Help me!” Emma's body was a solid weight, floppy in his arms and he desperately clung to her as he came to a halt in the lobby.

A small shift nurse looked up from the desk, instantly hanging up the phone she was on and screaming for help. She was only just able to peer over the tall counter, her blonde hair pulled back loosely into a messy ponytail. She was wearing a lightweight cardigan to keep out the chill of the Storybrooke air as people entered and exited the ER, but as she rounded the desk to run at Killian, she pulled the sleeves up her arms hastily. A tall male doctor that Killian did not recognize rushed towards him dragging a heavy freshly prepared bed, the wheel letting out a squeak as he did. He skidded the thick mattresses topped bed sideways and pulled his whole weight against it to stop it from crashing into Killian.

Killian's vision slowed and he went deaf, the noise from the ER fading away. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat, rushed and pulsing in his ears, and his breathing was ragged with the exertion of his adrenaline fuelled heroics. The voices around them were a blur and all Killian could focus on was the unconscious woman in his arms.

“It's okay, we got her now,” the tiny nurse soothed as she and the burly doctor helped lift Emma from his arms onto the bed. Killian's arms hurt, but it was a hurt he didn't even notice, the release of pressure on his muscles causing them to sear with heat. Emma's body hit the cold, white sheet laden mattress with a thud and her head flopped sideways, her ashen skin deathly pale and sticky with sweat, and a tiny tendril of her golden locks stuck to her forehead, the only colour on her entire face. Killian's hand twitched, wanting so desperately to tuck it from her face, but he was pushed out of the way before he had the chance. No sooner had she left his arms, Emma was being wheeled through the ER, the ceiling lights glaring in flashes of white across her unmoving features.

“She was just standing there,” Killian stammered shaking his head at the words, unable to believe that one second Emma was talking and the next she was a heap on the floor. His shoes slipped slightly as he tried to keep up with the medical team, grabbing the shiny handrail of the trolley as if it was his lifeline to Emma. Killian hadn't seen them appear, but a plethora of nurses and staff in varying shades of scrubs had appeared out of nowhere and suddenly surrounded Emma when the trolley halted. Killian stopped himself at the edge of the area, a clearly marked red line taped to the floor around the cubicle. Just to make sure he didn't cross the line, a short, middle-aged security guard laid a warning palm to Killian's chest and held him back with a push.

“What's her name?” One of the new doctors called out without taking his eyes off of Emma laid out before him. The lights in the cubicle made her look whiter than she was and Killian pressed a shaky palm to his face as he watched helplessly. He was frozen, his ears burning and his heart threatening to burst from his chest, the image of Emma upright and then hitting the cold floor of her hallway with a deafening thud flashing before his eyes each time he blinked. “Sir, her name?” The doctor prompted again.

“Emma,” Killian finally whimpered, his voice shaky and full of panic. The guard's fingers dug into his chest through his slightly damp shirt as Killian pushed against him. “Her name is Emma.” He wanted to be closer to Emma, to hold her hand and tell her it was going to be okay and that he was here. Killian wanted to touch her, however lightly, just so she knew he hadn't abandoned her. He wasn't the man she had thought he was and he still felt like he had to prove it.

“Emma? Emma, can you hear me?” The doctor called louder than needed into Emma's ear, her body remaining unresponsive. Killian shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably and rubbed his hands over his softly furred chin. His mind was racing, thoughts tearing through his conscious like a bull after a red flag.

The dull green tiled floor squeaked under his shoes as he spun away from the scene, a small, burning lump appearing in his throat. Killian's eyes scorched with the threat of tears and he panted into his shaking hands, pressed together over his face in an attempt to hide the salty dew drops. His heart ached like someone had shot it with a poisoned arrow and he might never recover. He had never felt anything like what he felt for Emma. It was euphoric, addictive and he had almost lost it once already in the short time they had known each other, so he wasn’t about to give up on her again. Killian turned around slowly and assured the guard he would stay put with a reassuring glance and a small nod. The grey-haired man nodded back sadly, a silent understanding of how Killian felt.

“What happened?” Another doctor breezed past Killian, not caring that he bumped him back to reality. He was busy whipping the stethoscope from his neck when his eyes fell upon Emma. “Emma?” Dr Whale asked shocked, the sight before him making him stop in his tracks.

Killian narrowed his eyes at the new doctor, unable to see his face. His blood felt like it was thickening in his veins, a reaction from his jealousy and adrenaline. Killian's teeth ground together as he clenched his jaw and balled his hands into tight, white-hot fists. The already present prickle of his skin tightened his rage further and his brow knitted into a frown.

“How do you know the patient?” A doctor quickly asked the newcomer, clear superiority in his voice. The doctor's eyes never left Emma as he rubbed a tightly clenched fist against her chest in an attempt to wake her. Killian shot the new doctor a glance and held his breath, eager for his reply. His eyes followed their conversation, jumping between the two men as they tried to figure out the who, what, when, where and why.

“Emma works here.” Dr Whale blinked in disbelief. “We work together.” His voice was informative and suddenly businesslike, but Killian could also tell from his pitch and tone that he was not a threat to him. The name, Whale, rang a huge, solid brass bell chime in Killian's head, and for the first time in this whole episode, he remembered him. Emma called him ‘only a bit gay’ and with understated revelation, Killian's body relaxed as much as it could.

“Okay, let's get a full blood count.” The doctor nodded to a nurse who was busy filling two gloves with hands. “And you are?” The doctor shouted to Killian, his own voice volume clearly muffled by the fact he had shoved the earbuds of his stethoscope into his ears. He had a small pair of rimless glasses perched towards the end of his long, pointy nose and he was peering over the top of them towards Killian.

“I, uh,” Killian stuttered. Who was he? What was he? Was he a friend? A boyfriend? If there was any colour left, it drained from his face. “Is she going to be okay?” he managed, rubbing his clammy hands over his face once more. Killian didn't know what to say, he didn't know who he was, and the last thing he wanted was to let Emma wake up surrounded by her gossiping colleagues because he had outed them. It wasn't his place to tell people she worked with about them.

The doctor ignored Killian's question and motioned the security guard to move him out of the area with a flick of his head. “Come on, buddy,” the tubby man offered, pulling on Killian's arm gently. “I'll show you where you can wait, okay?” Killian nodded, his breath hitching in his throat when the man's fatherly hand laid to rest on his shoulder. He guided Killian away, his eyes blurry and stinging with tears, imprinting the image of Emma's clothes being cut from her delicate frame on his mind.

The sound of machines beeping and ripping fabric became faded as Killian was slowly led down the hall. He didn't know if the world was moving slower, hazily flashing past his eyes with each blink, or if he was. He gulped a hard lump down his dry throat trying to shut out the noises and the scenarios they produced in his very energetic mind.

Killian felt numb when he sat in the waiting area. The chair he sat in was aged, tired and worn from the many bodies who had sat there previously. The vinyl seat had sunk in the middle and was no longer the same shade of marbled blue as the backrest, and the wooden varnished arms had been rubbed a lighter shade of amber. Killian's hands shook as he gripped at the lifeless wooden arms, feeling the worn, smoother patches under his fingertips.

There was almost no one in the waiting area except for a few pacing patrons and a small boy curled up asleep, his head resting on a man's lap. The man, he assumed his father, was also asleep, his head perched precariously against his bloodied hand and threatening to fall at any time. Killian wondered how they had come to be in the same place, but the man's tattered shirt, full of crinkles and dyed brown with dried blood told him all he needed to know. The man did not look hurt and Killian suspected that the smear of blood across his cheek was not from any wounds he had himself, and his hand draped across the small boy's body protectively told him he would do anything to protect the ones he loved.

Killian breathed a sigh, half sorrow and half frustration. He felt helpless, relegated to the waiting room because he couldn't decide what he was to Emma. A quicker thinker would have given the doctors any information in order to stay at her side. Boyfriend would have been enough. The one word was all he would have had to have said. For a genius, Killian Jones was an idiot, and as he sat alone, lit dimly by a flickering fluorescent bulb above him, he realised how Emma made him feel. Loved. Killian slumped back into the chair, banged his head against the off white wall behind him and pinched his eyes closed, letting a single tear roll down his cheek.

--

There was no clock in the waiting area and Killian suspected it was so people didn't actually know how long they had been waiting. He pushed the cuff of his shirt over his bulky watch with a shivering finger and sighed when the numbers flashed back at him. The long, digital letters read 13:45 and meant Killian had been waiting for three hours. Three long, agonizing hours in which he hadn't seen Emma or heard anything about her.

It was killing him.

With a small grunt, Killian heaved himself up and out of the chair he had become moulded to. His arms still ached from carrying Emma but he didn't mind, instead only saddened by the reminder of her petite frame lifeless in his arms. His eyes were reddened, mostly from his attempts to hide his grief from the people around him. Killian was a private person, normally, tightly wound and reclusive. He would normally throw everything into his work, meticulously executing every job with the precision it deserved, and he kept himself private. Despite what had happened since he met Emma, he was his own company. Sure, he was friends with David Nolan, but if you had asked him, Killian couldn't even tell you if David had a girlfriend or liked chocolate. David respected Killian enough to give him the privacy he wanted, when and where he wanted it. David was his friend because he didn't ask to be.

Killian heaved a sigh, his breath leaving his lungs with a force as he pulled his arms together in front of his ruffled shirt and stretched. Killian was sure he felt a pop in his shoulder but he ignored it. He probably deserved a little pain after what he had put Emma through and with a sad frown, he knitted his eyebrows together in a wide-mouthed yawn.

“Killian?” The small, manly whisper shook him from his reverie and Killian's eyes locked with the man behind him. He took in the man's features, his curly bleach blonde hair pushed from his face so often the hair had begun to train itself backwards and noted his freshly shaved face. He was wearing the tightest jeans Killian had ever seen another man wear and he clearly looked after his appearance. The slightest whiff of aftershave mixed with sweat filled the air between them and he extended a hand out to Killian. “Victor Whale,” he offered his name professionally.

Killian took Whale's huge hand in his and they gripped each other's flesh like a vice. Whale's hands were cold, uncharacteristic for a doctor, but he didn't even notice through his worry. “Killian Jones,” he replied weakly. “How is Emma?” Killian urged impatiently, his voice ravaged by his agony and not that eager to make small talk.

Whale offered a small smile and shot a look over his shoulder. Turning to face Killian once again, he cocked his head sideways toward the massive exit doors close by. “Walk with me,” he coaxed softly.

Killian fell into step behind Whale, following him across the waiting area. Annoyingly, Killian noticed a dark green tile on the floor out of the pattern and cursed his brain for noticing the mundane things at such a time. Whale headed out the ER doors, the cold, grey Storybrooke weather outside a reflection of Killian's feelings. This morning he had been full of hope and he was giddy with happiness when the sun had been shining. Now the sun had gone, replaced by the anguish of grey clouds threatening to burst their seams and rain on the two men at any second. A siren sounded in the distance, and Killian pushed his hands into his pockets to keep them warm after looking up at the menacing rain clouds with a raised eyebrow.

“I had one of our security guards move Emma's car,” Whale pointed absently at the space where Killian had hastily left her car. He had been foolish, leaving it running and doors wide open in such a public place, but he was thankful that Whale had the foresight to fix his mistake. Whale's arm swung left and Killian followed the point of his finger. “He parked it in her space around back.”

Killian couldn't see the car, but he assumed that was because the parking spaces were not easily accessible to the public. For a second he wondered where her keys were but thought better than to ask. Whale took a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket, the half-empty square box crumbled and worn from its constant removal. He pulled one free of its silver foil lining and extended it to Killian as a stiff wind whipped at his dangling sleeve. Killian shook his head in rejection and Whale shrugged, moving the packet to his lips and yanking the white stick free with his mouth.

“How is Emma?” Killian prodded again, his patience quietly thinning in the ghastly afternoon chill. Whale flicked his lighter, a small flame dancing into view which he shielded from the wind with a huge, cupped paw. He took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled hard, the wind sucking the poisonous smoke from his mouth where it floated away.

“I can't tell you,” Whale admitted sadly, taking another drag. The end of his cigarette glowed, offering the only warmth Storybrooke currently had to offer. Killian's jaw clenched and he frowned. He gulped down a lump of distaste for the man before him. “You’re not family,” Whale stated matter of factly and he was right, but it didn't stop the words stabbing at Killian's heart any less.

“Then why bring me out here?” Killian shot a look back through the doors as they slid open and let a gaggle of nurses spill out. They clutched their coats around them and their hair whipped around in the wind trap the ER ambulance bay had become. One let out a small shriek when the hood of her coat was flipped forward, hitting her in the back of the head. Whale watched him, following his gaze back into the waiting area.

“No one is coming to tell you how she is doing, Killian.” Whale confirmed Killian's fears. The ER continued to turn its busy, well-worn cogs as if he didn't matter, and a silence fell between the two men, Killian scowling with the realisation that Whale was right. “Her mother died you know, that's why she is here,” Whale stated protectively, taking a final suck of his cigarette before throwing the stubby foam end to the ground and extinguishing its life with a stamp of his smartly polished shoes.

“Of course I know,” Killian snapped. Killian had known very little about how Emma had come to be back in Storybrooke, but he had known this. David and Emma's mother was more dear to him than his own absent parents and Killian was forever haunted by the fact he did not attend her funeral. As circumstances dictated, one of them had to have been present at a new client's mixer, dressed in their best crisp suit to impress. The other had to be dressed exactly the same for an entirely heart-wrenching reason and as much as he probably wanted to take David’s place, Killian could not go.

Whale licked his lips nervously and took in Killian some more. “I remember when you came into the ER that day,” he said accusingly, and the reason for all of his cryptic, sly comments became glaringly obvious to Killian.

“I'm not that kind of man,” Killian growled low, his voice rumbling in his chest a little more aggressively than he had intended. He balled his hands into fists in his pockets and scuffed his shoes through a shallow puddle before him, kicking away his reflection with a splash.

“And what kind of man are you, Killian?” Whale quirked his head sideways as he asked, his blonde mop bouncing atop his head. “Why are you here?”

Killian felt his blood coursing through his entire body, heating him in the damp, cold weather. On one level he understood that Whale was Emma's friend, possibly her only one in the vastness of the city she once was so familiar with, and he was just looking out for her. She had been through so much in her short life, having lost both her parents and throwing herself into her work as a modern day martyr. Killian wasn't surprised to find that someone so selfless as Emma would have such a great friend in such a short time.

“I love her,” Killian rasped, the words catching in his throat and taking him by surprise.

Whale studied the man before him and saw a broken shell of a man. He knew it was true, he saw it every day when a grieving husband was told the devastating news about a deceased wife, or how parents crumbled on hearing their child had been born without an ounce of breath in their lungs. Whale watched Killian's face flush pink and a small tear roll down his cheek as he lifted his head to meet his gaze.

“I can't stop loving her,” Killian whispered softly, his words a cloud of condensation against the chilled air.

“I can tell you this,” Whale paused, his voice softer and kinder than before. Killian waited for his words, a chill creeping up his spine. “Theoretically,” Whale begun, folding his arms over his chest and tucking his hands into the warmth of his armpits. “She would be taken to x-ray for imaging. The doctors would need a better look at her chest, and her blood would most likely come back to show a certain bacterial infection associated with pneumonia.” Whale looked everywhere but at Killian, his words sincere but hidden behind a falseness that Killian was certain was only to protect himself.

“X-ray,” Killian repeated, half for confirmation and half to help him remember. He sniffed some tears away and wiped his roughened face with the back of his hand.

“That's on floor 4,” Whale offered, finally looking at Killian with a smile. “If someone was looking for someone else, they might want to start there.” Whale hopped from foot to foot. He was not a Storybrooke native and the cold really took its hold in his bones. Some days he wished he was still in Florida, the sun beating down on his freshly waxed chest as he strolled hand in hand with his boyfriend through the state's soft sand beaches. Some days he wished for a job where he would get to see his boyfriend more, especially today as he took in the anguish on Killian's face. “Theoretically,” he grinned.

Killian's feet skipped together and he flashed Whale a cheeky thankful grin. He knew the young doctor could get in serious trouble, but he wouldn't. If anyone asked him, Killian would deny everything, telling them that he had found Emma himself. Killian's heart beat furiously in time with his footsteps as he clambered his way up the stairwell, the walls supposed to be white but years of hands and the odd body leaning against them turning them a pale yellow. Waiting for the elevator would take too long and Killian felt he had already been away from Emma for long enough. His fingers glowed white as he gripped the cool, black handrail, pulling himself up two or three of the harsh concrete stairs at a time, as his footsteps echoed up and down the column of steps.

Floor 4 was much the same as all of the others in the hospital and so as soon as he exited the stairwell, Killian looked lost. The heavy fake wood door pulled itself closed with a scraping sound behind him, bumping him further into the hall. To his left, Killian noticed a few more seats identical to the waiting room ones, but these looked newer and hardly worn. There were no people sitting in them and Killian suspected most people waited four floors below him rather than make the pilgrimage to wait on anything as mundane as an x-ray. To his right, he spied a small curved desk, his attention drawn by the dull ringing of a telephone.

The nurse behind the desk was older than others Killian had seen so far and wondered if she had been primarily hired for her administrative duties. Her greying hair was short, slightly wavy from the dampness outside, and pinned from her face with a sliding hair clip. She spied Killian's approach and held out a stern finger as she finished her telephone conversation.

Killian drummed his fingers against the laminate countertop, a surge of adrenaline pulsating through him in every muscle. After what seemed like a lifetime the nurse hung up the white plastic receiver with a clack and looked up at Killian warmly.

“I'm looking for Emma Swan,” Killian blurted out hastily, not even giving her a chance to greet him. “She came up here for a chest x-ray,” he offered more information in the hopes it would help her find Emma even more quickly. The nurse casually picked up a small pair of reading glasses next to her and slid them onto her face, tucking her hair behind her ear as she did so. Her long-nailed fingers found her off grey keyboard and she tapped at the keys, studying the screen that flickered and bathed her face in a white glow.

“Emma Swan...Emma Swan...,” she almost hummed to herself and her eye flicked up and down the screen. Killian craned his neck to see the screen but it was futile from his elevated position. He could tell technology was not this woman's strong point and her lack of haste annoyed him. “Ah! Here we go,” she declared triumphantly running a long, manicured fingernail down the screen and following it across the surface with her eyes. “She has been moved to ICU,-” She began, but the sound of Killian’s boots squeaking on the tiles made her look up from the monitor. “Hey!” She called after Killian as he sprinted away from the desk. “You're welcome!” she huffed.

Killian had already seen a sign for the ICU and he had committed the directions to memory already. His pace was steady but urgent, his shoes slapping against the buffed tiles but making barely a noise in the busy halls. Killian's chest heaved with each breath he took, his nostrils filling with the medical smells of plastic and the coppery tang of blood. People eyed him as he wandered the halls, their eyes flickering over his slightly hunched figure and turning away when he caught their gaze.

Killian rounded a smooth corner, dragging his hand lazily along the cold painted concrete smoothness and committing the texture to memory. Killian's entire world was sensory, his fingertips like hypersensitive receptors that gave him insight into the world. He had a thirst for knowledge, a wanton need to take in every single piece of stimuli his body found. Killian had always been like this, and as a child, his growing knowledge and intelligence had grown his ego. Some people would call Killian arrogant, and he had lost many friends by simply being himself.

Emma had seen Killian at his most arrogant and still accepted him into her life. They had only known each other for a short while but already they had shared each other's lives and beds so often that Killian felt like they had known each other for years. His senses had already committed the feel of Emma to his memory, plastering the softness of her lips, the silky smooth texture of her skin and the beauty and grace of her naked body forever in his psyche. Killian never wanted to forget the feel of her under his hands, the way her body reacted to his so naturally and casually with a single touch. So much could be said without words, and Emma's body sang a chorus for him each and every time he was near. Killian's own words echoed in his head.

‘I can't stop loving her.’

There was a turmoil within Killian. He had never had a relationship, had barely dated even, but now he was searching the dimly lit halls of a busy hospital for the single spark of light in his darkness. When Emma had collapsed in front of him she had ripped away all the power he held over his own body and emotions. Never had he felt this way and as unsettling as it was for him, he never wanted to let it go. Killian was so busy in his thought that he almost missed the familiar scent that invaded his nostrils and made his heart flutter in his chest. He slowed his search, quietly peeking into each room as he passed, his nose pressed to each glass pane until he saw the familiar flash of straw blonde against a crystal white pillow.

Killian took a long look up and down both sides of the hallway and when he was content he was being ignored by all of the staff, he slid open the door to the room. Slipping inside, he pulled it closed behind him with a click, his skin tickling with heat as he finally laid eyes upon Emma. The room was empty apart from her small frame tucked up securely in the bed, a snow white sheet pulled up to cover her body. The doctors had cut all of her clothes off and Emma was now only dressed in a harsh, starchy hospital issue nightgown, its light blue colour clashing with the rest of the room.

Killian took a tentative step towards her, careful not to wake her, his feet making no sound against the reflective, highly polished floor. The room was dark, the blinds having been drawn, and a dimmed orange glow cast itself over Emma as she slept. She seemed angelic, the hue radiating from her entire body as if she was an angel, but she was torn and damaged and a cannula protruded harshly from the back of her still hand. Killian took another step towards her, covering his mouth with a shaky hand, half to hide his gasp and half to muffle the cry that he had let out. Emma lay perfectly still, her eyes closed and unresponsive to the beeping of hospital equipment that surrounded her. She was silent, the sound of gushing air filling the room every few moments the only noise that could be heard as the small box ventilator breathed for her. Two tubes, one white and one blue, were connected to a clear one, taped haphazardly to her grey lips to stop it falling out.

Finally reaching her side, Killian sank down into the high back visitor chair that was there. The room was warm, much warmer than he had thought the rest of the hospital was, and he quickly pulled his arms from his light jacket. He let the stiff material pool behind him as he sat forward in the chair, his face searching over Emma as she lay lifeless before him. Killian's breath caught in his throat, hitching with a vibration in his chest. He reached out, plucked Emma's listless hand from the bed and curled his long, warming fingers around hers.

Killian couldn't believe what was happening and a surge of anger ran through him. Of all the people this could have happened to, Emma deserved it the least. All she ever did was help others, put herself out there for anyone who needed her to. She was a shining beacon in the otherwise enveloping darkness of Killian's existence, and as she lay before him threatening to extinguish, he couldn't take it. Killian bunched her hands in his, cupping it between the two huge palms and pressed it to his lips. Emma's skin was soft and familiar and smelled of cheap hand wash under his nose and he held her to him, letting his lips brush over her knuckles and finally letting his tears escape with a heaving, pained cry.

Enjoying my fics?  Buy me a Ko-Fi - Subscribe on AO3 - Follow me on Fanfiction.net