#on my hands and knees. this game has no centralized community i need people to talk about it with so bad

[azurehaiku]

good evening tumblr [mostly my mutuals] TUNIC is in this bundle FOR 10 DOLLARS!!!!!

it's usually 30 and doesn't go any lower than 15 so this is a CRAZY deal. i cannot tell you how much i love this game in concise words, it's got such an incredible atmosphere and design philosophy with its puzzles, and overall looks SO pretty with an amazing OST to boot... i'll throw the steam page here too if you wanna watch the trailer

i highly recommend you grab it in this bundle if you can. i will talk with you for hours about its environmental storytelling and how much it manages to convey without words

[litwitlady]

with you i serve, with you i fall down

Read on AO3.

Angst Prompt #3 - ‘Is that blood?’ (I PROMISE IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING)

Warnings: blood, minor physical violence, guns, gunshot wounds, mind games, mind control

‘We don’t have to do this today,’ Michael begs, eyes shifting back and forth between Isobel and Alex.

Isobel places her hand on his shoulder and tilts her head slightly, trying to make him understand. ‘There are innocent people inside, Michael. At last thirty heat signatures. We might be their only hope. We can’t wait for Max. He’s in California.’

‘We’ll be okay.’ Alex knows that’s not really enough, but it’s all he’s got at the moment.

Michael turns to him slowly. ‘You don’t know that. Me and Iz will go, Alex. Please stay here.’

‘You know that’s not the safest option. We’ve been over this already.’ Isobel tugs Michael’s eyes back to her. ‘There’s no cell reception in that building or even outside of that building. Leaving Alex here by himself cuts us off from communication. But having you out here means I’ll be able to reach you if something goes wrong.’

He makes a strangled noise and shakes his head. ‘Then you stay. Alex and I will go. You cannot ask me to watch the two people I love most on this planet - or any other fucking planet - walk into that building.’ He shrugs his shoulders and takes several steps away from them, needing the space to breathe. ‘I will not do that.’

Alex watches him walk away, kicking at the ground in frustration. Michael has never said the word ‘love’ to him. Not in the present tense, anyway. It makes him slightly dizzy. They’ve only just started finding their way back to each other. A friendship blooming gradually and finally able to talk to each like grown adults. Their future open and waiting for them.

Michael climbs into his truck and slams the door. But he doesn’t start the engine. Alex and Isobel watch him lean his head against the back glass and close his eyes. ‘He’s never going to agree to this.’ Isobel crosses her arms and stares at Alex. ‘It’s a terrible thing we’re asking him to do.’

‘None of us have a choice. I’m not willing to risk someone else’s life to keep my own safe. So, there’s no calling anyone else for help. And like you said, we can’t wait.’ Alex squares his shoulders, frowning. ‘I’ll go talk to him.’

‘No.’ She moves in front of Alex, blocking his way. ‘It needs to be me. Wait here.’

She slides into the truck next to Michael. He doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Just keeps his eyes shut and stays silent. ‘You know it has to be me and Alex, Michael.’ No reaction. ‘I’ve worked on my abilities more than you have. So, I’m better equipped, better armed. You know I’m right.’

Michael’s eyes open and he blinks several times at truck’s the rusting roof overhead. ‘I feel it deep in my gut, Isobel. Something bad’s going to happen if you leave me behind. We don’t have enough information.’ He turns his gaze out the window, focusing on Alex. ‘I love him too much, Iz. And you too.’ Angry tears burn down his cheeks.

‘You’re willing to risk all those lives - more than two dozen people - just because something might happen to me or Alex?’ She squeezes his knee. ‘I know you’re not. And we both know how this ends. So, if you want to sit and watch from the safety of your truck, that’s okay. But Alex and I are leaving.’

Isobel rejoins Alex by his Explorer, one last look over her shoulder at Michael. ‘We better get going. I don’t want to be inside that place after sundown.’

Alex checks that his gun is fully loaded. ‘What did you say to convince him?’

‘Honestly? Not a whole lot and I’m pretty sure he’s not convinced.’ She stuffs several bottles of acetone in Alex’s backpack next to his extra bullets. ‘He loves you, you know. I’m never sure how clear that is between you two.’ They hear a door slam shut and turn at the sound. Michael is on his way to them, sadness etched deep in the lines of his forehead. Alex sighs. ‘It’s much clearer these days.’

He’s left his hat behind and his curls swirl in the wind. ‘I don’t want you to go, but I won’t stop you either. But Isobel? At the first sign of trouble you scream for me. Do you understand?’

‘I promise. The first sign of trouble - even the inkling of trouble - and we’re out.’ She pulls him into a tight hug and whispers in his ear. ‘I’ll keep him safe. As best I can.’

Michael nods into her neck and watches Alex slip the backpack onto his shoulders. Isobel unfolds herself from him and Alex gives a little wave as he turns towards the concrete warehouse. But Michael reaches out and grabs his elbow, spinning him back around. ‘No, you don’t get to just walk away like that. Not anymore.’

He pushes the backpack off Alex’s shoulders and onto the ground. And then they fall into each other’s arms - Alex’s wrapped around Michael’s neck and Michael squeezing at Alex’s waist. Noses buried in hair and fingernails clawing at naked skin. So many words left unspoken but not a single one left unheard.

‘Don’t go playing hero, Alex. Sometimes running away is the right choice.’ Michael holds on tighter and glances towards Isobel who’s already at the electric fence, giving them their space. He pleads with his eyes and she mouths I promise one last time.

They pull apart. Hands lingering at collars and hemlines. Eyes blurry and hearts worried. Alex takes a couple of backwards steps, grabbing his backpack and then turns away. Joining Isobel at the fence and setting off together to whatever fate awaits them. Michael looks on completely and utterly helpless. He knows they are competent and well-armed. Smart and desperate to return to him. But that knowledge does absolutely nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

Once they disappear from sight, Michael heads back to his truck. He stands with his hand on the door handle for a long time, trying to convince himself to open the door and not do the thing his heart wants him to do. But his heart wins. Unlocking Alex’s Explorer with his telekinesis, he slides into the driver’s side seat and shuts the door behind him. It’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever done in his life, but he doesn’t care. That nagging feeling is still punching at his stomach and the smell of Alex surrounding him helps to calm his nerves.

The interior is immaculate. So clean it makes Michael roll his eyes. There’s nothing in the center console but two pens and a roll of quarters. The glove compartment offers only the owner’s manual and a flashlight. But when he reaches around into the seat pocket, he strikes gold. Michael smiles down at the cd case he pulls free. The title is written in Alex’s too-perfect script and black-inked sharpie - Desert Mix.

Starting the engine, Michael slides the cd into the disc player and waits. Static crackles through the speakers and then the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar, followed shortly by Alex’s own voice. And Michael knows these songs - remembers the lyrics scratched across the various notebooks tucked under the futon in the toolshed. He’s listened to Alex sing these songs over and over again in the bed of his truck underneath the starry sky more times than he can count. When they were still teenagers with all their dreams still alive and close enough to touch.

Thirty minutes pass and Alex’s songs have nearly lulled him to sleep when he feels the first twinge of fear. It’s faint and distant enough to not immediately alarm him. He just shifts into a more comfortable position and recloses his eyes. The second wash of fear is much stronger and arrives accompanied by Isobel’s screams echoing in his head. Within seconds he’s running harder than he ever has in his life, straight into his worst nightmare.

No doors exist in the building’s central door frame. Just a gaping hole daring him to enter. Which he doesn’t hesitate to do, especially once Isobel begins to chant help us help us help us through his thoughts. He checks behind every door he passes, but finds nothing until he arrives at a large open space. Bleak and gray, the roof leaking water onto the concrete. Isobel on her knees and Alex sitting flat in the center of the room. Farmer Jones behind them, deviant grin spread wide across his face. ‘Welcome, Michael. So glad you could join us.’

Michael’s heart sinks to the floor. He tries using his telekinesis but knows if Isobel has been rendered powerless, so has he. And with that reality before him, whatever hope he’d been trying to hang onto flees. ‘There were never any hostages, were there?’

Alex and Isobel shake their heads.

‘Front and center, Mikey! We’re going to play a little game.’ It points to a spot between Alex and Isobel. Michael has no choice so he steps forward. Stopping when he’s commanded to. ‘Well done. Now, take a good, long look at Isobel and Alex. Spend some time thinking about how much you love them. Let me know when you’re finished.’ He steps back, arms crossed over his chest and still grinning like a madman.

That’s when Michael sees the gun.

It’s Alex’s personal weapon. The one he keeps for protection. Protection he’s needed more than once in his life from those supposed to love him most.

Dragging his eyes down to Isobel, he can tell how broken she is despite the way she holds her shoulders back, strong and proud even in her despair. Her eyes are wet with tears, her chin lifted in rebellion. But he can no longer find her in his head, so Jones must have cut their communication.

Beside her is Alex. A dark red stain soaking the shoulder of his t-shirt. ‘Is that blood?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Just a little scratch. Alex didn’t like my methods at first. But he’s since come around to see things my way.’ Alex’s jaw flexes and Michael watches him try to speak. But no sound leaves his mouth in spite of how hard he’s straining, veins in his neck throbbing with the effort.

‘Let them go and I’ll do whatever it is you want.’ Isobel and Alex both violently shake their heads. Michael ignores them. ‘Please.’

‘Can’t play the game with only one other person. Sorry.’ Jones rocks back on his heels, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging.

‘Then let Alex go. He’s not one of us. Just a human who doesn’t belong here.’ Emotion chokes Michael’s voice which makes Jones’s eyes light up. Alex continues to shake his head, tears now trailing down his cheeks.

‘Everybody stays, Michael. Are you ready? You’re going to need this.’ He yanks the gun from the waistline of his pants and holds it out to Michael. ‘Go on, take it.’

Dread seeps deep into Michael’s bones, making him dizzy. He keeps his hands at his side and gulps loudly. Brain frantically searching for some way out of this horrific situation.

‘Now, Michael. Before you make me angry.’ Jones steps between Isobel and Alex, shoving the gun into his chest.

Michael takes the gun, hands beginning to shake. Eyes pleading with the monster in front of him, eyes avoiding the two people he can’t afford to lose at his feet.

Jones begins to walk in circles around the three of them. Slow and menacing. Taking his time and enjoying every sick second. ‘The game is simple. The rules easy to follow.’ He stops and puts one hand on Isobel’s shoulder, the other on Alex’s. ‘Your mind is a fascinating place, Michael. An electric minefield of love and suffering. Never a dull moment.’

He pauses for effect. Basking in his control and breathing in their terror. ‘This backwater planet has made you so soft and pliable. Imagine what you could have been had you grown up on our marvelous star.’ He feigns pity and then laughs. ‘But instead, you are this. Pathetic. Now you will pay the price for your mother’s wicked hubris. And the choices she made.’

Jones uses his power to raise Michael’s arm. The one whose hand is holding the gun. Michael fights like hell but it’s no use. The gun wobbles as Jones swings his arm back and forth. Pointing the gun first at Isobel and then at Alex. ‘So that’s the game! Your mother once had to make a decision and now her son will do the same. Isobel or Alex, Michael. You have five minutes or I shoot them both.’

Michael knows the moment his voice returns to him - his arm under his own control again as well. Jones smiles at him and Michael shakes his head. ‘I won’t do this.’ He tries to turn the gun on himself, but Jones just takes control again and laughs.

‘You will do this, Michael. Losing one is better than losing them both. And you’ll make it quick. I’ll make it sweet and so very slow.’ Jones tenderly cups Isobel’s cheek and runs his other hand through Alex’s hair. Michael watches as they both wince and shiver under his touch. ‘It’s not like we don’t know who you love the most. I mean, it’s no contest really.’ With a strike quicker than a snake, Jones backhands Alex square in his jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Michael shouts and tries to go to him, but Jones holds him in place.

‘The lover. Well...the ex-lover, anyway. And the purest love you’ve ever felt.’ Jones wraps his fingers in Alex’s hair and yanks him back into a sitting position. His lip is split, blood flowing freely down his chin and dripping onto his t-shirt. All three of them are panting and openly weeping. Michael’s entire body covered in a cold sweat. None of the thoughts in his head coherent with no last minute save-the-day solutions presenting themselves. Wordlessly, he begins to pray.

Jones goes back to lapping the three of them. ‘In case you were wondering, they both desperately want you to choose themselves. Alex is begging you to pick him. Isobel is maybe less enthusiastic about offering herself, but that’s still what’s inside her head. Noble, really. And Max, well - he’s enjoying the show all the way from sunny California.’

He sits between Isobel and Alex like he’s preparing for some grotesque kindergarten story time. ‘It disgusts me how weak the three of you are. Born to wield such power and instead you’re this - something lesser than even toddlers back home. I blink and you can’t move. I blink again and your minds are easy to crawl inside. Another blink and you’ll do whatever I say.’ He tsks with his tongue and shakes his head. ‘And to think you were meant to save us all, Michael.’

He releases Michael again. ‘Choose. Your five minutes start now.’

Faced with an impossible choice, the decision is easy to make in the end. He’s able to talk but decides not to. Not with words anyway. Michael raises his eyes to Alex and then the gun. And Alex smiles. Because he knows it was always meant to end this way.

Michael thinks back to the first time he’d seen Alex in the hallways of their middle school. An unremarkable moment. Alex and Valenti laughing in a classroom doorway. Valenti grabbing his arm, ‘Who are you?’ And Alex smiling, waiting for his answer.

But the next barrage of memories collapses his lungs. The first time Alex had come to school with his ear pierced, the septum ring hanging from his nose. Always with Maria and Liz, right in the middle. The occasional what’s up, Guerin. Valenti slamming him into a row of lockers after the first rumors started to spread. And eventually, a stolen guitar.

His hand shakes violently. But Alex softly and nods his head. Resigned and ready for what comes next.

Michael takes a moment to step back inside the UFO Emporium. Bright Eyes playing through the speakers overhead. Not a soul in sight. Other than the prettiest boy he’s ever seen with a bigger heart that he could have ever dreamed. A flood of quick flashes - Alex naked beneath him, making out at the movie theater, the desert sky as Alex strums his guitar, Alex’s hair shorn to regulation, letters written and never sent, first glances after long absences, hands on hips and lips on necks, harsh words and bitter tears, i loved you and i think that you loved me, the toolshed destroyed, another soft smile and would you come home.

Michael pulls the trigger.

The gunshot ricochets around the cavernous warehouse, reverberating off the back of Michael’s molars. And then everything falls silent and time stops. Alex crumples to the floor, blood leaking from the hole in his forehead. Eyes dead and lifeless. Michael’s heart claws its way out of his chest and throws itself on Alex. Alongside a screaming Isobel who can move again, hand covering Alex’s wound trying to staunch the bleeding.

But it doesn’t matter because Alex Manes is dead.

Jones tugs the gun from Michael’s hand and pistol whips Isobel on the temple. She collapses across Alex’s unmoving chest. Then Michael is thrown through the air, landing with a thud against the cylinder block wall. He hears the crunch of his skull and then mercifully blacks out. The gunshot playing one last time through his mind before the world disappears.

Time inevitably continues to pass. Alex growing colder and colder as the seconds tick by.

Michael reawakens to Isobel’s gargled cries. Shouting his name over and over again, hoarse from the effort. Michael has no idea how long he’s been out. Looking around, Jones has vanished. A ghost in the night. He squints into the darkness, Isobel slumped over Alex still trying to save him. Beating at his chest and pressing her hand over his wound.

Alex remains dead.

And to think you were meant to save us all, Michael. That line replays in Michael’s head as he sits watching Isobel’s struggle. It’s those words that convinced him to choose Alex. He closes his eyes and goes to the place deep in his gut where his power lives. An electric minefield of love and suffering. He rests his mind, truly hushing it quiet for the first time in his life. Laying the love and suffering aside long enough to connect his brain with his power. Completing a circuit that his trauma had never allowed before.

Energy flares in his nerve endings, clearing all the muck and grime. He thinks of Isobel and easily slides into her mind. There’s chaos and panic and an overwhelming gut-wrenching fear. Bile rises in her throat. She’s convinced that both of them are dead and that she’s all alone in this hell house. Michael reaches out for her and settles her nerves. Sends his own energy through her arm and down into the palm of her hand. The one pushed tight to Alex’s forehead.

Michael concentrates on picturing Alex’s face, whole and happy. Warmth from his belly travels through his connection with Isobel and begins to weave Alex’s brain back together, one fiber at a time. He can feel Isobel gasp when the wound under her palm slowly smoothes away. Her fear subsides and big, choking gasps tear from her lungs the minute Alex’s eyes reopen and his chest rises. She starts to scream Michael’s name again, but this time for a very different reason.

He climbs to his feet and is amazed at how good he feels. Not drained at all - slightly light headed in a pleasant way. Alex sits up and Isobel pulls him into a tight hug, waving at Michael wildly with her free hand.

It takes Michael a moment to take that first step forward. Questions twist in his mind and he knows in his gut that his relationship with Alex will never be the same again. And while he’s excited for what comes next, he’s also terrified of what it might all mean. The overwhelming desire to feel Alex’s heartbeat eventually tugs him forward, though, and before long he’s dropping to his knees beside them.

Alex paws at him, crawling into his lap with Isobel not far behind - clinging to the both of them like she never intends to let go ever again. ‘I felt you, Michael. You did this. How?’

Michael feels Alex bury his nose in the crook of his neck and reaches out to pull Isobel closer. ‘What he said about me being meant to save everyone. It just clicked in my brain and I knew I could save us.’ He presses his lips into Alex’s temple. ‘But I had to choose Alex in case I was wrong and needed help.’ His voice cracks and falters, a sob catches his breath and Michael collapses into them. They hold him close while he cries. The crash of adrenaline and the weight of his choice catching up to him.

They sit tucked tight together for a long time while the sun sets outside.

‘Is he going to have a handprint on his forehead?’ Isobel asks, pushing Alex’s hair aside to see if his skin has started to glow.

‘I don’t know - I don’t think so.’ He cups Alex’s cheeks and inspects his face, finding nothing. ‘Do you feel any different?’

‘Yes. I feel you everywhere. All over me. Inside of me.’ He wraps his fingers around Michael’s wrists, gently knocking their foreheads together. ‘It’s hard to breathe around, actually.’

Michael laughs. ‘Well, I’m having a lot of feelings right now.’

‘About me.’ Alex smiles.

‘Yeah, baby. About you.’ Michael hovers his lips over Alex’s, waiting. Alex doesn’t hesitate to answer, instantly closing the gap between them. And when their mouths finally lock together, both whimper at the touch, kissing each other like it’s the first time all over again. Eager, a little shy, and once again filled with so much hope for their future.

Isobel stumbles to her feet to give them space. She’s still covered in Alex’s blood, needing fresh air. And desperately wants to call Max to explain everything. Reaching out with her mind, she searches for signs of Jones somewhere nearby but finds nothing. Glancing back at Michael, she supposes Jones must know what he’s awakened inside her brother. Michael - the savior. Honestly, she’s not really all that surprised.

Michael hugs Alex flush against him. ‘I’m going to do something, Alex. And you’re going to feel it.’

But Alex shushes him. ‘I already know. Are you sure?’

He nods and shuts his eyes as Alex pushes them as close together as they can get. Offering Michael everything he has to give. Michael smiles and whispers. ‘I love you.’

And Alex responds, ‘I know.’

Michael searches across the desert, not knowing exactly what he’s doing. But before long, he spots what he’s looking for - a mind signature frantically fleeing from his wrath. Alex puts on a hand over Michael’s heart and Michael snaps Jones’ neck, his mind signature blinking out as he crumples to the dirt. He reopens his eyes and looks down at Alex. ‘Let’s go home.’

They rejoin Isobel and Michael informs her that Jones is dead. She nods her head. ‘It was the right decision, Michael. I guess I just wish we’d been able to find out more about where we come from.’

‘We don’t need him for that. I took his mind from him, Iz, before I killed him. I know everything he knows. And we have a lot to talk about. But first, I’m taking Alex home and crawling into his bed for at least a week.’ He hugs Isobel and she looks at him like the marvel he truly is and always has been before climbing into her SUV and leaving them alone.

‘I haven’t said I’m sorry yet.’ Michael turns to Alex. ‘And before you say I don’t have to,’ he holds his hand up to Alex who is already trying to stop him, ‘let me finish.’ Alex reluctantly nods. ‘I know I made the right decision. But I’m so sorry that means you can close your eyes and picture what it looks like to watch me hold me a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Because I can’t fix that part.’

Saying it out loud breaks something inside of him. Something he’s not sure will ever heal. So, he doesn’t bother trying to stop the tears that burn down his cheeks.

Alex grabs his hands. ‘Look at me.’ He waits for Michael to meet his eye. It takes a while but eventually he gets there. ‘I have seen a lot of horrible things in my life. My father’s fists aimed at my face, his hammer breaking your hand. Friends - brothers - riddled with bullets and bleeding out in my arms. Innocent people dying at my hand, riddled with my bullets. My leg shredded to pieces on the side of a dirt road in Iraq.’

He pauses to take a breath. Michael threads their fingers together to give him comfort. ‘You pointing that gun at my head? It is an image that will stay with me. Forever. But not for the reasons you fear. Because you didn’t get to see your face in that moment. The steel and certainty in your eyes. The courage and the love. And the defiance, Michael. I knew I could trust you. I knew I’d open my eyes again and get the chance to tell you how much I love you.’

‘But it’s even better than that. Because now it’s like you’re tattooed underneath every inch of my skin. You’re the oxygen expanding my lungs and the blood pumping through my veins. Yes, you shot me, Michael. But when I opened my eyes, I was so much more than I was before. You gave me that and only you could have given me that.’

They push against each other, chest to chest. Fingers clawing at whatever purchase they can find. Nose in necks and the first flares of arousal spreading through their hips. The scent of rain and Alex’s shampoo mingling together for the first time in over a year.

Michael feels something insistent pressing between his shoulder blades. Reluctantly, he pulls away from Alex and turns to find his cell phone floating freely. He concentrates on his power and realizes it’s not coming from his mind. Alex laughs behind him as Michael yanks his phone out of the air, stunned into silence.

A death. A homecoming. Something bright and new.

[pinkcake]

Hi! Just wanted to thank you for creating and sharing screenshots of you aesthetically perfect Stardew farms and telling about their inhabitants. These are hard times for so many people, these pictures really bring joy into everyday life. If it's not too much to ask, could you please share more about Annie and her farm? And also Marina, it was so nice and heartwarming to see a non-demonized Eastern-European character. I love you, have a great week!

(quick note — i actually saw this ask quite awhile ago!! i loved it so much and was so happy, i wanted to give a long answer, but unfortunately i got busy with some school work so i left it go for a little while! i’m sorry anon that it took me so long, but i hope you understand and i hope you still enjoy hearing about my farmers ~)

this actually makes my day anon omg 😭 i am so glad my little stardew blog could be so uplifting... this game got me through some tough moments too so i’m really really happy i can be part of sharing it with more people and making them smile! 💞

it’s definitely not too much to ask haha, i love talking about my farmers! each of them are so special to me, they are born out of many different parts of my life that are meaningful to me ~! this will be under the cut, i got a bit carried away... 😄🌱🍓🌷🌱

so annie is actually a fairy by birth! she used to be very tiny, have wings, and she lived in a fairy hollow community very deep in the secret woods. she had always felt drawn to the human world, and after doing some work as a “crop fairy” her desire to become human was cemented. on her 18th birthday, she chose to forfeit her wings and most of her magic in order to become human, worked among the city lights for awhile at joja (which she strongly disliked, as she would put it), and eventually took over lavender farm west of pelican town from another aging fairy-turned-man. as a fairy, she had significant magical abilities that made growing plants and flowers a breeze… because of that, she’d always taken the process for granted, but upon more time spent observing the human world, she became more interested in their processes of agriculture and floriculture. she still has some powers left over that make crops grow a little bit faster and a little bit higher quality, but most of it is just hard work on her hands and knees in the beaming sun! her goal is to create a floral sanctuary… she specializes in flowers, teas, and honey + wax! her farm is overgrown and the stardew valley times newspaper may be a bit judgmental of how she keeps her land, but anyone who ducks into the lush sanctuary of lavender farm is immediately soothed and fascinated by its natural beauty. even annie’s farmhouse is bursting with potted plants and insect terrariums!

i created annie because the small, seamlessly-integrated sparks of magic is such a cool part of stardew valley to me. i loved that a game that was based in realism could still have elements like fairies, wizards, witches, mermaids, and monsters..! i wanted to get deeper into that part of the game ~

(bonus: i did not initially have a plan for who annie would marry and i considered even just having her single, but after some cutscenes with elliott, the concept of him being a merman-turned-human hit me! merman elliott just makes sense to be… he lives on the beach, he is a romantic, he’s got that long luscious red hair, he is deeply worried about ocean pollution, he’s a little awkward... once it was in my head i couldn’t get it out! i didn’t even realize it was an infamous theory haha. i just thought, how wonderful would it be for these two individuals who shared a similar journey — leaving behind their homes, changing species, moving to stardew valley and trying to fit in — to form a bond, fall in love, and create a life together in a world that is new to both of them? <3 annie/elliott is easily one of my favorite farmer/bachelor(ette) relationships i have! i could truly talk about them all day~ )

marina was born out of three things — 1.) my desire to play stardew valley expanded, 2.) my interest in sdve’s bachelor victor and how he has a name that is very popular in russia, 3.) my interest and appreciation for eastern european culture…

personally, my family is south-central european and i have grown up in the USA. aside from being trained as a ballet dancer all throughout my teenage years and hearing about vaganova, bolshoi, mariinsky theatres + having two russian kids as classmates and friend in primary school (one was named victor, haha!), i didn’t know much about russia or eastern european culture growing up. we didn’t have many opportunities to learn. anything i learned was more about the government’s problems, not the culture, which i find extremely sad… a government’s actions should not define or generalize a whole country or region of millions of citizens, especially when said citizens don’t have a lot of power. citizens, for the most part, are just people who are living.

in the city i currently live in, there is a “little russia” and “russian hill”, both of which i have visited many many times with my boyfriend who lives near there and who is eastern asian. everyone who lives there and 95% of the people shopping + eating there are eastern european immigrants. every shop there is authentic — most of them have everything written in cyrillic alphabet (usually russian, sometimes ukrainian) or occasional central european languages (polish most common) or balkan languages (croatian is common — my favorite market item is elderflower fanta soda, which is a croatian drink!). one of my favorite stores has music CDs and movies, signs, snacks, children’s books, and even birthday cards all in russian! there are grocery stores that only sell things that would be sold in an eastern european market, none of the labels in english (which can be difficult if you are looking to buy something for the first time without understanding the language), but it is such a neat thing to have. i remember always thinking, i’m so glad that this is here for the people who are moving away to a brand new country, so that they can always have a taste of home. i began realizing when visiting there just how massive eastern europe really is, how many countries and languages are a part of it, and how much culture and rich history there is to be found there. i played SDVE briefly with a different farmer and when i met victor, he immediately stood out to me as someone i might meet in that neighborhood. i head-canoned him as mixed-race: part eastern european and part eastern asian. he reminds me a lot of my boyfriend… a bit unsure and nervous about kickstarting his future but incredibly gifted and intelligent, and olivia reminds me of my boyfriend��s parents, who came from strict communism and poverty in china and now live in the USA taking full advantage of capitalism/consumerism (lol!), but are just a bit oblivious to their son’s mental health as it isn’t something they are familiar with. i saw a lot of parallels to things i’d seen in my life in victor, and i really wanted to create a farmer that could fit into this narrative with him. all these things combined… marina was born! i wanted to be sensitive when envisioning her, and settled on the stories of real people from eastern europe that i’ve met — she was quite poor, overworked, and didn’t have some of the freedoms she desired, and decided to move to stardew valley for a better chance at success. i wanted to portray that living in eastern europe’s economy can be very difficult, but the culture is still beautiful and should never be let go of just because of immigration… immigration doesn’t mean changing your roots or being ashamed. marina is just a sweet girl who was struggling to get by and needed a change of scenery and new opportunities… but she’s not letting go of her past or her culture, because there is no need to!

feel free to ask about any of my farmers... i will try to be more succinct next time 🤪 definitely, definitely got carried away haha! 

[unohanadaydreams]

Hello Mars! I wanted to tell you that your works are so good - I can read them all day))I also have a request! Renji / Kensei / Sado / Shinji / Uryū and/or any of the other characters found out that s/o is actually Quincy! Their reactions, emotions, what will be their relationship with s / o from now on) I will be very glad to read such your work) of course, if you have the time and desire to answer this request) xoxo

Okay, so I’m gonna assume we’re talking a human quincy like Uryu but this was SO fun, thank you for the ask! I maybe got a little carried away with how long they are so that’s why it took a while since it wasn’t something I had time to write in only a couple sittings!

Renji Abarai

Out of the shinigami on this list, he’s one of the most willing to start a relationship with a human with powers that he isn’t certain of as long as you’re trusted by the Karakura Gang.

His reaction is boisterous and borderline overkill, firstly because you kept something so important about yourself from him and secondly because his captain has well and truly drilled rules into his spine, and although he’s a natural rebel, he has lived the consequences of the Seireitei punishing those he cares about. His panicked first thoughts are his worry for you.

“I’ve brought you to my division, fuck.” He’ll say while gripping your arms with the inclination that if he lets go, the Central 46 will snatch you away.

He might have a knee jerk reaction of suspicion after the initial panic, but the more he lets the feeling simmer, the more he’ll realize it’s unfounded. You hang out at Urahara’s shop far too much for there to be something truly suspicious about you. (Urahara and Yoiruichi could map your natal chart)

He really thrives on affection and closeness in a relationship, so it becomes hard to keep everything going unless you are extremely determined and persistent; he is busy as a fukotaicho, he’s afraid for your well being, and he’s a bit hurt. He’s a romantic dork who wants a comfortable trusting love and the quincy bombshell? Not it. He feels like an idiot for not realizing what your powers were and for leading you into SS, a place full of people who fucking hate quincies.

The ball is in your court in terms of convincing him everything will be alright. Hint: resident soutaicho Shunsui isn’t intimidating to approach and has all the answers if you’ll agree to at least a sip of sake with him. He’s certainly not procrastinating on paperwork, just being accommodating ofc.

”Maa, of course, little sprig. The paperwork’s already done; Nanao-chan filed it on your first visit.”

If all goes well, don’t forget to get your hands ready for some serious massage work while you reassure him that you do trust him, that the Soutaicho always knew what you were, and to sooth the tension that’s been rooted in his body ever since you confessed your powers. He’ll want you near to him, so pack some luggage for a vacation to the SS if you don’t already live there; this ordeal awakened his insecurity BIG TIME.

Kensei Muguruma

To even be in a relationship with him, since he’s a taicho, you’d need to be in the SS a fair bit and it’s unlikely you’ve gotten away with keeping your powers a secret from those that matter. Shunsui knows, Central 46 knows, the Royal Guard knows. They’re not taking chances after Aizen and the Sternritter.

You’ll have to tell him you’re a quincy very early on in the relationship, because he’s not someone to let stuff like that slide; what’s your favorite meal, what’s your favorite band, how are you in SS all the time without being a shinigami assigned to a division?

As long as you’re honest and forthcoming fairly early on, I imagine he wouldn’t have much of an external reaction, other than to berate you for thinking it was such a big deal you tried to hide it. He’ll crush you in a hug and ask you if anyone in the Seireitei has given you shit for it while nagging you for letting that sort of thing affect you. Or was it in the human world? He isn’t above beating the shit out of a human. (In his mind, you must be insecure because people have hurt you over it in the past, like you’re some sad puppy.)

Internally, he’ll probably have to tamp down on the attitude he was old enough to inherit from those who fought in the quincy wars. He might tense up when you use your powers in the beginning, but after Aizen, he’s figured SS has learned their lesson on letting menaces operate freely. And, he knows you enough to be in a relationship with you, meaning he knows you pretty fucking well. You being a quincy doesn’t change things and he’s sort of pissed you thought it would but it’s early on and everyone has baggage so he’ll just be a little extra Tsundere™ for a while.

If, by some weird twist of fate, you were able to keep this information from him until well into the relationship, I think it would be a solid game over. Kensei doesn’t just hand out his trust to anyone and you lied to him/held back the truth about your powers but also about yourself. Not only that, but you didn’t trust him? You didn’t trust the person you chose as your romantic partner? You thought so little of him; thought of him like an enemy? He’s overwhelmed with how wounded and furious he is. Because you don’t distrust someone you love like that. He’s stubborn and hurt and will end things angrily and bitterly.

Sado “Chad” Yasutora

He has the absolute biggest non reaction. Uryu asked Chad about you, since he wanted to know who the other quincy in town was and assumed Chad knew. His friend was pretty shocked to find out Chad didn’t know but agreed to let you tell Chad and hopefully Uryu when you were ready.

He doesn’t know why you held back the information, but he’s patient and understands that some information is more precious than others and he’s really touched you trusted him with this piece of you. He loves and accepts every part of you. Why wouldn’t he? He would comfort you a lot and thank you for telling him, recognizing the intimate and vulnerable moment for what it is. He would probably tell you something about himself in exchange to deepen the moment and hope to make you feel more at ease.

He would make sure to tell you that he already knew and how and explain why he said nothing until you decided to open up about it. He offers to introduce you to Uryu, someone who you could relate to, and tells you about his friend, who he values, the quincy who he has trusted with his life time and time again.

Nothing changes, really. He’s relieved he can express his concern and worry about you fighting hollows now that he doesn’t have to pretend he’s ignorant to you being a quincy. He understands why you do it, but he still prefers frequent check ins while you’re on duty. Expect him to make you a little pack with emergency supplies and bentos with loving little notes everyday.

Shinji Hirako

Honestly, I can’t imagine you being able to pull the wool over Shinji’s eyes. If he can figure out that Aizen was up to no good before anyone else, he can find out that you’re a quincy.

He would be sly and subtle at first, trying to get you to admit it. Prodding at you with small jabs that make you wonder if he knows or if it’s a coincidence. He can’t find anything malicious about it, but it still sets off his paranoid tendencies that you’re trying to hide it. He has a lot of baggage left over from Aizen. It’s just something about trying to hide your powers that really sets him off. It hits too close to his past trauma.

If you didn’t ask him if he knew, he would confront you about it, a little annoyed you didn’t take the chances he provided. No matter your reason for withholding the truth, Shinji would be a little hot and cold after that, a little all over the place with his attention and affection because he can’t figure out if this was connected to something else, if there’s a pattern somewhere.

He would set up little traps and tests for a while, trying to catch you in other lies that relate to you being a quincy, trying to see if there’s a pattern or if you were just scared or insecure or whatever your reason was. Whether you catch on depends on how observant you are. After he’s had some sake and a hot soak somewhere to soothe his nerves, he’ll tell you a bit about what happened with Aizen, something that’s really hard for him to do, because he realizes he’s making this into a hunt without prey and he wants you to know why.

As long as you maintain a good standard of communication after this, things will be alright. Shinji may have had some adverse reactions, because he’s a very hyper analytic and paranoid man, but he’s also logical and can see when a pattern isn’t there. The majority of his tension over this is internal.

Take him to the human world and go indulge in some live music together, tell him that you’re happy he accepts you, and he’ll give a toothy smile and rub your noses together, acting like it was never a big deal in the first place before he blows a raspberry on your cheek and leads you to some of his favorite old haunts.

Uryu Ishida

He knows you’re a quincy, since all quincy are great at sensing reiatsu, and although his standard is to act aloof, he’ll be pretty excited that you are and that would manifest as really intense looks. He’s never had anyone but his grandfather and father to relate to, and his father hardly counts.

He wouldn’t be able to contain himself after a while and asks you about it before you could reveal anything. He understands you probably have your reasons, but if you’re in a relationship, he wouldn’t be able to hold back his curiosity or concern. Why would you possibly hold back this information from a fellow quincy? He can help you. He’s here for you. You can tell him anything and he’ll still be standing beside you; it’s you and him against the world.

He would love to spar with you, to talk about ways to improve and grow your powers, to fight alongside you and keep Karakura town safe, side by side. It’s sort of like a fantasy come to life for him. He always dreamed that there were more quincy out there and he can’t believe he’s so lucky to be dating a daydream come to life.

He would absolutely sew you both matching outfits. They wouldn’t be the exact same, but they would be extremely complimentary to one another. In fact, he would most likely make a small wardrobe for you both, for the different seasons.

He might be a little melodramatic about the whole thing and make little comments about how absolutely destined and fated you are to be with one another, but he’s certainly not with you just because you’re a quincy. Uryu is very honest and although you’re both quincy, you’re the person he loves first and foremost and it’s because of that, his feelings for you and your feelings for him, that make him feel so poetic about it.

[senor-plume]

Reunion

   Henry throws on his favorite shirt, a concert tee that he got at an Arlo Guthrie concert some years back. Pulling the shirt over his head, he eyes the bottle of ale that sits on the kitchen table. Reaching out with his left hand he grabs the bottle and takes a long pull from it. Friday night and not a thing going on. Luckily.     With the drink in his hand he walks over to the living room window and takes a peak at the great outdoors. Folks arriving for a CYO event at the school across the street. Looks like a basketball game as he spies on the young girls showing up in their cheerleader outfits. Some adults walking in and a young man about 20 has his head stuck into his cell phone, texting as he moves straight ahead. Henry closes the curtain tight and walks away quite glad that he is not playing a game of basketball tonight. As much as he complains about the loneliness of his life, he has adapted to it and some nights, such as tonight, he is glad for his solitude lifestyle.      The television is on but thankfully muted while the record player spins the vinyl album around at 33 and a third. A collector of sorts, he stops and stares at his records. A massive amount that must be well into the thousands. His father started him out young to the pleasures of music and he never looked back. His dad left him his old records from the 40's to the 70's when he passed away. Alphabetized, he goes down to one knee to look through the Z's. Pulling out Frank Zappa's first album he takes the record from its sleeve and stares at the grooves that the needle reads. Henry can, and will spend hours now gazing at his collection with pride bursting up through his soul. Nothing can or will make him as happy as rummaging through these records and trips to the Salvation Army for more is his true joy in life.      Stopping only to gather up a plate of nacho's and a few beers, Henry has just spent the complete Friday night alone with his records. He plans to leave the house tomorrow morning for a trip to the local hotel where a huge record sale will be going down. Once a month there is a gathering of all types of venders selling off their albums and other music related items. Henry looks forward to this with unbridled glee. He takes to the computer and after seeing there was not one email waiting for him he begins to compile a list of albums that he must have and hopefully he will be able to find them there. Some records he just never stops looking for. Years and years he has waited for somebody to sell them off. A Beatles record nicknamed the Butcher Album due to the cover showing the Fab Four dressed as butchers covered in raw meat and doll parts. A true and rare collector's item. He saw one once when he was visiting his sister in California. He had it in his hands and as he always does, he smelled the inside of the cover. There really is nothing finer than the scent of an old record Henry believed. The asking price for the album was a hefty 1000 bucks which he did not have at the time. He has saved up for the day it would appear to him again. He would not miss out on it twice.     With the need to take a piss Henry, drunk now, as he always is on the weekends, stumbles to the bathroom. Holding on for dear life he lets out a long sigh and out of the blue the telephone rings. He usually unplugs the fucking thing on the weekends but he must have forgotten.  The answering machine pick up. It is a woman's voice and it is unfamiliar. Without washing his hands, Henry walks to the bedroom to hear the voice say goodbye and then the tape rewinds. Who the fuck could that be? Henry presses play and he listens in carefully.   "I'm looking for Henry Coda. If this is the wrong number I apologize but I really want to find him. This is Anna Baez. I went to school with Henry back in the 80's and I would like to invite him to our schools 25th anniversary. It's this upcoming weekend…seven days from now and it will be a ball. So Henry, please if you could join us at the school at 7 in the gymnasium… I would be thrilled to see you again. We all would. It will be a blast. I hope this is the right number. Call me at 722-5733 to let me know if you can come. Thanks and goodbye."     Christ. Anna Baez. Henry takes a long drink from the bottle…killing it and he heads to the bookshelf to pull out his senior yearbook. The cover says Binghamton Central High School. It has been years since he has looked at this thing. He takes a seat on his bed and opens the book. He flips through the pages with a bored look on his face until he comes to the page he wants. Under his nose is a picture of Anna. A blonde beauty that was quite popular in school. Unlike Henry she excelled in school, running for class president and winning. A cheerleader and if he remembered correctly, she was crowned prom queen…a prom in which Henry did not attend. His book was signed a few times and he reads a few. "Have a great summer Henry…see you at the college." "Henry, keep playing that guitar and I am certain you'll be top of the pops in no time." "You are one weird fellow man. Don't change."    Henry never ended up going to the local community college and he never made it to the top of the charts. He was still weird and he has barely changed since the 80's. He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. He remained on the bed thinking of school. How he hated it and most of the kids there…except for one girl…Nancy…or Nan for short. Nan, he had the biggest teenage crush on. She was always friendly with him but she was dating the same guy from their freshman year right up to the senior year. They were friends…she was kind to him and although her boyfriend hated him she didn't care. She was nice. Rising from the bed he began to think about her. Nan, I wonder if you are even still alive and if you are I bet you have fourteen kids and a beefcake husband. He wandered out of his room and made it to the kitchen to grab a fresh beer. Cracking it open he heard the needle hit the label on the record he was playing and he knew it was time to flip it over.    Playing the Stones now he could not get his mind off of that girl. Nan. Henry hardly left his house for any kind of social event. Skipping family reunions and the like. But this…this could be…interesting. He wanted to see Nan and that was the only thing that made him pick up the phone to call Anna back.     She answered right away and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him. She told him that he was all set. That it was to be a casual party and that he could bring a friend or spouse if he wanted to. Henry asked how many people have signed up to go and she told him that it will be a packed event. "Expect at least a hundred kids to be there. It will be lots of fun. And Henry, feel free to bring some of those records of yours with you. I bet we would all like to hear them." After saying goodbye and hanging up Henry crawled into bed and found himself…drunk and daydreaming about Nan and just what he could say to her. It made him nervous just thinking about it and soon he blocked it out and fell asleep with the full bottle of beer next to his head. ——————————————————————————————–                    After about four beers Henry was ready to leave for the reunion. Dressed in khakis and a seersucker shirt he bent down to tie his shoes when he felt the urge to throw up come over him. He ran to the kitchen sink and made it just in time. Four beers down the drain, all sudsy and wiping tears from his eyes he went to swig some mouthwash around in the bathroom.       Outside now Henry tucked the cuffs of his pants into his socks and jumped onto his bicycle. The school was only a few blocks away and it was a pleasant night. He had no intention of trying to impress anyone there. His bike was fine and he enjoyed riding it more than driving anyway.      Along the way there his nerves grew worse and he checked the time on the side of the bank on the corner. 7:15. He was late and he did not care. He toyed with the idea of not showing…no one would miss him anyway but Nan…he was dying to see what became of her. He stopped his bike in front of the tavern Rocco's and parking his bike on the side of the building. He went in. "Henry! Long time no see my friend. How goes it?" Rocco extended his hand and Henry shook it with a weak smile on his face. "Get me a cold one please Rocco. Lord knows I need one tonight" "What's the big occasion? You got a hot date tonight? If you do, bring her here. I'd love to see the kind of girl you could pick up Henry."       The bartender, a black guy with muscles that would put Schwarzenegger to shame cracked the top off the bottle of Bud and handed it to Henry. He took hold of it and brought it to his mouth and drained half of it in a mere two seconds. His eyes darted around but he found himself slowly calming down. The television above the bar was on showing some soccer match and the jukebox was playing the old Turtles tune.. .'Happy Together.' "Henry, it's been a while, a few days now perhaps since you last walked into my establishment. What's been happening to you? You depressed? Did a fire destroy your record collection or something?" "No. Just been busy is all. Listen Rocco, I need your advice here. I'm now headed to my 25th reunion at school and I am rather nervous about it all. There is a girl there…or a woman now and I really want to talk to her but I am a social dud. I have no idea what to say to her. What's a good ice breaker? Something that won't make me look like a total dick head. Just a little dick head." Rocco smiled and said " Ah Henry, you seeing an old flame tonight? Some girl who used to give you hand jobs in the basement? Something like that eh?" "No…not at all. Just a girl who I was friendly with. Though I have to admit that I dreamed of her and those hands giving me some relief. I don't know. I can't think of what to say to her when I see her. I need your help here."   Rocco pulled up a stool and thought for a while. "What did you guys used to talk about in school? Back then. What did you talk about?" Henry thought for a while and he said `music.' "Ok, then you talk about that. Just say that you heard an old song on the radio and that it made you think of her. She'll be pleased to hear this…hopefully and there you go. You'll be off to the races." "But I never listen to the radio…all those commercials and that terrible hip hop music they play now a days…It gives me a head…" “Then, forget the radio part…just say you heard a song…somewhere… and it made you think of her. Just wing it from there. She'll want to know what song and then you'll be in a real conversation and I bet it will be the first one with a woman for quite some time. Am I right?" Henry sighed and took a drink from the bottle. "Yeah, music, that's kinda what I had planned on anyway." "That's all you ever talk about actually Henry. This is the first conversation we've had that wasn't about music or music related. You must really be nervous." "Yeah, I am. What time is it Rocco?" "7:30." "Shit, I gotta go. Thanks for the help. I appreciate it, man."     Rocco wished him good luck and said that if he gets lucky with the girl to bring her over to the bar so he could see what all this nervousness was all about. Henry killed his beer and slammed the bottle down on the bar with a determined thud. He stood and with a wave left the bar and found his bike waiting for him. He climbed aboard and began his trek to the school. ————————————————-      Inside the gymnasium it was sweltering. He was informed at the front desk, where old Anna Baez was sitting, that the air conditioners were on the fritz and to expect it to be a little warm in there. Warm? It was horrible. Henry went immediately to the bar and ordered a beer. A nice cold beer would really hit the spot and maybe calm his nerves a bit.    Drinking, he looked down to his name tag. Henry. Who the hell is going to remember me anyway? This is a mistake. He had a few friends in high school and they all went to universities and left him in his hometown alone and friendless. Sure, he knew some of the guys and gals at the record conventions but he wouldn't be able to really call them friends. He was a lonely guy who simply loved his records and beer. He looked up and watched all the people milling around and some dancing. A few guys whom he recognized as old jocks were standing at the bar, drinking and laughing, without a care in the world. Henry felt the sweat dripping down his back and he flapped his shirt a few times to get some air in there. His ears pricked up when he heard a Duran Duran song playing and he was just about to head over to the DJ booth to talk to the guy about his CD's when he saw Nan walk in. The light from the gym was weak at best but he knew it was her although he could not read her name tag. My goodness…there she is he thought to himself. I'll just wait for a while to let her mingle with the people that she really wanted to see and then, then he would walk up to her and reintroduce himself to her.        Henry wiped his brow with the back of his hand and struck up a conversation with the DJ. They shot the shit for a few minutes when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw Nan smiling ear to ear. "Henry Coda…my God…you look exactly the same. You really do. My goodness…how are you?"       Henry's shirt was sopped with sweat as he opened his mouth to return her greeting when a group of guys walked up to Nan and began to talk excitedly to her. Henry shrunk back to the DJ booth and just stood there watching them enjoying their conversation. I wish I was normal he thought to himself. I wish I could talk and feel carefree with others. Instead I am a sweating fool all alone with social anxiety and a drinking problem. He took a swig from his plastic cup and turned around to stare at the wall.     A few minutes passed while a Van Halen song played. Henry began to recall the time he had bought the album which this song came from when he heard a woman's voice say something. He turned around to see Nan staring at him. "Hello…anyone home? I've been trying to get your attention for a minute now silly. Daydreaming about music I bet. This Van Halen song sure brings back the memories don't you think?" "I was just playing this song a few days ago actually. All in all it's a great album with very little filler. Sure, a few of the songs aren't all that great on it but not many records from that period were masterpieces. You know what I mean?" Nan smiled at him and told him that he has not changed all that much from 25 years ago. Henry smiled and tried hard to think of something to say to her. He decided to ask her about her life now but she spoke first. "So tell me Henry…tell me about your life. Are you married? Is your rock and roll wife around here somewhere?" "Wife? Ha, no…No wife. Never. Never was married. You?" "Well, remember Davey? My boyfriend in school? We married after college and 10 months later we were divorced. Still to this day I have no idea what went wrong but that band of gold on my finger just cursed us. It was something else, I'll tell you, I won't be walking down the aisle again, you can count on that." Henry looked down at her finger and even in the bad light he could see that she was not sporting a wedding ring. "Gee, I'm sorry about that Nan. Geeze…will he be here tonight? Davey?" "No, he moved to Washington State after our divorce was finalized. I haven't seen him in years now. No kids…thank God." "Oh…well that's good I guess…divorce can really be hard on kids; at least that's what I've read in magazines and all. So…you live around here?" Nan answered his questions and boy was there a lot of them. Henry at times felt like he was interviewing the poor girl but he really had nothing else to say to her so he asked questions. Query after query but she didn't seem to mind at all. They talked for a while when he realized he was in dire need of a drink. He tried to back step a bit to get closer to the bar hoping that she would follow him…slowly but two steps back into his plan she stood right there, not moving an inch. He would have to ask her if she would like a refill on her wine…or what appeared to be wine. Maybe it was punch. It was red and that was all he could tell. In a break in the conversation he asked her if she would like a refill and that he could really go for a cold beer in this stifling heat. "I know! It's so hot in here…I can't stand it. Want to go outside for a bit? I could use some fresh air and besides…and don't tell anyone but I am dying for a cigarette." "Outside? Certainly. I'd like that. I'm beginning to melt in here. Please just let me refill my beer here. Can you wait?" She nodded her head and Henry went to get a beer. Turning to Nan he asked her if she was good. She replied that another cup of wine would be great and she handed him her now empty cup. "…A nice cold Michelob and a wine please Jerry."    The bartender filled up the two glasses and they headed outside. On the way to the front doors Nan was greeted with many hellos. Henry couldn't remember her being so popular in school. It was mighty crowded and Nan grabbed his arm and pulled him along and he was happy to be lead away out of there. Outside the cool air was a Godsend. They both needed the cool night air on their hot skin. "Now this is much better, don't you think Henry? So, tell me now…back in school you loved music more than anyone I've ever known. You ever made a career of it? You in a band or anything?" He felt like he was letting her down as he went on to say that not only was he not in a band but that as a career he chose media marketing. "What exactly is that Henry?" "You know those jingles you hear on the radio? I write them. I make commercials for the radio and television." "Oh my, how interesting…anything I would know?" "You know Champs Fried Chicken? The chain of chicken places? Well that one ad..the one that goes:

`Champs…is the place to be when your down and hungry, a dollar 99 is all you got? you'll dig our chicken, you'll dig it a lot.'

I wrote that." "Holy shit Henry, I know that song! It's the catchiest tune like ever! Wow…I'm with a celebrity here!" "Ha…well…it pays the bills. It's not going to get me a gold record but I suppose I can't complain." "Well, I think it's awesome…simply awesome Henry. I'm not as famous as you but I guess my job is ok…I sell real estate in North Carolina. I'm not rich or anything but like you, I can pay the bills."     Henry found himself relaxing a bit. The cool night air did him well and he found that he could keep up his end of the conversation. He went in a few times to refill their drinks. He was feeling alright by the time of his 7th beer of the night and Nan was really knocking the wine back. They talked about many things and a few people even recognized him as they made their way out of the gym to return home.    Around the time of Nan's fifth cup of wine she realized that the party inside was dying down. "I should really go back inside and mingle a bit more. You wanna come along with me? There has to be other people you want to see besides me." "Not really, Nan…in fact the only reason why I came to this high school heat wave was to see you. You were always so nice to me…don't think I've forgotten it these many years later." "Oh Henry, that's so nice of you to say. Shoot…I should go back though. You sure you don't want to come with me? I'll buy you another drink." Henry thought about it and decided not to go in. "I'm sorry Nan but it's really too hot for me in there. I'm going to head to Rocco's for a nice air conditioned beer." "Sounds splendid. Ok…I understand. "It was nice to see you again Nan…really. Take care now." "I will. Thanks for visiting with me. I had a ball. Enjoy Rocco's" And with that they hugged each other goodbye and went their separate ways.

      Around 1AM Rocco was placing the chairs up on the tables when there was a knock at his front door. He checked the time on his wrist and went to tell them he was closed. Through the door he saw a woman standing there. "I'm sorry Ma'am but I'm closed now. I open at 9 if you still need a drink in the morning." The girl was swaying a bit but managed to steady herself. "Is Henry there? Henry Coda? I'm a friend of his." Rocco opened the door and told her that she just missed him. "He left about 10 minutes ago. You don't happen to be Nan are you?" "Yes..why?" "Oh boy was he going on and on about you. You made quite the impression on him tonight. He usually only talks about music but not tonight. It was Nan this and Nan that. Sorry you missed him." "Yeah, me too. Please tell him I stopped by ok?" "I will. Goodnight." And with that she turned away and headed back to her waiting taxi. “Thanks for waiting. Please take me to the Serling Hotel.”   The driver nodded and turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the tavern.  Nan, drunk… rummages through her purse as the taxi speeds through the early morning darkness as the car radio plays an REM song and Nan smiles to herself as she zips up her bag and quietly sings along to the tune as it plays.    

[cecilspeaks]

130 - A Story About Us

This is a story about us, said the man in the radio. And we were pleased, because we always wanted to hear about ourselves on the radio. Welcome to Night Vale. 

This is a story about us. We live in trailers out near the car lot, next to the house where the angels reside. We live in homes near a poorly secured library, hiding and shivering, fearing an escape. We live in apartments below heavy-footed neighbors. We live on streets, removing ourselves from a world that refuses to learn how to love us.

At night, we can see the red light blinking on and off on top of the radio tower. A tiny flurry of human activity against the implacable backdrop of stars and void. We sit out on the steps of our trailer, on the balcony of our apartment, on a bench in Mission Grove Park, on a tree swing in our yard. With our backs to the brightness of the moon, watching the radio tower for hours. But only sometimes. Mostly we do other things. This is a story about us.

We eat together in the Moonlite All-Nite Diner. One of us is philanthropist Thomas Charles Fleming, who once caught a hog and showed it to a local radio host, who happened to find hogs adorable, and just wanted to pet one and speak in high-pitched voices to it, and name it Gary or Dolores, and listen to its snorting breaths I order to feel alive. Especially on that particular day, where that radio host’s intern forgot to buy coffee. Anything to start the day with a charge.

Thomas Charles sits in the Moonlite All-Nite eating his skirt steak, and he begins to choke. We are alarmed, because we feel empathy. Selfish, selfish empathy. We feel our own necks (cease) up. We hold our hands to our own throats gently, choreographed mimickry, a moder dance around the themes of mortality, as Thomas Charles heaves forward gasping, his eyes bulging. We look to the OSHA-mandated choking assistance poster near the cash register. We begin to recite the instructions to each other and demonstrate the moves required to complete this life-saving (--) [0:04:34].

One of us, dinosaur expert Joel Eisenberg, stands and wraps his thin arms around Thomas Charles. Joel pulls his hands into a central fist under the victim’s sternum. Joel yanks his hand back and up, and we shout, “Harder!” and some of us shout, “Softer!” Thomas Charles thinks of the new Night Vale botanic gardens he created. His mind wanders to the pride he felt opening this cultural institution, and secretly, the guilt he feels about the frightening people he partnered with to fund it.

He knows he must warn us, but does not know about what, exactly. In dying, we often find that the lists of what must be done evaporate, and there is nothing left to be done, and there never was. Needing to do this was an illusion we built to keep ourselves busy.

We panic in our efforts to free Thomas Charles’ esophagus. One of us, Laura, a waitress in the diner, breaks off a heavy branch that is growing out of her hip, and begins poking Thomas Charles in the chest. We frantically fumble for our phones typing in “Heimlich Maneuver”, all unsure how to spell it. Some of us saying, “It’s H-I-E”, others saying, “H-E-I”, one of us even saying, “Manoeuver has an O in it somewhere, I’m sure of it”. We find an article headlined “Save a Choking Victim with One Surprising Move”, but become frustrated by the amount of pop-up windows.

Thomas Charles grabs a pen and a napkin and scrawles a single word. We argue about what exactly it says. “Maybe he wrote ‘swan pups’”, we say. “That’s not a word,” we reply. “What about ‘sound-roos’?” we interject as we stare at ourselves wondering who would think that made any sense. “You know, like children’s pyjamas made from audio frequencies,” one of us says. “It could work,” that same one says to the quiet room, then continuing: “as a technology startup, like an app on your phone that makes…” before trailing off, running out of words to protect the judgmental silence. “Oh it’s a great idea,” we all agree in order to ameliorate the situation. And we pat Thomas George on the back to congratulate him on his multimillion dollar idea of audio-only children’s sleepware. We think for a moment that it is this companionable swat of the choking man’s ribs that will finally free the steak from his throat. We have read enough short stories to know that this is a sensible narrative resolution, requiring an unforeseen solution to an impossible problem. And given that we are hearing our story on the radio, we know that this is the perfect culmination of a tale about a collective we, a coming together, a climactic comradery.

But it does not work. Thomas Charles sinks to his knees, eyes wet and resolved. In the commotion of choking hazards, clickbait, and startup dreams, we fail to notice two men who have entered the diner. One is not tall. One is not short. They are not part of us, so we know that this story is not about them. The one who is not short moves Joel Eisenberg aside and then grabs Thomas Charles’ shoulders. The one who is not tall punches Thomas Charles in the stomach, as a piece of beef shoomps out of his mouth, a rope of spit and a soft weeze tailing it. the piece of unchewed meat arcs perfectly into a waste basket, and we cheer. These strangers saved a man we barely knew. Thomas Charles inhales loudly and finally shouts, “It says ‘stone crops’. Stone crops!” “Shut up,” says the man who is not tall. “Come outside,” says the man who is not short. “Please,” Thomas Charles pleads. “I’m sorry I told them about stone crops.” “Everyone is sorry you did that,” says the not-short man. “This is not how I wanted to spend my day,” says the not-tall man. We hear the radio describe two men of indistinct heights, walking another man out of the Moonlite All-Nite. We hear the man on the radio describe a muffled pop of a handgun from the parking lot, the slamming of a trunk, and the fading Doppler effect of a vehicle speeding away.

We sit in our booths, poking hashbrowns with spoons, imagining we heard a car backfiring instead. We leave the diner and find a blood stain on the asphalt by our truck, or our sedan, or our motorcycle, and we pretend it is a spilled drink.

Let’s have a look at the Community Calendar. Last Saturday at noon, we all went to the Botanic Gardens, for the opening of the new exhibit called (Sedum Fields). One of us who is a dosent at the gardens named Halla Darwish, explained to us that these succulent plants are excellent for private gardens, as they are affordable, easy to maintain, beautiful, and require little water. Sedum are often referred to as “stone crops”, Halla tells us before it means anything. She then thanked Thomas George Fleming and an anonymous benefactor for funding the Botanic Gardens.

On Monday, we attended an emergency press conference at the site of City Hall, where no mayor currently presides. Before an empty mic, reporters asked questions and then tried to transcribe the occasional sounds of wind and crickets onto their notepads. One of us, Pamela Winchell, uncharacteristically tamped down her usual bluster and allowed someone else to speak for her, in this case the incidental sounds of nature.

On Tuesday, we took a longer than usual lunch break to go look again at the Sedum Fields exhibit at the Botanic Gardens, and we saw the sunny summer blooms, which are elongated pink tubes billowing at the top, looking ready to burst. But in the middle, there are asymmetrical bulges, like small crouching humans inside. A dosent who was not Halla Darwish, and who was not any of us, and who was neither tall nor short, told us to look at another plant. These were not for us. As we got back into our vehicles, cranberry spinach salads with sesame vinaigrette only half eaten, we caught a glimpse of this new dosent plucking the unopened blooms and placing them gently into crates. We heard one of us on the radio say this aloud, as we scattered back to our desks and counters and warehouses and trucks and kitchen.

This has been… a… oops. That was last week’s Community Calendar. Well, this has been Community History.

Disturbed by the presence of the men who carry crates, who possibly kill philanthropist hog catchers, and who hurry us through our garden visits, we anxiously eat our daily meals. Absent-mindedly do our jobs and mutter angrily during showers about our own inaction in the face of brutality by those who are not us. “We are people of action. This is a story about us,” we say aloud in unison from our couches. We stand and walk and look at each other in the streets and join hands. We join hands and sing. We sing “Angel is a Centerfold”, because some of us had just attended a minor league baseball game and could not rid themselves of the sexist earworm. We walk past the Scrublands and the Sand Wastes to the edge of the desert, and we surround a cargo truck filled with crates. There are two men, neither tall nor short. They do not move.

One of us, who is a sheriff named Sam, places the men under arrest for the murder of Thomas Charles Fleming. The man who is not tall says, “He was not the man you thought he was.” The man who is not short says, “Do they still have HBO in the abandoned mine shaft out of town?” “This is not a story about you,” we shout. “This is a story about us.” Sam places the two handcuffed men into a white police car with “Undercover Police” with bold lettering across the sides, and a stylized rhinoceros holding a night stick painted on the hood. We turn to each other and celebrate with smiles and eye contact. Diane Crayton tells Nazr al-Mujaheed: “We saved our town.” Nazr groans and does not respond. He has talked little in recent months. Susan Willman tells Simone Rigideaux: “What a happy ending.” Amber Akini tells Wilson Levy: “This is a better world now, Wilson. For our son.” She pats her belly, and Wilson begins to cry. Steve Carlsberg, who can sometimes be a killjoy, but whose intuition is not often wrong, says: “Look! The truck!”

We look at the truck. “This is not a story about a truck,” we say, as six-foot-long pink blooms burst from tiny crates. They stumble and squirm, like humans swaddled in plastic wrap, toward us, under a clear predictable afternoon sky and in the face of terror.

The last thing on our minds is the weather.

[“Space and Time” by Joseph Fink]

The protagonist of a story must have agency, must use their skills against their antagonist. This is a story about us, and so we actively confront our predicament.

Nilanjana Sikdar attempts to communicate with the beings. They make no noise. Pamela Winchells shouts at them through a bullhorn, but they do not react. Josh Crayton changes his physical form into a great white shark, but they show no fear. And he finds it hard to breathe on land, so changes back into a hummingbird. Henrietta Bell throws her co-worker, Sarah Sultan, who is a fist-sized river rock, at the creatures but they do not flinch. 16-year-old Tamika Flynn loads a crossbow with an explosive-tipped arrow, and we question our lackadaisical weapons laws in this state.

Overwhelmed, we back against each other, surrounded by the writhing featureless beasts. A flower monster reaches out, its arms stretching, elastic under the petals and touches former mayor Dana Cardinal. Another touches Harrison Kip, and another touches Leann Hart, just as she reaches for the hatchet she keeps in a waste holster.

The top of the flower opens up, and inside it is you. Yes, specifically you. We all recall many years ago, there once was a story about you, right here on this radio station. Now your eyes are open, but empty. Your face swollen and teeth shattered in places. Part of your right ear is gone. And we remember you died in that story. We all felt bad. But here you are, again, inside a flower, staring crooked and blank at our screaming faces. Another flower opens, and another broken face of someone who once lived in Night Vale. And another, and another. And as the last flower opens, the face of Thomas Charles Fleming emerges, his head split right where his hair once parted. This lips in the final hiss of an S, like a man whose last word was “stone crops”.

Sheriff Sam returns with the two men and releases them from their handcuffs, ordering them to take those monstrosities away from here and then come back to be arrested. The men gently lift each writhing bloom into the back of the cargo truck. They say nothing. We ask: “Who are you?” They say nothing. “What are these crates?” They say nothing. “These are people you have killed.” They pause briefly, but say nothing. “Are the crates always filled with bodies which are also flowers?” The men shake their heads no. The man who is not short says, “We are only doing our job.” “And what is your job?” we ask. “We handle the crates,” says the one who is not tall. “Are you hiring?” says Trish Hidge, who recently lost her job at City Hall. “The Botanic Gardens are closed to the public,” the not-short man says. “It is better that no one involve themselves with this,” the not-tall man says. They climb into the truck and drive away with their broken crates and human flowers.

We look at each other, relieved to know we completed another day, alive and together, but bereft of solutions or answer. “We have defeated gods!” we say. “And dragons!” we say. “And librarians!” we say. “And despotic corporate overlords!” we say and kind of high five each other about that one in particular. “But these men,” Missy Wilkes says. “Maintenance men,” Leann Hart says, already writing a story in her head. “Mafia,” Sheriff Sam suggests. “They’re kind of cute,” Michelle Nguyen says, as her girlfriend Maureen nods in agreement. “Not everyone gets to know everything,” we tell ourselves. “We have limitations,” we say, stumbling upon a new truth. “And when we know what we cannot know, we can believe whatever we want.” “Flower mafia,” Sheriff Sam insists. “Cancer is actually more inexplicable and frightening than those men,” Lorelai Alvarez says from great and terrible experience. And we sigh and, yeah, collectively nod. Culminating in a town-wide understanding that we not only touched the sky, but pushed against it. We know more about what we cannot know, and we are less afraid, even if we are still quite afraid. But in a productive, positive way. Like knowing not to put hornets in your mouth. We learned this, all together. Tough luck about you, though. Hope you’re doing OK at the gardens, I mean it didn’t look like you were, but we do wish you the best.

We walk to our homes, turn on our radios and hide. And we listen to a familiar voice say: “This has been a story about us.”

And we are pleased, because we always wanted to hear about ourselves on the radio.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Anything is a piñata if you hit it hard enough.

[thecloserkin]

fic rec: in fire, in ice by moirariordan

fandom: Wizards of Waverly Palace

pairing: Justin Russo/Alex Russo

word count: 25k

Is it canon: Yes

Is it explicit: No

Is it endgame: Yes

Is it shippable: Like fire

It’s an on-the-run story! Where they get fake married! For real this fic is #sibcestgoals. It’s justifiably the most widely read and influential fic in the fandom, whose influence transcends the fandom itself: the tagline ought to be “come to the dark side, we have incest-flavored cookies.” Say you had a friend who had never read a word of fanfiction in their life. For a starter pack you would hand them something like The Shoebox Project, right? Something accessible, for a pairing that’s ludicrously shippable, something that would rip their heart out and leave them aching for more. That’s what this story is. I would have no qualms recc’ing it to anyone on the street. Just look at the testimonials on Fanlore or on the TVTropes rec page —these people can’t all be incest shippers right?

Wizards of Waverly Place was a teen sitcom that aired from 2007-2012 on the Disney Channel, starring Selena Gomez and David Henrie as the titular brother-and-sister wizards. They have parents and a younger brother too but for shipping purposes Justin/Alex is the six-ton orca whale in the room. Justin is two years older, boring and responsible; Alex is the wild child. There’s a lot of banter and a lot of snark and it’s that dynamic where the older male does everything by the book and the younger female character categorically refuses to even crack open the spine of a book. There was a made-for-TV movie in 2009, and 87% of people who caught it while channel-surfing came away under the impression that the male lead was Selena Gomez’s boyfriend. I know this because I conducted a highly scientific poll, obviously.

Let me say upfront that I love this story but every time I read it it’s like I just watched Schindler’s List. It’s literally a story about a wizard Holocaust.

It starts with an old man who accidentally torpedoes the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy (or the in-universe equilavent). It’s important to emphasize how he gives the game away, which is by conjuring a specter of his dead wife, one that unfortunately winds up outliving him; when the police broke his door down they found her weeping over his corpse. He loved her so much he preferred a flimsy facsimile over the lack of her. Or is it that he loved her so little he would settle for a cheap echo? Either way, love is the downfall of the wizarding community. The tension between love and magic is at the heart of this fic, for love is about sacrifice and at its root, so is magic.

The muggles’ initial reaction is consternation. The dead old man was unfortunately in possession of an extensive and illegal magical library, and pretty soon “every New Age hippie who ever read a deck of tarot cards” descends on New York City to pore over it. Consternation turns to fear turns to anger/mistrust turns to outright persecution of wizardkind.

Alex keeps waiting and waiting for someone to do something, to stop it, to make it go away, but nothing happens.

Alex is still in high school. There are people out there every day braying for her blood and calling for her family’s heads on spikes. Plot happens.

“Is this a good thing?” she asks, because Justin always knows what’s good and right and what’s not, and she really needs to know. He’s silent for a very long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, and for some reason this is more terrifying than anything.

She’s relied on Justin all these years to be her moral compass and when he admits he’s at a loss her whole world crumbles. They’re not canonically codependent, I think, but Alex does a lot of shit she wouldn’t otherwise if she wasn’t relying on Justin to bail her out. Likewise Justin resents how Alex’s raw gumption allows her to brazenly bluff her way through stuff he has to work his tail off for. I think Justin gives himself less credit than he deserves because Alex is right, he is insanely smart and talented. There’s an actual no-word-of-a-lie witchhunt going on and Justin still manages to graduate valedictorian.

There’s an underground railroad of sorts that smuggles wizards out, endowing them with new identities and new memories. The Russos grow desperate after Justin and Alex’s mom falls pregnant, but for plot reasons they can’t all be relocated so Justin and Alex stay behind. There are tearful farewells. The plan is to wait until Alex finishes high school, then rejoin the rest of the family. Things get even darker, but Justin “makes her smile like it’s his job.” LIKE IT’S HIS JOB. My friends, this is the good shit right here.

They eat in his room, most of the time, and do homework. Alex knows that he finds it soothing.

It’s a ritual, don’t you see? Other people meditate; Justin does homework. Alex does it too to keep him company. In fact Alex spends a lot of time in Justin’s bed. She’s always falling asleep there or waking up there and it’s not sexual but it gives you an idea of where her head’s at. Once, she slams out of the living room during an argument, and after a disorienting moment realizes it’s not her room she’s retreated into, it’s Justin’s. Her subconscious has obviously decided Justin’s room is the safest sanctuary there is.

Justin takes her out to dinner to celebrate her grades

IT’S A DAAAAATE only neither of them know it yet haha!

When Alex’s lifelong BFF announces she’s joining the Youth Nazi and invites Alex to join up with her, Alex runs away to a bench in Central Park. Justin shows up in short order:

“How’d you find me?”

“Are you kidding? You always come here when you’re upset.” He sits next to her. “Remember the time you ran away when Mom and Dad wouldn’t let you get a ferret?”

Nobody is conflating the pain of being denied a potential pet ferret to the pain of being deemed subhuman by one’s best friend, but the point of this scene is (1) that Justin gets her, in all her melodramatic over-the-top pettiness, and (2) Justin notices and remembers which bench she prefers — it’s a big gorram park after all. Eventually the political situation comes to a head and Justin and Alex decide it’s not safe to stay in New York City any longer, and they gather up their cash and bounce. Once they leave they have no way of getting back in touch with their parents but they have no choice; it’s too dangerous to stay:

They sleep in cheap motels and pay in cash under fake names, staying under the radar as much as possible because they’re not sure what else to do. They run out of cash in Maryland and get a decent hotel room under the fake account name.

They stop in Indianapolis to celebrate Justin’s twentieth birthday. Alex scores some champagne with one of the fake IDs she’d snagged before leaving New York and they drink it in a hotel room, the TV off and knees touching on the bed

They make it to Denver and get a small apartment and tell everyone they’re newlyweds and Alex dyes her hair red

OMG THEY’RE FAKE MARRIED I AM DECEASED

p sure there was also blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bedsharing in the hotel room

Alex’s hair color is a solid proxy for her state of mind

They save half their money each month in case they have to run again, and for a little bit, things are kind of nice. After her shifts, Alex will walk to the library where Justin works and sit at a table behind the corner with him, reading history books and novels.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you Alex Russo, the girl who a few months ago wouldn’t know which end of a book was up. She learns to love BOOKS and LIBRARIES on JUSTIN’S account and that is everything. Well, this is a nice respite but it doesn’t last and they have to keep running because Alex is assaulted at her waitressing job by a creepy customer who won’t take no for an answer. It’s a highly unrealistic stranger-in-a-dark-alley attempted assault situation but I will let that slide because the point is she instinctively spews magic in self-defense, which of course will bring the authorities down on them in no time. She’s scared shitless and she runs straight into Justin’s arms, the only place she feels safe:

Justin nearly freaks when he sees her, dragging her into the back office and touching her face, her arms, over and over as if to reassure himself that she’s okay. He sees the scrapes on her back and frowns, pulling off his soft cotton jacket and wrapping it around her as she explains what happened in a monotone voice. “We have to go,” she says, “tonight.” He nods and kisses her nose. “You did what you had to do,” he says, and something tight unravels because he’s not mad.

There is so much tenderness in that nose kiss. I feel like they’ve been partners for a long time but this is where it really clicks that Justin’s not “in charge” anymore, he’s not the older brother who knows best, they’re just two teenagers clinging to each other on a life raft because they are everything the other has left.

“The baby must be three years old now,” Alex muses. The champagne they’re drinking isn’t nearly enough to get them wasted, and she suddenly wishes that they were the type of people who get drunk. “Max is fifteen. In high school.”

This made me so sad, how they used to be a five-person family unit and now Alex and Justin are cut adrift and they’ve formed a unit of their own but they’ll never stop missing the others.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you with straight hair since New York,” he says when she emerges from the bathroom. He flicks her bangs away from her face. “You usually look like a street urchin.”

All the hairstyle changes for disguise purposes but she’s still his sister underneath. He’d know her anywhere. Here’s the scene where they first kiss — they’re standing on their own doorstep, having gone out to celebrate his birthday, and Alex (as you would expect) initiates it:

He narrows his eyes at her and she looks, looks, because she can’t have read this wrong – no, she didn’t. There is nothing in the world that she knows better than Justin – his face, his body, his head, his mind, his heart.

Yesssss I need it like air. Later:

(They don’t talk about what happened on his birthday, but they’ve started asking for single rooms.)

Eventually they settle in rural Italy, which I guess doesn’t have the same 24-hour surveillance panopticon that we have here in the USA so it’s easier for wizards to slip through the cracks. I like to imagine them in in the Tuscan hills. Justin is a schoolteacher and Alex a graphic designer. They remain for many years below the radar, until Alex is recruited into the Resistance to help smuggle other wizards out through the Underground Railroad the same way she and Justin were smuggled out. She feels a moral obligation to do it, even if it kills Justin to watch her diving repeatedly into danger and him unable to follow.

She’s never been that great at protecting people, she knows. When she was seven and Justin was nine, there’d been a bully that lived in the apartment  building across the street who used to try and steal her lunch money every day, and every day she would offer Justin’s in return for her own relief. When she was twelve and he was fourteen, they broke Theresa’s glass statuette from Barcelona during a fight and she blamed him without a second thought, and when she was seventeen and he was nineteen, she let him pass up freedom in order to protect her and she will never forget all that he gave up the day he made that decision.

Alex’s great grief is that Justin has given up an assuredly brilliant future, in which he would have shone as a superstar and had his pick of careers, in exchange for being hers.

“You’re so smart, and grown up and good and – and handsome, and I’m irresponsible and immature and –“

She sees his being with her as a sacrifice. She doesn’t know anything about sacrifice yet. She finds her parents living in the same apartment in New York they fled so many lives ago. They’re waiting for Justin and Alex to come back, or send word, or something. It exposes them to an acute degree of risk, of course. Alex orchestrates the Resistance mission to evacuate/relocate her parents, but she does not reveal herself nor reconnect with them. She lets them go. It’s unclear why, although I suspect it would be tough to have a relationship with them without dealing with the elephant in the room, the fact that she and Justin are now together. Yet I think it was important for her to see her parents one last time, because it gave her closure. After she returns to Italy she and Justin welcome their first child. The baby is a mini-dynamo and a nexus of magical potential, sending up trails of rainbow sparks even in utero, so Alex makes the painful decision to give up her powers for good. This means she will be mortal, and so will the child, and any future children or grandchildren. It also means she and Justin will be allowed to stay under the radar and hang onto the life they have painstakingly built. Remember how I said that the root of both love and magic is sacrifice? This is the sacrifice that defines Alex Russo, that she was willing to give up magic -- the thing that has shaped her identity for twenty-odd years -- in order to be with Justin.

[garamonder]

Chosen Peers

(During a field trip to Central University, Havoc sees the possibility for a different future for Ed.)

Jean Havoc hadn't been in a university library in ages. He stared around the quiet rows of high wooden shelving with a sort of fond nostalgia, finally squashing the weird reservation he had about being there. School buildings always seemed like the property of students, and he had to admit to himself he felt a little like a trespasser. He was seated at a sturdy long table, tipped back in his chair and waiting on the boss to collect the materials he wanted here before they dropped in on Professor Haggerty's chemistry office.

A stack of books landed before him with a thump that made one of the librarians frown their way. "Here," said the boss.

The lieutenant sighed at the load and craved a cigarette.

"Don't look so morose, we have a cart," said Ed. He retrieved a two-wheeled metal book cart from the librarian, who briefly regarded him as though she was not sure he'd bring it back.

"Why don't we have an Alphonse?"

"Because Alphonse has a job, and now we have a Havoc."

At this moment, Al was probably up to his helmet in stuffed animals and teatime. He was babysitting Elicia Hughes, allowing poor Gracia an evening with her sister. Havoc hoped they were having a good time. It was good of Alphonse to offer.

In truth, Havoc didn't mind the field trip. Sometimes he liked a change of scenery and the boss was entertaining company. Once in a while they struck up a quick game of cards. The kid's promise not to tell Hawkeye that Havoc had taught him poker was nearly four years old and he was old enough now to make it moot. Ed was ever grudging of his time, but Jean liked the moments when he wheedled a few minutes of downtime out of the young major.

It wasn't as often these days that the Elrics dropped in to town, Ed getting his assignments on the road as often as not. Things seemed to happen faster now than they did a few years before. Sometimes Havoc felt events escalating in a way he couldn't express except in the increase of cigarettes he consumed too quickly every day.

Then the boss had collected Havoc to act as the extra pair of arms for lugging Ed's research from the school. "They let you check this stuff out?" he asked.

"The watch helps," Ed said smugly.

Right. The watch did it all. Jean clapped his hands to his knees and stood up, dutifully wheeling the cart behind Edward as they trundled out of the library and down a long path through one of the leafy campus squares. Students were taking advantage of the fine weather to sprawl along the grass on picnic blankets. Some had brought along books to study; others had abandoned pretense and were loafing about.

Every so often someone would send Havoc a curious look. He was wearing his usual blues and was clearly identifiable as a military officer. They must have wondered what he was doing on their campus. Colleges were sequestered communities in a way that few places were now, and anyone not recognizable as a student or faculty stuck out like a cowlick.

Ed got fewer glances and it suddenly occurred to Havoc that Ed looked like he belonged here. How odd.

They paused at a little crossroads of diverging paths as Ed squinted at the directions Professer Haggerty had scribbled. "Does this say 'Norrey Hall' or 'M—Murray?' Murray Hall?" He frowned at the paper. "This is chicken scratch."

It was probably about as decipherable as Ed's own handwritten reports, which Hawkeye had tactfully requested be typed out from now on. No one gave him too hard a time about it because it wasn't hard to guess he'd had to relearn to write left-handed and it seemed bad sport to make jokes. Ed shoved the note under Havoc's nose, who couldn't make heads or tails of it either.

A gaggle of chattering students were passing by, weaving around Havoc and his cart. "Hey," Ed waved a hand at them. "Any of you know where Haggerty's office is? Chemistry department."

The students paused with expressions of surprise. "Actually," said one girl with long blonde hair, "we're headed to his class. We're picking up some exam results."

"Is it Norrey or Murray? I can't read this stuff."

One of the other kids giggled. "Is it his handwriting? It's so bad. The teacher's aide has to decipher it for us half the time. It's Norrey. Come on, you can follow us."

They started walking again, Havoc bringing up the rear. Now that Edward was definitely associated with the military officer, they glanced curiously at him too.

"Are you a student?" the first girl asked.

"No. Just need to drop in on Haggerty."

"Do you know him?"

Havoc knew Ed and Haggerty spoke periodically and flapped their gums a lot about chemical reactions whenever they passed within a twenty-foot radius of each other. Haggerty wasn't much for alchemy, even disparaging its use in Ed's presence, but somehow they collaborated quite well. Ed seemed to relish lecturing the professor that alchemy acted as the ultimate authentication for mathematical and chemical theorems. If it was bullshit, he was fond of saying, a rebound will tell you sure enough.

"Yeah," said Ed, "I see him around."

He was clamming up as he did sometimes around interested strangers. It was funny, reflected Havoc, how he could be so cocky around people who others found intimidating, but he shut up in the presence of—well, those who would ordinarily be peers.

Come to think of it, he never saw Ed with anyone his own age save for Alphonse or his mechanic.

"Are you…with the military?" asked a bespectacled boy dubiously, eyeing Havoc.

Before Ed could give a one-word answer to a spectacularly complex question, Havoc mischievously replied for him. "Major Elric? Is he ever."

He grinned at Ed's sharp look. If he was going to drag around a heavy cart of books, he'd have some fun with it.

"Major?" repeated a few of the kids, exchanging glances. Ed shrugged and slowed to keep pace with Havoc, who was leisurely strolling along steering the cart with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other. When they approached a large, red brick building, Havoc took a last few drags and regretfully extinguished it on an ashtray outside the hall. A few students taking a smoke break nodded at him and Havoc rolled his eyes at the implied solidarity.

"Back in my academy days, I knew a girl who went here," he told Ed conversationally.

"Of course you did."

"'Course, military curfew's bit of a damper on young romance. She ended up ditching me for some dip in the sociology department."

"What, she wasn't into boys with a bedtime?"

Havoc sniggered and Ed shook his head, smiling despite himself. The hallway was congested with students coming and going and Havoc weaved his cart upstream, feeling like salmon. At last they pulled up to a handsome wooden door where "Professor Haggerty" was neatly engraved. Haggerty definitely had tenure.

The blonde girl ducked her head in the office. "He's probably in the classroom," she informed them. "It's just this door over."

They obediently followed her and her classmates into the room next door. The classroom was set up stadium style, with all the seats ringing a half-moon around the space where a professor would hold court. On a green chalkboard up front, some chemical formulas were laid out and the beginnings of a alchemical array was sketched out on the wall. Ed glanced at it and snorted.

A stout, balding man looked up at the sound and roared in a deeper timbre than anyone would have credited at sight alone: "Elric! There you are. I have a bone to pick with your alchemy."

Ed dropped the book he'd been carrying onto the desk. "It's not my alchemy, and I'm sure it's your fault."

"It damned well isn't, that array is faulty and—"

"—Don't blame science, if you're going to use alchemy to test theorems you might actually bother learning to construct a proper array." Edward flapped his hand at the chalkboard. "Just what the hell is this?"

"It's a perfectly cogent formula, is what it is—"

"Cogent, my ass. You don't even have all the elements represented on the array!"

"I don't need all the elements!"

"You still have to denote them! How many times do I have to tell you? Even if you're canceling it out—"

And they launched into squabbling, punctuated by words Havoc supposed to be alternately scientific and profane. This was their way, picking up each time as though they were resuming an interrupted conversation from the last word. That conversation was usually an argument, and both were always trying to get the last word.

The students they'd arrived with stared with growing amusement. Their grins widened as both Elric and Haggerty grabbed stubs of chalk and began brandishing them at the incomplete array and then each other.

Havoc leaned against a desk in the first, lowest row. The stadium setup put him in mind of a gladiator arena, with these two as the premiere match. The blonde girl said dryly, "I guess they do see each other around."

"Like ships passing in the night, except they bicker across the way." Havoc counted the smokes remaining in his pack. He'd sneak by the commissary on base before reporting back to the colonel. He looked forward to that night, when he'd be wining and dining his date at a swanky cafe he'd had to reserve a table at weeks ago. Sometimes the military blues came in handy, especially in the big city.

"What do you need all those notes for?" asked another of the students, who hadn't yet addressed them directly. He had neatly combed hair, a faintly aggressive tone and generally reminded Havoc of the sociology student Harriet had ditched him for years ago.

Jean shrugged. "The boss needs 'em," he indicated Ed, "I just carry 'em."

"Is he really your boss?" the boy asked skeptically.

"Technically, he's my superior officer," said Havoc. He never minded clarifying the fact. The 'Major' title made Ed sour, which took the sting out of referring to a younger soldier as such. "We have the same boss."

"Oh."

Haggerty drew breath from the argument to address the milling students. "Yes, yes, your exams are here," he said. He reached into a drawer of his desk and retrieved the papers, shuffling through them and handing them out to their respective owners. "Good job, some of you."

Havoc snickered as a few of the faces paled. Then Haggerty took a positive brick of paper from the desk and dropped it in Ed's hands. "Here, you ingrate. Write me an array and we'll call it square."

"That could be the problem with your arrays," said Ed, "they're always square."

And they launched into a fresh round of quarreling before more students piled into the classroom for the afternoon lecture. By the time most of them had settled into their desks, watching their professor squawk at the kid engaged in scribbling furiously on the chalkboard, Ed had fixed the array and both men were covered in chalk dust.

Haggerty seemed satisfied. "Equivalent exchange," he announced, and the two parted with a last few amiable insults. Ed waved a hand over his shoulder as he followed Havoc out the door and into the hallway.

"You do have array with people," Havoc told Ed slyly.

The major rolled his eyes. "How long have you had that waiting in the wings?"

Neither of them noticed that the students they'd arrived with had filed back into the now-clear hallway with them. "Any more stops on the tour?" asked the bespectacled kid, and Havoc glanced at Ed, who shook his head. By the looks of their cart it appeared as though they had dangled the university by its ankles and turned out every pocket for relevant notes.

"It seems we've emptied the mines for now," said Havoc. He leaned on the cart and caught sight of a scuff on his boots. He'd have to take care of that before picking up Bianca that night. Thank God his military curfew had for the most part ended after academy.

"Tell Haggerty I'll send this stuff back with an aide," Ed told the students. He'd probably conscript Sheska if he could peel her away from headquarters long enough. In fact, Havoc suspected he'd rope her into copying most of the notes. Ed couldn't take every page with him on the road, but he loathed parting with research documents and liked knowing they were all within reach of Sheska's recollection.

"Hey," said the blonde girl. Ed turned to her. "Do you guys want to come to lunch with us?"

"Lunch?" repeated Ed blankly as if he'd forgotten what the word meant.

"Yeah. I mean, it's cafeteria food, but it's not the worst," she said. The others snickered in universal disparagement of cafeteria fare. It was probably a common joke among the students, something in which they were all initiated freshman year. One of those silly little things that was oddly bonding because it belonged to a shared experience.

"Ah. Thanks, but we have to get back to the office."

Havoc winced. Ed sounded so official. How long had the boss been talking like them before they'd realized it?

"Are you sure? Even soldiers have to eat," said one of the other girls with a smile.

The words were out of Jean's mouth before he even considered them. "I can drop this stuff off at the office," he offered.

He didn't think that merited the glare Ed leveled at him. "I have to file a report," Ed lied shamelessly—shameless because he had no report to file at the moment and because his reports were famously terse and probably took all of five minutes to write. "Thanks anyway."

Gone was the easy belligerent rapport he'd had with the older professor. Like a switch had been flipped.

"Oh. Yeah, I get it. Okay, see you around," said the girl, and her companions gave them awkward little waves as they moved away.

Ed moved to secure everything on the cart, and made sure the unbound stack of papers Haggerty had given him wasn't going anywhere.

"Why don't you go with them, Ed?" Havoc said wistfully, gazing after the departing students. "I won't tell the colonel if you want to play hooky for a while."

Ed snorted. "I don't. Let's go."

"You sure, boss? Wouldn't kill you to go with them. You might even like it."

The teen conveyed his doubt of this with a flat look and went back to checking over the notes he was bringing back. At last he was satisfied that he had wrung out all that the school could offer and they wheeled back down the hallway, out to the fine sunshine. Havoc thought about the wonderful weather he'd have for his date tonight, but he felt distracted for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.

The automobile was parked in a place of somewhat dubious legality not far from the main campus. Military plates stalled the hand of anyone who might be tempted to write a ticket. The two rolled up to the car and Havoc unlocked the trunk while Ed began unloading the cart. As he sorted it out, Jean filched another cigarette from his pack and lit up, gazing around at the college scenery. Maybe the nice day was affecting his sentimentality.

"Come on, I'm starving. Let's grab lunch from that one place on the corner. Military's paying." As though on cue, Ed's stomach distinctly rumbled. He pointed to it as confirmation and shoved the last of the books in the car.

Havoc protested. "You just turned down lunch with those guys!"

"Doesn't mean I'm not hungry," said Ed. He slammed the hood and made to wheel the cart back to a librarian who probably thought she'd said her goodbyes to it for good. "What, aren't you?"

Sure Jean was. His stomach was rumbling right along in sync with the major's. He dragged on the cigarette while Ed took the book cart to the library, returning with an expression that said he didn't think the librarian's relief was necessary or polite. Havoc didn't know why he couldn't let it go that easily.

"Why didn't you want to eat with them?"

"I'm on the job," said he who notoriously never cared whether he was on the job.

"Don't you ever want to be around people your own age?"

"No," said the boss distastefully.

And that was the simple truth. He did not envy or resent other young people for their ordinary lives. He did not think about them at all. It was not that he looked down on their simpler, everyday concerns, but he could not relate to them.

Ed raised an eyebrow and leaned against the car. "What is this?" he twirled a finger to indicate the general matter of Jean's concern. "You nostalgic for school or something?"

"No," said Havoc truthfully. Military academy had represented the end of his formal education and he'd had a good time there, but he wouldn't shave away a few years now even if he could. The fact was, grown women were—well, they were just tops. "It's just that this might be the only time you get to experience this stuff."

"Experience what, cafeteria food?" Ed deadpanned. "Thanks to the military, I get plenty."

"You know what I mean."

"Okay. You mean bitching about professors, midterm exams, and student government."

"I mean dorm life, making friends you'll have forever, late night pizza runs, hanging out and laughing…without the pressure to like, stop a murder or bust some smuggling ring. I know those are little things," he said to Ed's skeptical frown, "but they add up to something greater."

"And what good will one lunch do? Aside from the good this lunch will do, because I'm still starving and we're not moving."

Obediently, Jean stubbed his cigarette and they started walking. Maybe it wasn't too late. Ed was still young; there was still time to finish the job he'd started and turn his eyes to every experience he'd been ignoring. Havoc realized suddenly he wanted this for Ed, and he wanted Ed to want it.

At first they walked in silence but Ed seemed exasperated. "I don't know what you want from me here," he said finally.

Havoc blinked, then laughed. "I don't know either. Sorry."

.

.

Jean put the incident out of mind for a few days, until next he ran into Al at HQ and felt strangely compelled to relay it. "I feel a little bad," he admitted to Alphonse. "Sometimes I wonder if we're the reason he can't relate to anyone his age."

If a helmet could smile, he was sure Alphonse would be smiling then. "It's not your fault, Lieutenant," he reassured Havoc. "The truth is, Brother was never really interested in other kids, even when we were little."

Littler, corrected Havoc's guilt instinctively.

"He didn't pay much attention to them at school. He mostly just talked to me and Winry."

"Why is that?" Havoc asked.

Alphonse shrugged. "Brother's always been ornery, and too clever for his own good. He just didn't relate to anyone our age." Sensing Havoc's hesitation, his voice gave that smile again with his words. "Not everything about Brother boils down to—what happened. Actually, a lot of it doesn't. He's just Ed."

Of course he was. Havoc was almost embarrassed. It was hard to separate Edward from what had happened to the brothers that day, and easy to assume the harsher parts of his nature originated from trauma. But then there would be so little of Ed left, and that wasn't fair.

"How did your date go, Lieutenant?" asked Alphonse politely. Havoc groaned.

"A little too well. She wants to go there again next week. My wallet can't take it."

Ed's yellow hair and red coat popped around the corner. Colonel Mustang was matching him stride-for-stride and the two were bickering about a detail Edward had conveniently left out of his latest report. The colonel expressed a stony opinion that it constituted a misrepresentation of events.

"Do you really want it on military record?" Ed told Mustang flatly, who reconsidered his position in light of the detail Jean was sure he was better off not knowing.

The colonel harrumphed and paraded into the office, Ed following with rolling eyes. Behind them filed Hawkeye, in whose professional countenance Jean detected a flicker of amusement.

Havoc was reminded of the major launching into easy debate with Haggerty, and for a moment felt glad their little office fell onto the comfortable side of the fence Ed had built around himself.

.

.

I’d forgotten to post this here

[your-dietician]

Inside the journey of Notre Dame's David Adams and life after football

New Post has been published on https://tattlepress.com/ncaa-football/inside-the-journey-of-notre-dames-david-adams-and-life-after-football/

Inside the journey of Notre Dame's David Adams and life after football

The magic is in his story now, in the climb that couldn’t reignite the smothered dream but perhaps launched something even better.

Even if it looks and feels like limbo at the moment.

Four months in the NCAA transfer portal for former Notre Dame linebacker David Adams produced curiosity from three Power 5 schools and slightly more than that from roughly half the schools in the Mid-American Conference and a handful of programs from the FCS.

During that same stretch, he also muscled up impressively, completed his final 10 hours of coursework for his ND degree in business as an Econ major and contracted COVID-19 twice in a 90-day span — the reinfection in April serious enough to send Adams to the hospital twice.

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A litany of injuries that coaxed Adams to accept a medical disqualification at the end of his freshman year, before he could ever take a snap in a college game, was also the lingering reality that ended the comeback and prompted Adams to remove himself from the portal without a landing spot on June 14.

The original inventory of ailments Adams brought with him from Pittsburgh Central Catholic High included multiple concussions, a torn labrum of each shoulder, a torn elbow ligament, a torn medial collateral ligament in his knee, cracked knee cartilage, a knee hyperextension that required surgery, patellar tendinitis and four broken fingers.

That doesn’t count breaking both ankles during his AAU basketball days.

“I both wanted to try the comeback and needed to do it,” Adams said. “Wanted to, because I love football. I love the game. I love making tackles. I love playing defense.

“I needed to, because whether it was actually going to happen or it wasn’t, I’d get closure on this chapter in my life. If it didn’t work out, I’d get closure at the very least.”

What comes next is what the 4-for-40 mantra that Notre Dame bakes into its recruiting pitch really looks like in the real world in real time.

The gift in Adams having it thrust upon him at age 20 and reinforced at age 23 is his reaction to it.

The uncertainty of tomorrow doesn’t bother him, because the resolve and ambition that have been building inside of him are being channeled this summer into something truly inspiring.

“I’ve been stuttering my entire life,” Adams said. “Before I go looking for a job, I’m giving it my full attention. I’ve never had the time to do that before. I have it now and the belief I can overcome it.

“That’s my No. 1 focus right now. Well, that and my golf game.”

He’s working with Arthur Joseph, a renowned author, teacher, communication strategist and voice coach.

“I know it’s not going to go away overnight,” Adams said. “I’m just hoping I’m going to gain some more control for now. 

“There’s a lot of people who have had it. Joe Biden. Tiger Woods had a stutter. Shaquille O’Neal had a stutter. He told stories about when he was in school, where he’d be called on to read and he couldn’t get any of his words out, and everyone would just laugh at him.

“I know how that feels. I also know it can be overcome. It’s time to give it everything I have.”

What might have been

On a November Friday night in 2015, with a road game at Pitt set for the next day, Notre Dame head coach Brian Kelly and four assistant coaches clustered on the sideline to be seen at — every bit as much as to see — Pittsburgh Central Catholic’s WPIAL Class AAAA home playoff game with Upper St. Clair.

The targets of their efforts were Adams, at the time a junior and ranked as one of the top five linebackers nationally by Rivals and third by 247Sports, and senior defensive back Damar Hamlin, who’d eventually land at Pitt. 

Emerging as another player of interest following the 49-0 romp by PCC was an unheralded three-star defensive lineman named Kurt Hinish.

To put in perspective of what an ascending prospect Adams was at the time, the Irish allocated just one assistant — then-QBs coach Mike Sanford — to venture 20 miles north to Pine-Richland High School that same night to scout a vaunted sophomore QB named Phil Jurkovec, to whom the Irish offered a scholarship the very next day.

Adams verbally committed to the Irish the following March, and Hinish two days later. 

“I love my hometown, but I wanted to get out of my box,” Adams said. “I wanted to take the hard road. I wanted to challenge myself athletically and academically. I wanted to grow as a person.

“I had never been to Indiana until I took a visit there. I didn’t even know … I just heard it was a bunch of cornfields.

“And it is a bunch of cornfields — and so much more.”

In the fall of 2016, though, Adams’ preferred hard road took on added and unwelcome dimensions. The injuries began to accrue during his high school senior season, and he played right through them and the pain that came with them.

He did so to the point where Pittsburgh Steelers head orthopedic surgeon Dr. James Bradley, upon examining Adams, said that he had been misdiagnosed and that one of his shoulders was actually “hanging by a thread.”

The consensus top 100 prospect nationally, unsurprisingly, began to fade in the recruiting rankings. By the time he signed with the Irish in February of 2017, Adams was a three-star prospect.

By the time he enrolled at Notre Dame in June, he was a constant in the Irish football training room, seeking treatment, rehab and hope. When the 2017 season rolled around, he not only didn’t play, he wasn’t even allowed to suit up for the games.

Over the next few months, head athletic trainer Rob Hunt, team physician Dr. Matt Leiszler, special teams coach Brian Polian and defensive coordinator Clark Lea each pulled Adams aside and tried to gauge if he really wanted to continue to try to play football.

Each time it took him aback a little bit. But when Kelly brought Adams into his office for a one-on-one at the end of his freshman spring semester, in 2018, it had a different vibe to it.

“He pretty much said the player he recruited out of high school would have played a lot of football for us,” Adams related. “But, he said, ‘Your body has changed a lot since then, and I’m worried about your health.’ 

“That was very hard for me to hear, knowing everything I had put in since I was a young kid. I finally get to this high level, and I wanted to go even higher.

“I obviously had NFL aspirations, All-American aspirations, everything. But to hear that after my freshman spring ball was very difficult, because it wasn’t something where he says to me, ‘You’re just not playing good. You need to step it up.’ 

“In that case, I adapt, I get better. In this case, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do, because of my body. So it was tough.”

Adams stayed home that summer, not sure he’d ever be back.

“They left it open — ‘We would love to have you back’ and ‘you’re always welcome’ — that type of stuff,” Adams said. “But that summer was very hard. 

“Then I came back in the fall. Initially I didn’t plan on going around the football team. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but I thought it would be too hard emotionally. After I got back, I realized it was even harder to be away from it. 

“I’ll always remember this. When I got back my sophomore year, I heard the band playing one day. And it was just like, ‘Wow, I’m back here. All my dreams are now shot. I don’t really know what to do. It’s hard being here and hard being away. But it’s harder being away from football.’

“So I decided I definitely wanted to go back and help out any way I can and hang with all my good friends.”

During Notre Dame’s 2018 playoff run Adams, then a sophomore, attended every practice and every home game. He watched film and made breakout tapes of ND’s opponents for Lea and senior defensive analyst Nick Lezynski.

He’d help oversee the scout team defense in practice. He’d help organize meetings.

“David was a throwback, in a sense,” Kelly reflected last week. “He was a downhill, knock-you-in-the-mouth linebacker. That’s how he played the game. So to have the game pulled from him so early in his career, a lot of people can’t handle the void. 

“On top of that, David had to deal with his speech impediment. He already had a challenge in front of him as it was. And I don’t know that there’s anybody I’ve ever met that has handled it quite as well as David did, given all the things that could and probably did go against him.”

Making a difference

The function of medical disqualifications/hardships is to allow players to remain on scholarship and finish their education without it counting against the team’s 85-max scholarship limit imposed by the NCAA.

It’s college football’s Mulligan.

But Adams never personified that. He counted and mattered off the field, and at a particularly critical juncture.

In 2016, the Irish cratered and went 4-8. Kelly responded with a coaching staff makeover, lots of self-reflection and a reboot of his entire philosophies when it came to the way he related to his players and how he ran his program.

None of which plays well in the cut-throat recruiting arena.

After wide receiver Michael Young’s July 20, 2016, verbal commitment, the Irish whiffed on every opportunity to add to the class through the end of the second-losingest season in Notre Dame history.

There were also a Kelly Era-high six decommitments in the cycle, including linebacker Pete Werner and cornerback Paulson Adebo, eventual stars at Ohio State and Stanford, respectively. Over the other 11 completed recruiting cycles the Irish have had 15 decommitments combined.

“Decommitting never crossed my mind,” Adams said. “I knew what Notre Dame had to offer and it’s sports, you know. Everybody has bad years. And so it was, ‘Ok, they’re having a bad year. I’m sure they might make some changes in the offseason.’ I didn’t waver at all. 

“I know some guys, who are on the team now and who have already graduated, and a few of them did waver a little bit. And me, along with others, tried our best to hold it together.

“I believe I was the first defensive commit in the class, so I took pride in trying to hold things together, making sure we got the best class possible.”

They also helped reverse the momentum late in the cycle.

Notre Dame broke the drought with the December commitment of offensive lineman Aaron Banks and closed with six commitments in the final week before signing day. Three of them, including future All-American Jeremiah Owusu-Koramoah, made their decisions on the actual National Signing Day, in February.

Four years later, the group reached graduation day with the same number of losses in four years combined as the 2016 team amassed in one (8). With it, that class helped fashion 43 wins and the first two playoff appearances in Notre Dame history.

And on Nov. 7, they played their part in upending No. 1 Clemson, 47-40 in double-overtime, at Notre Dame Stadium for the first victory by the Irish over a top-ranked team in 27 years.

“The memories are special — I’m glad I have those,” Adams said. “The people are even more special. Coach (Mike) Elston, coach Kelly. There are so many of them. They make a difference in who you become. Now I want to do that for other people.

“I don’t know what that’s going to look like yet, but I know my decision to come to Notre Dame was the right one. Football was my Plan A. My Plan B — if it doesn’t work out — I have an economics degree from one of the best universities in the world. I couldn’t go wrong either way. 

“I wanted Plan A more than anything, but I ended up getting Plan B. So yeah, I’m happy. Going to Notre Dame is going to help me in a lot of ways in my life — with opportunities. Our alumni are very strong in helping each other out. 

“The beautiful thing is when you know you have people in your corner. It makes you feel like you can still dream and accomplish anything.”

Follow ND Insider Eric Hansen on Twitter: @ehansenNDI

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[hiphopscriptures]

Fresh Artist Fridays: The Authentic

PRESSURE is the song you play when you need to feel heard by your music. The Authentic’s inspiring lyrics punch you in the gut and leave you with a feeling of motivation and determination. The lyrics grab your attention from the beginning and refuse to let you go for the duration of the song. “I see today standing in my way. Trouble’s always present so I get down on my knees and pray.” The song is a candid admission of the stress we feel just trying to get through life. The Authentic raps about how he knows life won’t be easy, but he will do everything he can to provide for his family and take care of himself. PRESSURE tackles the emotions that come with feeling adversity and difficulty perfectly. It’s open about how hard it can be to feel depended on, but also makes it clear that nothing will stand in The Authentic’s way. Its music video is equally as inspiring, showing ordinary people go through life struggling but determined to make it. Check out PRESSURE, along with the rest of the songs off of The Authentic’s 2020 project, Politics, War & Religion - Mixtape Series Volume One.

The Authentic Bio

In a day and time when music is strictly about glamour and entertainment, The Authentic stands as one of the last true MC’s focused on reality lyrics, a crazy flow, a one of a kind style and the real essence of Hip Hop. With so many replicas in the industry, The Authentic’s pure passion for the music allows him to stand in a league of his own and truly fits the definition of his title. With a flow that places him in a league of his own and a sincere love for his craft, The Authentic doesn’t hold back; addressing social issues and taking direct aim at whack rappers. Through his career, The Authentic has fully utilized his diverse experiences in life to develop a strong versatile catalog; with motivational tracks that depict the streets reality like hit single “Shining Star”, up-tempo Hip Hop anthems like “Turn It Up”, and party bangers like “Oh My God”. With over 10 solid years ripping through the underground, hundreds of performances under his belt, radio appearances and five solid mixtapes with thousands of units moved; The Authentic has firmly secured his slot in the game. Working hard to build his reputation and master the craft of being an MC (Master of Ceremony), he has performed all over the country, from New York City (Nuyorican Poets Café, Revolution Bookstore), Philadelphia (The Trocadero, Love Park, and Wells Fargo Center), North Carolina (NC State University, Dorton Arena), Las Vegas (Planet Hollywood and The Bunkhouse) and many more. His diligence, determination and natural raw talent has earned him respect from some of the most reputable figures in the game, including: DJ Rashaun, DJ Scratch of The Roots Crew, DJ Touchtone, DJ NoPhrillz and has landed him on stages with superstars such as, KRS ONE, Big Daddy Kane, Naughty By Nature, Jadakiss, Styles P, Musiq Soulchild and more. With his sound, his resume and pure passion for the culture, The Authentic truly represents a lost voice in Hip Hop. In addition to being in a league of his own when it comes to lyrical content and experience; The Authentic separates himself from the pack by being more than just another artist. Over the years, he has dedicated a majority of his time off the stage to building his community and standing as a voice on various social issues. In 2011, The Authentic created an annual event called “The Authentic Minds College Fair Tour”, which hosted over 50 colleges, guest speakers and live performances held at the Martin Luther King Recreation Center located in North Philadelphia. This College Fair alone generated a wave of media buzz and lead to the interest of multiple sponsors. By establishing himself on the corporate side, The Authentic has created multiple opportunities to perform and organize entertainment events for companies and organizations. The Authentic has also served as a Community Relations Director and spokesman for various Non Profits and local movements. To him, Hip Hop is a way of life and a culture and he feels that the mic should be utilized to depict real life and to open people’s minds to a reality that most people do not understand. The Authentic’s love for Hip Hop started in the 80’s at a very early age, listening to legends such as RUN DMC, KRS ONE, LL Cool J, and witnessing local break dancing competitions and DJ battles. He became fascinated with the expressions of the culture in every aspect and embodied being a key figure to continue the movement. While growing up in South Jersey, he witnessed his mother struggle to pay the bills and embraced all of the usual elements of the hood; violence, drugs and poverty. As he adapted to his environment, he gravitated to the mic to speak on exactly what he experienced first hand and continues to do so. The Authentic hit the scene hard in the late 90’s, touring the Northeast with Wyclef Jean’s award winning group City High. Shortly after the tour, The Authentic’s group, at the time, signed a joint venture deal with a local independent label and No Limit records, which eventually fell through. Following the fallout of the deal, he quickly bounced back rocking stages with Lil’ Kim, Tracey Lee, Jackal the Bear, and landed a slot on the radio with Legendary DJ Jay Ski; all before graduating high school. By the grace of GOD, The Authentic headed to Raleigh, NC after high school to attend college and to pursue new music opportunities. With so many colleges in the area and a solid underground scene in NC, The Authentic’s career excelled all while trying to balance school work, hustling to pay tuition and his passion for Hip Hop. The Authentic hit the ground running by tearing down college talent shows and was eventually booked to open for DJ Clue, Jadakiss, Petey Pablo, Styles P and D.C., go-go music legends Backyard Band. In early 2000 The Authentic was selected to headline the CIAA Championship Game at Dorton Arena, as well as the CIAA Hip Hop Hoops Tour, which hit colleges through MD, VA and NC, including NC Central, VA State and Winston-Salem State College. This tour led to him landing a deal with an affiliate label of the NBC television network. The Authentic teamed up with Raleigh’s illest underground MC “Bubsy” to form a group called “Lock n Load”, which dropped two hit singles on the “One Hot Minute Compilation”, a collaborative effort by NC’s top artists from around the state. Both singles released received hundreds of spins from Richmond, VA to Raleigh, NC to Florence, SC. Following graduation from St. Augustine’s College with a Public Relations degree, The Authentic released his first underground project “Vision of Hope” which sold over 500 units all while teaching elementary school and creating youth outlet programs in the poverty stricken city of Henderson, NC. After putting in work in NC, The Authentic headed back home to Jersey embracing his degree, but sucked back into the traps of the hood. He continued making mixtape appearances and rocking shows all through the tri-state. Living in Trenton during one of the worst stretches of gang violence in the state’s history prompted the release of “The Line of Fire Mixtape”. It became the theme music, depicting the reality and moved over 1,500 copies on the street and in local stores. While “The Authentic’s” reputation was growing in the area, he suffered the lost of his cousin, best friend and roommate, Tone; who was shot in the back twice a few hundred yards from their home, while The Authentic was rocking his first show in NYC. After the lost of his cousin, he felt strongly about turning further away from the streets and using his voice more as a tool for awareness of the realities that the inner city youth face. From that point, he embraced his cousin’s last conversation with him, in which he reminded The Authentic that his role is to be “The Public Relations of the hood”. Following The Authentic’s explosion on the scene in Jersey, he relocated to Philadelphia to build his brand in the nation’s 5th largest city. In no time he began smashing open mics and local shows in every section of the city earning him spins and respect amongst the areas top DJ’s, such as DJ NoPhrillz, DJ Touchtone, DJ Jay Ski and DJ GregNitty. The Authentic blazed through the city with his mixtape release “Reality of it All”, followed by “Real Recognize Real” with hit single “Turn It Up”, which gained him national attention getting radio spins on FM stations from New York City, Las Vegas, Atlanta, and Philly’s 100.3 The Beat. The national buzz set the tone for The Authentic’s next mixtape “Righteous Kill Mixtape Vol. 1”, packed with versatile hits and moved 5,000 units in the street with no budget. With things in motion, he continued to make appearances all through the city from Unity Day with Chaka Khan, Philly Fest with Mos Def and Musiq, The Old Skool Jam with KRS ONE and Roxanne Shante, The Rotunda, The Trocadero, and XO Lounge with Philly Swain and Reed Dollars. He headlined Philadelphia Schools Stop the Violence Tour, West Philly Day, Nicetown Day, South Philly Day and Mantua Day with Naughty by Nature. The Authentic also showed up heavy on the radar with a feature on well known Gunz n’ Butter productions DJ J-Scrilla compilation “Culture of Honor” featuring Cassidy, DipSet, Tek and Reef The Lost Cauze.

Check out his music through the links above and stay connected with The Authentic through his socials to make sure you never miss new music. Remember to follow Hip Hop Scriptures to stay updated on the latest Fresh Artist Friday.

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[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (7/45)

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 have never once bought a program at the Garden, nor have I taken a picture with the photos on the side of the Garden, but I promise those are both things people do. My eternal gratitude to @laurnorder, @beautiful-swan & @distant-rose just for, y’know, being fantastic.  Also on Ao3, FF.net and tag’ed up on Tumblr if you’d rather hang out there.

“What about this one?”

Emma turned on the spot and made a face before she could stop herself, clicking her tongue in disapproval. Mary Margaret huffed slightly, but Emma had the sneaky suspicion she’d mostly done it for the reaction – a taffeta-covered disaster with three-quarter sleeves and, somehow, a high neck and ruffles that didn’t even remotely fit into the color scheme they’d decided on a few days before.

“I thought we’d decided on blue,” Emma said, grabbing the dress out of Mary Margaret’s hand and depositing it back on a completely different rack.

“That’s not where that goes.” “I don’t care.” Mary Margaret rolled her eyes and the dress had definitely been for the reaction and Emma would have almost appreciated the effort if she wasn’t so busy being completely distracted by, approximately, eighteen other things.

Well, one other thing.

For the last four days.

Ninety-six hours.

Seventy-two of them actually awake.

She didn’t really sleep much.

And her first community relations event had been such a hit – Emma knew the bags and autographed pictures and team-branded merchandise were going to be perfect – that she’d actually been called into Zelena’s office the next day to talk about her plans for the rest of the season.

She had plans.

A charity game and bringing more kids to another practice next week and Garden of Dreams stuff, not to mention the annual event they held on 34th Street just before the home opener and then there was in-season stuff and Casino Night and playoff stuff and she needed to come up with a barebones plans on the off chance that this stupid team did actually go to the Cup Finals.

Zelena loved them all, told her so the day after the practice facility event and she wanted to take this to the next level . She’d used those words.

The next level.

Whatever that meant.

Emma needed to make a list. Or make another list. She’d made so many lists – of the same things, all of the same thoughts and ideas and plans pooling in the back of her head like they’d taken up residency there – she was half certain Mary Margaret was going to go insane if she found another sheet of paper crammed into the corner of her couch.

Oh, she needed to do that too.

Emma was still sleeping on Mary Margaret’s couch – and for as generous as Mary Margaret had been with her couch, Emma had a crick in her spine that she was positive wouldn’t go away until she stopped sleeping on the couch and found her own apartment.

She was distracted. By all of those things. And, maybe, that one other thing. Definitely that one other thing.

It didn’t matter. There were rules. She’d come up with rules and regulations and she wasn’t going to break either one of them.

Again.

She wasn’t going to break them again, since, well, she’d already done it once.

And that was enough.

Of course it was. Absolutely. She hadn’t spent the seventy-two hours she was actually awake considering how nice breaking the rules had been and that wasn’t even really a good enough word for it.

It was better than nice.

It was...overwhelming.

That was probably the best word for it. He was overwhelming and his eyes were too blue and he was too goddamn good looking with that stupid jersey and a family that wouldn’t stop texting him and he’d volunteered to talk about all of that even when she hadn’t known about Liam or how guilty he still felt.

Fuck.

God fucking damnit.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret asked, hand falling on her wrist and she actually jumped from the word and the contact, breath catching in her throat as she stumbled over her own feet. “Did you hear anything I just said?” “Sure.” “Emma.” She sighed, crossing her arms lightly and eyeing the dress in Mary Margaret’s hands. “That one’s not bad,” Emma said, nodding towards the fabric and it fit the color scheme and didn’t actually have any ruffles.

“You’re not exactly a gown person.” “You want me to wear a gown?” “No,” Mary Margaret promised, holding the dress up against Emma and humming in approval when it, apparently, didn’t look horrible in front of the clothes she was still wearing. “And we’re getting married outside, you can’t really wear a gown.” “What?”

Mary Margaret hummed again, smile dancing on the corners of her lips. Emma didn’t know that. Or maybe they’d told her that. God, she was a horrible friend. A horrible, distracted friend who should probably get more than six hours of sleep a night.

And stop thinking about Killian Jones’ lips.

Definitely the second.

“Did you know you can actually get married in Central Park for, like, twenty dollars?” Mary Margaret asked, but there was something in the corner of her eye that made Emma certain they were steamrolling towards a conversation she didn’t really want to have.

“That so?” “Yup. You print out a permit and you sign the permit and you give the city twenty bucks and, boom, you’re married.” “Boom?” “Well, I mean you sign more papers and you need someone to actually marry you, but you get where I’m going with this.” “And that’s what you want?” Emma asked speculatively, eyeing Mary Margaret like she was waiting for the camera crew to come out and shout that this had all been some sort of massive joke and she actually did have to wear a gown.

Not that she wouldn’t have done it – if that’s what Mary Margaret wanted. She probably would have done anything Mary Margaret asked her to at this point, even if she hadn’t overstayed her welcome on her couch and David hadn't actually started buying her Pop-Tarts whenever he went to the store, like she was a permanent fixture in their apartment.  

Mary Margaret shrugged, as if she hadn’t been considering her wedding since before she met Emma. And that was enough to draw her attention back in full – momentarily forgetting community events and meeting with front office bigwigs and the way Killian Jones’s hands felt in her hair.

“Come here,” Emma said, tugging the dress out of Mary Margaret’s vice-like grip and draping over her arm. She pulled her towards a wall in this very expensive bridal boutique and sank down onto the ground, ignoring Mary Margaret’s vaguely scandalized expression when Emma stretched her legs out and the bottom of the dress brushed along the carpet. “Sit down. Talk to me.” “At least get the dress off the floor.” Emma held the hanger up in front of her and Mary Margaret grabbed it quickly, eyes darting around like they were going to be arrested for improper bridal boutique behavior by whoever might be in charge of monitoring something like that. She hooked the dress on another rack and eyed Emma again before sinking down onto the ground as well, cross-legged, like one of her fourth-graders.

“What’s really going on?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Reese’s, come on. Central Park? For real?” Another shrug. Emma widened her eyes and she'd absolutely been the worst friend in the world because she hadn’t noticed any of this and there were bags under Mary Margaret’s eyes and a tiny crease in between her eyebrows that looked like it had been there for the last four days.

“Ruth has some ideas,” Mary Margaret finally said, whispering out the words like David’s mother was lurking in between several dozen bridesmaids dresses.

“About?” “The wedding. And the reception. And the color scheme. And probably where we should go on our honeymoon, but we haven’t gotten that far in the conversations yet.” “Where are you guys going to go on your honeymoon?” “Emma!”

She grinned, reaching out and squeezing Mary Margaret’s knee. “So, Ruth’s being a stereotype. She’s always kind of been like that.” It wasn’t a lie – Ruth Nolan was fiercely protective of her son, her only son, and it didn’t really surprise Emma that she’d have more than her fair share of opinions on the way that only son got married. It did, however, surprise her that Mary Margaret was listening to any of them.

If there was one thing Emma had always loved about Mary Margaret, aside from her willingness to share her couch, it was her determination. Mary Margaret wanted what she wanted and she was going to get what she wanted and she’d probably help two dozen other people get what they wanted along the way.

She was nice in a way Emma was certain people weren’t ever nice, a perpetual ray of sunshine and belief and if anyone was going to get the wedding of her dreams it was going to be Mary Margaret Blanchard, soon-to-be Nolan.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mary Margaret mumbled, words falling mostly into the very expensive carpet they were still sitting on. “This is different though. You know she wants me to come to Carlisle to try on dresses, something about how she wants to be there when I pick and I just…ugh.” Emma tried not to laugh. She really did. But that might have been the first time Mary Margaret had said the word ugh in the last ten years and she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. “Carlisle?” Emma repeated. “Do they have stores there?” “It’s Pennsylvania,” Mary Margaret shrugged, still trying to rationalize. “I’m sure there are stores somewhere even if it’s not actually in Carlisle.” “Why can’t she come here?” “Hmmm?” “Well, I mean, you’re here and David’s here and when’s the last time Ruth was actually in New York? Have her come here and try on dresses and she can even help pick a venue and maybe taste-test some cake or something. Do they do that in real life or is that only in movie montages?” “No, that happens in real life too.” “Well then have her do that. And sign me up for the cake testing thing too. I’m down for that.” Mary Margaret let out a shaky laugh, tugging her lips behind her teeth and she was blinking quicker than normal. “What?” Emma asked, realizing she hadn’t actually moved her hand. God, they were still sitting on the floor.

“You know I didn’t even think of that? I was just going to go to Carlisle.” “See, that’s because you’re nice. Tell Ruth to come up here. I’ll even give up my couch so she can stay with you.” “No, no, no,” Mary Margaret said quickly and, that time, Emma had mostly done it for the reaction. “There are hotels. And you’re some kind of wedding-planning lifesaver.” Emma rolled her eyes, bumping her head on the wall when moved backwards. “I’m serious. I just...I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad you’re in New York and the kids haven’t stopped talking about the practice facility. They were even more psyched about the Q&A thing than getting out on the ice. That kind of surprised me.”

Emma blinked and her hand moved towards her hair out of instinct – a tell she’d had for as long as she could remember, a nervous habit that Mary Margaret had picked up on approximately two hours after they met each other at freshman orientation and her eyes widened slightly when it happened on the floor of this boutique.

“What?” Mary Margaret asked, confusion settling into her gaze and Emma couldn’t actually take a deep breath. Everything felt too tight and too anxious and for as distracted as she had been thinking about everything that had happened in the film room – and maybe everything that hadn’thappened in the film room because she’d walked away,  God – she still couldn’t quite believe how easy it had been.

That was the problem, she thought, the realization hitting her like a wave or an earthquake or some other form of natural disaster. He’d been charming and funny and he’d been good with the kids and he’d made her smile – genuinely smile.

Maybe she should text him.

But even just the concept of a phone suddenly felt very heavy and it wasn’t even in her pocket because it was a work phone and she didn’t really need it because today was technically her day off and she was supposed to be focused on wedding plans and actually being a competent maid of honor.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret said and it didn’t sound like the first time she’d repeated her name.

“Yeah?” “What aren’t you telling me?” “Nothing.” Mary Margaret lowered her eyebrows and Emma knew if they hadn’t been sitting on the floor she probably would have settled into teacher pose – feet just a bit wider apart than usual and hands on her hips and eyes narrowed just enough to be bordering on menacing. And Emma totally would have caved because, all things considered, she felt a bit like a nine-year-old with a crush.

“Really,” Emma said, waving her hands through the air like that somehow helped proved her point. “Nothing.” “You know, you never actually got any pizza.” “Is that code for something?” “It means you didn’t come back from the film room for awhile after I left with the kids. And I might have seen Robin send someone wearing Rangers-branded merchandise in that direction at some point.” “That was his kid,” Emma said quickly and her jaw hung open when she realized what she done. Mary Margaret actually gasped.

“What?” “You didn’t know that already?” “I told you, we’re not like part of this team. I know Ariel. I’ve met Killian a couple of times. That’s really all there is to it. Why was Robin sending his kid after you?” Emma widened her eyes and she really didn’t want to have this conversation, didn’t want to commandeer the conversation, but Mary Margaret had somehow figured out a way to teacher pose while still sitting down and her shoulders slumped in defeat before she’d even tried to come up with any kind of argument.

“Alright,” Emma said pointedly and Mary Margaret snapped to attention. “I’m going to tell you something and I need you not to freak out because we’re still in this very expensive store and we’ve still got to try on dresses, but I also need to tell someone and it might explain why I’ve been the worst friend in the world for the last four days.” “You haven’t been the worst friend in anything in the last four days.” “I’m serious, Reese’s, no freaking out. Or gloating. Especially gloating.” Mary Margaret’s eyebrows somehow got even lower and she tilted her head in confusion. “Gloating?” Emma nodded and tried to take a deep breath – it still didn’t work. “I kissed Killian,” she said, rushing over the words and staring at her shoes and Mary Margaret’s gasp probably could have been heard in every single corner of the entire city.

“What?” she whispered, hissing out the word and her eyes were so wide Emma was concerned they’d actually fall out on the very expensive carpet.

“I said not to freak out.” “I’m not.” Emma sighed and pressed her fingers into her temples, certain the headache was on its way. “Ok, ok,” Mary Margaret continued and her voice sounded just a bit more even now. “Before Robin sent his kid?”

Emma nodded. “Like right before. Like in the action when the kid showed up in the film room.” “Did he see?” “I don’t think so.” Mary Margaret hummed in the back her throat, lips twisted like she was thinking something and for one vaguely terrifying moment Emma was half convinced they were back on the Swan-Jones wedding train. “Why?" she asked and that wasn’t the question Emma had been expecting at all.

“What?” “Why’d you do it? I mean you said you kissed him, right?”

Emma waved her hands again and made some sort of contradictory noise that wasn’t really an answer. “I mean, yeah, at first.” “At first?” “Oh my God, Reese’s if you don’t stop repeating everything I’m saying I will actually walk out of this store.”

“I’m just confused.” “That should be my tagline at this point,” Emma mumbled.

“I thought you didn’t like him.” “I never said that.” “You said you were playing along with the set-up.”

The headache had arrived in full-force, with cymbals and a marching band and possibly several mac trucks, all of them intent on making Emma feel as if her skull was about to crack in half. Mary Margaret looked at her apprehensively.

“Excuse me,” a voice said and Emma snapped her head up to find a store clerk staring at them as if they’d been loitering there for the last twenty minutes. “You can’t sit here.” “Relax,” Mary Margaret muttered and Emma’s jaw fell back open. “We’ve got an appointment. We’re just kind of busy right now.” The woman stuttered over something that sounded like words, but Mary Margaret glanced at her over her shoulder and there must have been something in her gaze because they were alone again half a moment later, surrounded by dresses who didn’t seem too concerned that they were now ten minutes late for that appointment.

“Jeez, Reese’s,” Emma mumbled and Mary Margaret shot her a smile.

“Do you really like him?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know.” “But you kissed him.” “I was there.” “So you must…” “Be vaguely attracted to him? Because that was all that was.” Mary Margaret twisted her lips and stared at Emma like the liar she absolutely was, but she didn’t actually say anything and that was probably worse than actually having an opinion. Emma groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and grimacing slightly when she hit her head again.

“He’s nice,” Emma whispered after what felt like an eternity of silence in between overpriced dresses. “But I’ve...I’m not doing this again.” “Doing what again?” Emma’s eyes snapped open and Mary Margaret sighed and neither one of them actually needed an answer to that question.

If there was one thing Emma Swan was good at, it was finding a way to not believe in something – and after a lifetime of coming up short and almosts,  the walls around Emma were so high she almost couldn’t see over them.

She had Mary Margaret and David and even sometimes Ruth, who felt like she needed to be some sort of surrogate mother to everyone and, now, she had Ruby and a job that didn’t make her want to pull her hair out every day at five o’clock.

She was good.

This was good.

She didn’t even feel like she was transitioning anymore.

The last thing she needed was to feel something about the captain of the New York Rangers.

So she was attracted to him.

So what.

She was attracted to Leonardo DiCaprio when she was nine years old and she’d never felt some sort of deep need to do anything about that.

The same held true for Killian Jones.

Of course she’d never actually kissed Leonardo DiCaprio, had never felt his hands on her hips or his lips on hers and she was fairly positive she’d never made Leonardo DiCaprio actually groan against her mouth and, God, what would have happened if Roland Locksley hadn’t shown up?

They’d probably still be kissing in the film room upstate.

Killian Jones was very good at kissing.

There were other people who were good at kissing. Leonardo DiCaprio was probably good at kissing. She didn’t want to kiss Leonardo DiCaprio. She wanted to kiss Killian Jones. Again. And it was all she’d really thought about for the last four days.

Emma was a mess.

“How was it?” Mary Margaret asked, snapping Emma out of her thoughts and making her actually choke on the air in her lungs.

“For real, Reese’s? What is this sixth grade?” Mary Margaret shrugged. “He’s not a bad looking guy. It was probably good, right?” “Do those two things go together?” “You tell me.”

Emma sighed, but her silence was as much an answer as actually saying the words – good, great, best she’d had since….ever – and Mary Margaret actually had the audacity to grin at her. “What happened after Roland Locksley showed up?” Emma groaned and hissed in her breath through clenched teeth, which only seemed to make the headache worse. “I, uh, told him that it was a one-time thing and then I...walked away.” Mary Margaret just looked sad. “Patented Emma Swan.” “Come on, that’s almost not fair.” “Almost.” “It’s not like it mattered to him. It was just one kiss.” One kiss that she couldn’t stop thinking about. One kiss that had seemed to shake the entire world on its metaphorical axis and made his eyes look even bluer and she’d left his hair sticking up in half a dozen different directions after.

Had she used his jersey as leverage? She might have. She remembered tugging on it, the feel of that stupid ‘C’ patch slightly rougher in her hands than the rest of the fabric and she couldn’t really remember the rest of it, had been far too focused on getting him to make that one particular sound again.

“Did you know he was a foster kid too?” Emma asked suddenly and Mary Margaret’s head snapped up when she shook it. “Yeah,” she continued, tugging on her lower lip and that might have been more important than the kiss or how nice it had been to actually have someone very obviously want to kiss her.

“He told you that?” Mary Margaret asked, letting out a low whistle when Emma nodded.

“He’s got a whole family too. The brother, Liam, his name is Liam, and two sisters and there were twins involved somewhere and even Robin’s kid seemed to know him on some sort of always around level. He practically launched himself at Killian when he ran into the film room.” “It’s a different kind of team than LA.” “Yeah,” Emma mumbled. “I’m getting that.”

The store clerk was back and had added toe-tapping to the glaring and the waiting and Emma made a significant face at Mary Margaret who just rolled her eyes. “I guess we better try on some dresses,” she said.

“No gowns.”

“That won’t work for Central Park.” “That was for real?” “There’s a castle in Central Park, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, pushing herself up off the ground and holding her hand out. Emma took it, grin spreading across her face and it was so perfect she couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“You’re going to get married at a castle?” “And you don’t have to wear a gown.” “Perfect.”

She bought a dress.

That hadn’t really been the plan – they were supposed to be getting ideas and sticking to some sort of early-summer blue color scheme, whatever that meant – but Emma had tried on the dress and the clerk had actually gasped and Mary Margaret had tears in her eyes and it had been as perfect as the idea of holding a Blanchard-Nolan wedding at a castle in Central Park. She probably wouldn’t even need to get alterations.

That felt like some sort of dress-related sign and at this point Emma was willing to accept just about anything from the universe.

It was blue.

Of course it was blue.

But it wasn’t Rangers blue and Emma kind of hated herself for even considering that phrase, but it was lighter than the blue seats in the Garden and it hit just below her knees and cinched around her waist and, well, it fit.

It fit really well.

Mary Margaret was totally crying.

“Stop it, Reese’s,” Emma laughed, glancing up at her tearful reflection in the mirrors she’d been paraded in front of. “It’s just a dress.” “I know, I know, it just looks really good.” “Not half bad, huh?”

“Not by a long shot.”

So she bought the dress and only cringed slightly when they swiped her credit card, still not entirely used to the new job or the paycheck that had showed up in her bank account two days before.

No more transitioning.

Emma Swan was going to put down some goddamn roots. And she was going to wear this very well-fitting dress at a castle in Central Park and smile for pictures and she totally wasn’t jealous. At all.

It was going to be fine. Great. It was going to be great.

And Emma was half certain Mary Margaret was ready to drop the conversation about Killian Jones and how good he was at kissing, walking towards the subway with a dress bag clutched in her hands. It was the other half that, apparently, was the problem.

“You know he’s not like the other two,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, catching Emma’s wrist and staring at her meaningfully.

“Who?” “Killian.” “Reese’s.” “I know, I know no planning and setting up and I’m not, really, I’m just saying. He’s a good guy and he’s always been good to Ariel and he’s always kind of been odd man out on the team.” “Just because he’s the only person on this team who doesn’t want to date within Madison Square Garden doesn’t make him particularly odd.”

“I’m not saying that,” Mary Margaret argued and Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m not. I’m just saying…” “What?” “He told you about Liam.” “David told me about Liam.” “He told you about his family. The foster parents and the sisters.” Emma scrunched her nose and Mary Margaret looked triumphant on the corner of Delancey Street. “He was being friendly.” “You tell him anything like that?” Of course not.

Emma had barely even told Mary Margaret that and it had taken four years of shared dorm room and several drunken nights before she’d even felt remotely comfortable entertaining the idea of bringing up her past.

The past was messy and disappointing and if there was one thing Emma didn’t do it was wallow. She usually ran away from the wallowing.

And everything else.

“Yeah, I figured,” Mary Margaret muttered. “I’m not saying you have to or even that you should, but he’s not like the other two and, well, maybe you should text him. It’s not bad to have another friend, at least.” It wasn’t – friends were good and necessary and far too few in Emma’s life if she were being completely and depressingly honest. Except some tiny voice in the back of her mind didn’t really want to kiss any of her friends the way she wanted to kiss Killian Jones.

A lot.

She wanted to kiss him a lot.

Emma groaned and her hand was halfway in her bag, ready to grab her phone and text him and say something if only to get Mary Margaret off her back, when she realized, rather suddenly, that she didn’t have her phone.

She had her phone, but she didn’t have her work phone, the one people from the Garden were supposed to contact her on. The one with Killian’s number in it.

“Fucking fuck,” Emma mumbled under her breath, earning a quiet gasp from Mary Margaret. “I left my phone at the Garden.”

“You had your phone two seconds ago in the store.” “Nah, my work phone.” “Why do you need your work phone?” Emma eyed her meaningfully and this time the gasp was from understanding instead of a slightly antiquated reaction to swearing on the middle of the sidewalk. “So…you need it then?” “You have all the tact of blunt force trauma.” “Adorable.”

“I’m not agreeing to this, you know,” Emma said and she wasn’t sure why she was putting up such a fight. Old habits. They die hard. Or never die. Or come back from the dead. Zombie habits. She had zombie habits.

“Of course not.”

“I just, you know, need my phone.” “Sure.” “I’ve got that Garden of Dreams thing coming up.” “Of course.” “And that’s the only number Zelena has for me.”

“Makes sense.” “So...I should probably go get my phone.” “Probably.”

Emma nodded once, trying to swallow down the metaphorical butterflies that were trying to work their way out of her stomach and up her throat and, well, that was a disgusting thought. And somewhere in between butterflies and zombie habits and that knowing look on Mary Margaret’s face, she’d found some sort of determination to prove something and that might have just been her mile-wide stubborn streak, but Emma didn’t care.

She needed her phone.

And if she happened to see anyone else at the Garden, well, fine. They could talk about it. Like adults. Mature adults.

One mature adult.

Emma had run away.

“You know you could probably get uptown quicker if you hailed a cab,” Mary Margaret muttered and she was very clearly trying not to smile. “Come on, give me the dress and go get your phone and I’ll, uh, meet you at home. Ok?” “It’s your home, Reese’s. I’m just commandeering your couch.” “You know that’s not true. You are welcome to that couch for the rest of your life if you want.” “I will be off the couch before you and David get married. At least. If only for the sake of my own neck.” Mary Margaret laughed, pulling the dress bag out of Emma’s hands and resting it on her shoulder. “Take a cab and then come home and..share.” “It’s just a phone.” “Yup,” Mary Margaret agreed, throwing out her arm towards the street and a cab stopped almost immediately.

“That was impressive,” Emma muttered, sliding into the backseat and Mary Margaret just shrugged.

“Have fun or something.” She was blushing – Emma wasn’t certain she’d blushed since she was fourteen, but she was blushing and Mary Margaret still had that knowing smile on her face and the cab driver was waiting for instructions. “Uh, the Garden, thanks,” Emma sputtered as Mary Margaret slammed the door shut and the cab cut someone else off on its way back into uptown traffic.

It took fifteen minutes to skid to a stop in front of the Garden and the cab driver actually felt the need to turn around and inform her that they were there,  like Emma couldn’t see the entire stupid arena and fifty-story building in front of her.

“Thanks,” she said quickly, pushing the only cash in her wallet towards the driver and, maybe, running out of the cab and it was a weird sensation, running towards something instead of away from it and this wasn't just about the phone.

It should have been just about the phone.

She did have a Garden of Dreams thing coming up, that hadn’t been a lie, and Zelena did have her actual number, but she’d never texted on that and Emma was being almost responsible on her one day off that week, but it also wasn’t entirely about the phone and she couldn’t even lie to herself.

The nerves in the pit of her stomach made that difficult.

She swiped her ID over the security marker just inside the doors and the elevator ride to her office on the 25th floor might have been the longest of her entire life, complete with arms crossed over her chest and toe tapping and she tugged her keys out of her bag while she was walking down the hall just to make sure she didn’t waste any time.

And she didn’t.

Her phone was sitting on her desk where she’d left it the night before and it hadn’t actually died, which seemed to fit into the theme of signsshe kept finding and, well, that was that. She’d gotten her phone.

Emma’s fingers hovered over the screen for half a moment, thumb shifting back and forth until her knuckle actually cracked. She ran her tongue over her lips and this was stupid – it was a text message. She could send a text message.

She ran an entire department for an NHL team.

She could send a text message.

“Come on, Emma,” she mumbled and now she was talking to herself and she’d lost all control of this day, seeing signs where there weren’t any and she never took a cab anywhere, least of all to go get a work phone she didn’t actually need to text the captain of that same NHL team she worked for.

“Swan?” Well, fuck.

Emma rolled her head to the side to find him leaning against the open doorway to her office, feet crossed at the ankles and he was wearing sneakers, but he had his full uniform on, pads and all, and a stick in his hand.

She bit her lip and nearly dropped her phone. “Hey,” Emma said, tugging her hair back over her shoulder and Killian’s eyes fell to her fingers when the smile started to inch across her face. She put her phone down on the desk before she could actually drop it. “What are you doing here?” “I work here.” Emma rolled her eyes, but she was smiling and this would be easier if he wasn’t so goddamn charming. And he knew he was charming. He totally knew.

“Yeah, but you don’t exactly look like you just came off the ice,” Emma pointed out. “Maybe I just always look this good, even after practice.”

“You’re wearing sneakers.” “Ah, nothing gets past you, does it, Swan?” Emma shrugged, but it was mostly so she didn’t do something ridiculous like giggle and she’d lost control of the situation before the situation had really even started. “You’re right, by the way, although not completely. I did just come off the ice, but not practice ice.” “I don’t get it.” “You know those programs they sell for like $50 to fans?” She nodded. “Today was school picture day.”

She laughed anyway and it wasn’t quite a giggle, but she couldn’t get the smile off her face and he hesitated for half a beat before walking into her office. And somewhere in the back of her mind Emma dimly recalled Ruby mentioning that, organizing the day and complaining about players not being particularly gung-ho about posing for $50 program-photos in full uniform and she probably should have remembered that.

“I kind of thought you’d be there,” Killian said and Emma didn’t think she imagined the note of hope in his voice or the way his eyes ducked down towards the floor when he took another step towards her, moving in slow motion and making her pulse thud in her veins. He’d left the stick propped up against the door, one hand in his hair and the other trained at his side, pressed against his shorts like he was trying not to rest it on her waist again.

“That’s more media and PR than community relations,” Emma mumbled, sinking onto the edge of her desk. “I just get to use those photos to promo things later.”

“Are there things? For you to promo later?” “Enough to make my head spin,” she laughed. “We’re doing some stuff next week when you guys practice here, actually. GD stuff, so plan to be on your best behavior. Why? Are you volunteering again?” She tried to keep her voice light, to keep that breezy sense of confidence in the question and make it seem like it didn’t matter or she didn’t care if he did volunteer, but it didn’t really work. “Are you asking?” Killian countered and this all felt a bit like déjà vu. He was very close to her knees again.

“Maybe.” He blinked once and the smile, somehow, got more pronounced when he rocked closer to her. He didn’t move his hands though, didn’t even look at her lips, just met her gaze straight on and nodded thoughtfully like he was considering his choice of words carefully.

“I could do that,” he said and the words seemed to settle into Emma’s very center or match up with her heartbeat or something equally absurd that sounded like something Mary Margaret would have said while sitting on the floor of a Lower East Side bridal boutique. She’d never thought that before. “Yeah?”

“I don’t see why not,” Killian said. “Face of the franchise or something like that.” Emma scoffed and there hadn’t really been any tension to break, but everything felt a bit easier and her shoulders weren’t as straight when she moved towards him, hand falling on his without a word. “That ego,” she mumbled.

“I am on the cover of the program.”

“And the side of the Garden.”

“That’s more for the tourists.” “You mean to tell me you don’t actually charge $50 to take a selfie with your lifesize photo on 33rd Street?”

Killian rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging on the ends of his lips and he rocked towards Emma when he looked at her, or maybe she just wanted him to. She hadn’t quite decided. She should probably decide.

“What is it you’re suggesting, love?” He really shouldn’t be able to smile like that, she thought – all wide and easy and like he actually enjoyed talking to her, the same person who’d ignored him for a week and then jumped him in the film room and then ignored him for another four days.

Emma shrugged and he bristled a bit at that, smile faltering for half a moment and eyes going just a bit more narrow than they should have been. She couldn’t quite see the blue when he did that and then she kind of hated herself for even thinking something that ridiculous.

“Why are you here, Swan?” Killian asked. “If you didn’t have to organize overpriced photo shoots?” “Did they make you actually pose?” “Yes and that didn’t answer my question.”

She scrunched her nose, teeth sinking into her bottom lip so she didn’t laugh again and her cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so much. “It’s technically my day off.” “Still didn’t answer my question.”

“I was with Reese’s downtown, dress shopping, and I forgot my phone.” “Dress shopping?” “That’s what you got out of that?” “That’s what I’m taking out of it.” Emma tried to take a deep breath – in through her nose, out through her mouth – but it kind of stuttered a bit and the heel of her boot skidded against the floor when she moved, shoulders shaking just a bit with laughter.

Jeez. He was charming.

And he was going to think she was insane if she kept laughing this much, but he kept looking at her like she was the most interesting thing he’d seen all day and, possibly longer than that, and neither one of them had mentioned the film room and maybe they didn’t have to. Maybe they could actually just be friends.

“It’s very blue,” Emma said. “But it’s not bad. As far as maid of honor dresses go.” “I’m sure you’d look good in any dress Mary Margaret forced you in.” Emma’s mouth dropped open a fraction of an inch and she didn’t laugh, kind of just exhaled, breath rushing out of her in one vaguely loud huff. Killian’s eyes went wide, hand back in his hair and gaze back on his sneakers as he took a step away from her like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d said.

That whole friends idea was going great.

Her lip was bleeding. She had actually bitten her lip and she was moving before she’d even thought about it, one hand on his jersey and the other wrapped around his neck and he blinked twice before she kissed him again.

It took approximately two seconds for him to respond, hands back on her waist and fingers ghosting along the edge of her shirt and Emma didn’t have heels on this time, pressed up on tiptoes to reach him and push her hands into his hair.

And he made that noise again – that mix between a sigh and a groan and something that might have been classified as want and Emma wanted him too, maybe a bit more desperately than she’d allowed herself to believe in the last ninety-six hours.

The door was still open.

There was a hockey stick propped up against her office door and this hadn’t really been the plan, but he kept smiling at her and making her laugh and he thought she’d look good in whatever and Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually believed a compliment.

She believed Killian Jones.

Easily.

As easily as, it appeared, it was to fall back into kissing him.

His tongue did something wholly unfair against her bottom lip and Emma’s breath caught in her throat and everything seemed to shift again and all her talk had been just that, complete talk, because she was absolutely breaking the rules.

She would probably keep doing it.

Eventually she had to breathe and Emma pulled herself away, ignoring the quiet sigh Killian let out when she did, but he didn’t actually let her move too far, hands tightening just a bit on her hips and she could feel fingers on skin when her shirt moved a very particular way.

It made her gasp.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, not sure what else to say and not expecting him to laugh at the word. “What?” “Did you just honestly apologize for kissing me, love?” Killian asked, eyebrows low when he leaned back to stare at her skeptically. Emma shrugged, mouth twisted into a grimace. “You don’t need to do that,” he added, voice soft and the sound settled into the pit of her stomach, smothering out the inexplicable nerves that had been there a few minutes before.

“I mean I did say one-time thing.” “Don’t forget the never calling either,” Killian said, muttering the words against her ear when he dragged his lips across her jaw. She gasped again. “A guy could get a complex.” “It’s just...this,” Emma waved her hand next to them, still pressed up against the front of her desk and the door was still wide open. “There are supposed to be rules.”

“A fact I’m aware of.” “And?” “And I told you not to apologize for kissing me.” Emma shifted and he groaned slightly when she moved her hips to try and actually sit on the desk again, eyeing her meaningfully and it was all blue and emotional and he didn’t blink when he looked at her. He looked confident.

“So…” Emma mumbled, trailing off on the word. Killian’s hand was was still on her hip, fingers finding skin just above the top of her jeans and they tightened slightly when he smiled at her. Smirked at her.

He kept smirking at her.

“So,” Killian repeated and somewhere in between the kissing and the being vaguely charmed, Emma was also slightly annoyed because he appeared to enjoy making her sigh dramatically as much he kept trying to get her to laugh.

“The rules.” “Personal or?” Emma lowered her eyebrows, confusion shooting through her and maybe something that also might have been fear because there were only three people in the entire city of New York who knew exactly what had happened with Neal. And one of them just happened to work at Madison Square Garden and everyone on this team seemed to know everything about each other.

“I mean,” Emma muttered, “I don’t think it’s really covered in the employee handbook, but HR could probably figure it out. You don’t happen to know anyone in that department do you? Someone who’s also married to an assistant coach or knows Ariel and eats at that restaurant too?” Killian eyed her meaningfully and she’d jumped so quickly from making out in her office to the deep end of sarcasm that Emma was certain she actually had whiplash. “I don’t know anyone in HR, actually,” he said lightly and she could practically feel the sarcasm evaporate and she was firmly back back in square of being charmed.

“Which leaves us?” He moved before she was ready for it, hand gripping her waist just a bit tighter than normal, thumb brushing along the bottom of her spine and he kissed her.

And Emma might have gasped or tried to take another deep breath and, well, if that was where it left them, then she wasn’t going to argue with it. She shifted against him, body fitting against his hips and Killian’s hand was back in her hair and Emma’s arm had found its way back around his waist and she could feel him everywhere – in the middle of her office, two weeks after she’d started a brand-new job and the door was still open.

She’d, officially, lost control of her life.

It wasn’t quite as... as as it had been before, softer and more cautious and she could feel the nerves and the distinct lack of definition. Neither one of them moved once they’d stopped doing...whatever this was – making out,  her mind supplied, the clinical definition of this was making out – and they were wholly within each other’s space when the heels came down the hallway and stopped in the still-open doorway.

“Em?” Ruby asked and Killian took a shaky step away from her, eyes boring a hole in the floor. Ruby’s eyes scanned across the office and if she had any suspicions as to what had been going on five seconds before she didn’t actually voice them. Emma thanked several different religious figures for that. “What are you doing here?” “I forgot my phone.” Ruby pursed her lips, gaze darting back towards Killian, who hadn’t actually said anything in what felt like several hours. “Did you get a dress?”

“Yup. It’s very blue.”

“Ugh, I tried to get her off that scheme and no luck.” “Mary Margaret can be very determined,” Emma muttered, eyes flashing back towards the professional hockey player just a few feet away from her. God, she needed Ruby to get out of her office. And then maybe Emma needed to get out of her office. It was very warm in there. What a fucking cliché .

“Right, right,” Ruby continued, lower lip sticking out slightly. She absolutely knew what she’d almost walked into. God. “Anyway, I came up here because Killian tried to blow off team shoots and Mulan’s having a conniption downstairs.” “You tried to blow off team shoots?” Emma repeated and Killian’s eyes flashed towards her, smile back on his face and her stomach flipped in a way it hadn’t since she was a teenager.

He shrugged, tugging on the bottom of his jersey. “It’s just been a lot of photos.” “It’s the same every year, Killian,” Ruby said. “I”m not sure why you thought this year would be different.” Another shrug. Ruby groaned, rolling her eyes as she stalked back towards the hallway. “Three minutes or I’ll get Mulan up here and she’ll beat you up.” “She probably could,” Killian agreed as Ruby’s heels turned faint and he rocked back his heels.

“Seems wrong to tempt fate again, then,” Emma said. “Were we tempting fate before?” “Twice now.” “I’d be willing to go for a third.” Her stomach was doing somersaults and could probably win Olympic gold in the all-around at this point, but Emma just pressed her lips together and tried to not laugh like some sort of vaguely romantic lunatic.

“Go take your team photo, Jones. I want it for my GD event later this week, anyway.” He cocked one eyebrow and nodded slowly, taking a step away from her to grab his stick behind his back. “Ah, well, of course then. I’m glad you got your phone, Swan.” She’d moved with him almost unconsciously, following him back towards the doorway and apparently, fuck the rules,  because she pressed up on her toes and appreciated the way Killian’s eyes widened slightly before she brushed her lips across his. “I’ll see you later,” she said and he nodded once again.

She sank into the corner of Mary Margaret’s couch, hair piled on her head and mug of hot chocolate in her hand and two different cell phones sitting on the coffee table in front of her. Emma pulled her feet up underneath her, staring at both phones like they held the secrets to the entire universe.

She wasn’t normally this dramatic.

She sighed, trying to make sure it wasn’t too loud with Mary Margaret and David asleep just around the corner, and grabbed the work phone in front of her, hitting two buttons and typing before she could really think about it.

That appeared to be a trend for the day.

How’d it go?

It took twenty-two seconds for him to respond and she could hear the smirk in his text.

I’m going to assume this 212 number is you Swan and not some crazed stalker.

Do you get a lot of stalkers?

Do you always ask frustratingly vague questions without actually saying who you are?

You knew it was me.

Ask a more specific question.

Did Mulan kill you? Mulan loves me.

When you don’t blow off team photo shoots.

I went back. That seems to fly in the face of your argument. And it was fine. I’ll steal you a program.

I could probably steal one myself. Or get one. I’d probably get one, right? Probably.

It went on like that for what felt like half the night, texting back and forth like they were teenagers and she fell asleep somewhere in the realm of two in the morning, hot chocolate long gone and phone clutched in her hand.

And when her alarm went off the next morning – far too early and far too loudly – Emma had another message on her work phone.

I’m glad you got your phone, Swan.

[responsable-pour-toujours]

We have not touched the stars; nor are we forgiven

Blood flows out from the wound in her stomach, across the floor of the bridge.

This is not how she’d thought she’d go.

She can feel more blood rising in her throat and she coughs, gagging on the taste.

I didn’t think it would hurt this much.

She thinks of her parents, of Central. Selfishly, she wishes they were here. She’d like to say she doesn’t mind dying, but she does. She takes no small amount of umbrage at the situation in fact. There is the theory and the reality, and while she is well acquainted with the former, the latter is an entirely different matter.

She is dying alone, on the cold metal floor of an alien ship, with the knowledge that almost everyone she cares about has likely suffered a similar fate.

She would cry, for them and for herself, but it’s getting harder to breathe.

Not long now.

They have come so far. They have felled the Assassin, and the Hunter. They have decimated the blacksite, ransacked the forge, and returned victorious from a Chryssalid-strewn wasteland with an alien gateway in tow. They have reduced facilities to rubble, spared countless families untold heartache, and forged an impossible alliance.

It is not enough.

It will not be enough.

There is no rescue coming.

She doesn’t want to die. Not here, not now, not like this.

She watches, helpless, as the Warlock advances on the Commander. “You’ve lost, oh exalted one,” his voice drips with sarcasm. “Your reclamation and my ascension are at hand.”

She locks gazes with the woman for a moment, sees the fear reflected in her bright green eyes, but sees something else there, too, something she’d almost swear was defiance.

“I don’t think so.”

Time seems to slow.

The Commander raises the gun to her temple.

No, no, no, Sally thinks. Not like this, not like this.

The woman smirks up at the creature leering down at her, the thing who has destroyed XCOM, and with it, humanity’s best hope.

No, Sally corrects herself. Like this. Out on your own terms. Don’t let them take you again. You don’t deserve that.

She pulls the trigger.

Sally’s whole world goes white.

--

Her eyes fly open and she knows; there is something in her head, something that was not there before. She wants to scream, wants to cry. She will take death over this. She reaches for her gun. She will not be their toy, their plaything, will not ---

The thing in her head is grieving. Whatever it is, it makes no move to stop her.

She can cry now, tears rolling down her cheeks. She lets them fall freely as she reloads.

They have him, the thing says.

Bullshit, she retorts. I know your kind.

They have him, the thing insists. You have to do something.

She finishes reloading and cocks the gun, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

Images from a generally happy, if unconventional, adolescence flood her mind, campfires and driving lessons and the sweet spoils of victory, a crate of oranges. Magpie, Central’s voice echoes in her ear.

She thinks she is going to vomit.

She gives the thing a hearty shove, trying to keep it from her memories. Stay away from those.

Do something, the thing demands.

Give me one damn reason to trust you.

You are still holding the gun. It is still loaded.

You want help? Do better.

A new wave of memories, this time distinctly foreign from her own. Flashes from the first war, Central as she has only ever seen him in photographs, the base whole and intact; downing the first UFO, a fleeting hope; psionics, laser weaponry; aliens pouring into the base, sirens screaming; darkness, darkness like she’s never seen; torture like she’s never known, the oppressive feeling of death from being trapped within the suit; and Central again, Central as she knew him. Flashes of the last seven months, good and bad, win and lose, all culminating in the Commander, gun to her head. End of the line, friend, she says. Time to go.

There is an overwhelming grief, the kind of loss she knows all too well. Maman. Papa. Kelly. Central. She tosses the gun aside, and curls in on herself, sobs wracking her body. She finds herself unable to truly say if they are wholly her own, but somehow finds she doesn’t mind.

How long were you with her? She asks.

Before the tank.

Until the end?

Until the end.

Her cries echo in the empty shell of the bridge. 

I’m supposed to be dead. What happened?

I did.

She buries her face against her blood-soaked knees. What?

I did.

Prove it.

Look up.

She does as she’s told, and, through her tears, she sees her hand glows with a bright blue light, unlike any psionic ability she’s ever seen.

Could you heal the others? She asks, after a moment.

Those not yet lost.

She pulls herself to her feet. Who are you, anyway? I am Asaru.

--

She manages to stabilize Thomas and Wallace, a few of the engineers, and Tygan. She finds Firebrand alive, and relatively uninjured, save for a small Elerium burn on her arm. She heals Novikova’s broken leg and Hagen’s crushed arm. They all look at her with a kind of fear in their eyes, a silent question she refuses to answer. The thing, Asaru, seems to respect the boundary she’s set, channeling its talent for psionics with her own, never again reaching into her memories. She finds Shen, curled behind a bench in Engineering, a clean entry and exit wound through her chest, ROV-R hovering sadly over her. She covers the Chief with a fire blanket, unwilling to leave her exposed.

She has never seen so much death, and that is before she steps out onto the ramp.

He’s not here, she says to the creature. She can feel bile rising in her stomach and her heart beginning to race.

I told you: they have him. Do you believe me now?

She wants to scream, open her mouth and give body to her rage, her loss. She wants to scream because it feels like the only rational response, the only sane retort to a world gone mad before her eyes. She wants to scream because, for once, there are no words, no syllables, that come to her, nothing that would give the feeling a life of its own, something to lighten the weight she bears.

She realizes that she now ranks among XCOM’s most senior operatives.

She leans over and vomits onto a small, blood stained patch of grass before returning to the bridge.

Asaru cries out at the sight of the Commander, blood pooled around her head.

We’re not gonna leave her like that, she finds herself reassuring the creature.

She pries another fire blanket from the base of the hologlobe, and uses it to cover the Commander. “See you on the other side, ma’am. Say hi to Maman et Papa for me. Tell them I love them.”

Where are they? Asaru asks.

Dead. For a long time.

I am sorry.

The response catches her off her guard. Thanks, she offers, after a moment. I … wasn’t expecting that.

Why not? Your loss was terrible. You humans are so fragile.

There is no condescension in its voice.

Yeah. She sighs audibly, trying to reboot the communications relay. We really are.

The relay blinks to life and she keys in the code.

What are you doing?

Betos’s face flickers across the screen. “Captain Royston. I was not expecting to see your face.”

Getting help.

“I’m so sorry,” she begins. “I wouldn’t have ---“ She feels tears welling behind her eyes.  She has no idea what to say, where to begin. She is not Central, not the Commander. She is eighteen years old, and she is in over her head. “XCOM’s dead in the water. The Warlock downed us, breached the ship. Most of our people are gone. The Commander’s dead ---“

She feels Asaru wince.

“---and ADVENT has Bradford. The risk that poses to  ---”

“Say no more. You have aided us, and we will return the favor.”

She has always liked Betos.

“Thank you.”

“My sincerest condolences, Captain. I will be in touch once we have located your Central Officer.”

She nods.

“Betos out.”

The feed cuts.

“I guess he’s Commander now,” she says to an empty room. “If we get him back.”

He will not like that, Asaru says.

That’s putting it lightly, she responds, keying in another code.

More help?

“Royston?” Volk asks. “The hell is going on? Why are you covered in blood?”

Warning friends, she answers.

“Warlock got us. Casualties were bad --- including the Commander. And,” she adds, feeling a new wave of nausea wash over her. “They nabbed Central.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. How could you people let that happen?”

“I’m sorry. Next time when I’m bleeding out on the floor, I’ll try to be a bit more vigilant.” She sighs. “I’m not here to play the blame game --- certainly not with the dead. I don’t know if something’s coming, or when, but I’d prep your people.”

“And what about John?”

“We take care of our own, Volk. Just make sure you do the same.”

Again, the line goes dead.

He is abrasive, Asaru offers.

He’s upset. We all are.

She sinks down below the viewscreen, letting the tears fall freely again.

What will you do with her? There’s a fear in the creature’s voice, almost childlike.

What d’you mean? She’s dead.

You cannot leave her here.

The realization dawns on her. You mean, where will we bury her?

Yes, where will she rest? The tall one will want to say goodbye.

She brings her knees up to her chest, and wraps her arms around them. In a sick sort of way, she almost wants to laugh. Central gets nabbed by ADVENT, and this is the creature’s concern: how will he say goodbye to the Commander?

It’s strangely innocent, and not at all what she expects.

Her heart twists in her chest. Maybe not the most important point, she admits to herself, but valid. Everyone knew what those two meant to each other.

Don’t worry, she tells the creature. He’ll get his chance.

She’s roused from her internal conversation by a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” Wallace says.

“Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“Physically or …?”

“I think we all feel like shit on the mental front.”

He nods quietly. “Sally, I don’t know what’s going on, or how you did what you did, but … don’t push it too far. Everyone’s got a breaking point.”

She nods. “I make no guarantees.”

“That’s what scares me. We don’t need any more death.”

She reaches up, covering his hand with her own. “I’ll be fine.”

--

They settle on cold storage.

Gingerly, they lift the Commander’s lifeless form into a body bag, and place it, covered by a tattered XCOM banner, into the specimen locker.

Where will you put her? Asaru asks.

That’s Central’s call.

Why?

Spousal privilege.

Where will he put her?

Somewhere nice, I hope, she answers, shutting the storage locker door.

She slips on a pair of rubber gloves and mixes a concoction of bleach and hot water. She begins scrubbing the blood and viscera from the floor: first the Commander’s, and then her own.

Outside, some of the other survivors have begun to figure the logistics of gravedigging. Do they have enough room, enough time, enough energy to ensure a proper burial for each individual fallen friend? Or will they bury them in pairs, bondmates for eternity? Or will they be forced to concede defeat, cover them in dirt and leaves and rot and let the earth reclaim them?

She hopes not.

Why me? She asks the creature, wringing out the sponge and turning the water a deeper shade of maroon. You had to have known you wouldn’t get a warm reception.

It was not my choice. She asked me to.

Who?

Her.

In her surprise, she almost topples the bucket, a thin blue whisp of energy shooting out from her hand to steady it.

I am sorry --- but I did not think you wanted the additional work, Asaru explains.

She shakes her head, but couldn’t say at whom. I appreciate it.

Sally turns her attention back to scrubbing the floor. Why did she pick me?

I do not know.

You lived in her head.

You do not think she imposed rules of her own?

I guess I’d be surprised if she didn’t.

Every partnership has secrets. She carried plenty.

She stops scrubbing. And just what kinds of secrets are you carrying? She asks, feeling suspicion lick at her gut.

I did not betray XCOM. I did not betray her. She was my friend.

Friend?

Yes, she was my friend, and I will miss her.

Somehow, she believes him.

--

You should eat.

It is the fourth time the creature has said as much.

Not until we hear from the Skirmishers.

She has yet to change out of her bloodied clothing. She’s not sure why Asaru thinks eating is even on her radar.

Her hands ache from gripping the shovel, and her back is locking. She feels hollow, somehow both separate from her body and trapped in it.

Hey, she asks. You don’t know where Central is, do you?

I am as isolated as you are.

She turns her attention back to digging. They’ve settled on two to a grave.

Regardless, it is too great a number.

--

 She is still digging, caked in blood and sweat and dirt, when word comes from the ship that there is a secure communication from Skirmisher HQ. She hauls herself up and out of the hole, and makes her way towards the bridge.

“Captain, we have located your Central Officer and have allies in place who are ready to help with the extraction, but we must move quickly.”

“Is he alright?”

“They have not … tampered with him.”

She nods. “Understood. What do you need from us to make it happen?”

“A familiar face. We are allies, but my kind is not known to him.”

“I’ll go. I’m not sure how I’ll get to you, but I’ll go.”

Is this wise? Asaru asks.

“Transmit your coordinates. We will arrange for a solution.”

This is not a discussion we’re having.

“Transmitting now. Should we be expecting a surprise? The crew’s still pretty badly shaken.”

Should you not remain here?

“We will send word before our arrival.”

No, I should not remain here. Not while he’s out there.

“Understood. ETA?”

“Two hours at most.”

“You and your people have our thanks.”

“We, too, have known loss, Captain. Betos out.”

The viewscreen fades to black.

You should take off those clothes.

 Excuse me? She asks the creature.

They are covered in blood. You will alarm the tall one.

Gingerly, she lifts the soiled cloth, exposing a thin, white line where the slug tore through her. She traces a finger over it, not quite believing in her own existence.

I am sorry it was not cleaner. You did not have much time.

She lets the cloth drop, and instead threads a hand through the neck hole of her shirt, her fingers tracing over the skin once torn through by shrapnel. She’d gripped the picnic table til her knuckles had gone white while Central had removed the shards, cleaned, and patched the wound.

She scrubs at her eyes, chasing away a renewed wave of tears.

You must get ready. We do not have much time.

--

Maman raised her on a steady diet of stories, real, imaginary and somewhere in between. There are histories she could scribe for future generations, tall tales she could recite in her sleep, fairy tales she knows by heart.

So, yes, she believes in the magic of objects, in stacking the deck, in refusing to allow the wheel of fate to turn against you because you couldn’t be damned to find some wood to knock against.

She will apologize to him for breaking into his footlocker later.

She finds what she’s looking for quickly enough, two small aluminum tags embossed with lettering. Bradford, John A. 511-48-4360. O negative. Agnostic.

She relocks the container, sets the tags on her bunk, and grabs a change of clothes for the shower.

On any other day, she would take her time, let the water run over aching muscles while she took a few moments to get her head together. Instead, she scrubs down quickly, doing her best to expunge reminders of the day’s events from her skin and hair.

She dresses, and slips the tags from her bunk into her pocket, brushing her thumb back and forth over the embossing.

You do not think we will find him.

She pauses. Shhh, you’re not supposed to say it.

Say what?

That.

Why not? Saying it does not make it come to pass.

It’s … it’s a human thing.

Ah, the concept of jinxing it.

She lets out a short bark of pathetic laughter before she can stop herself. Yeah. That’s it. Don’t jinx it.

She bundles into her armor, and spends the remaining time before the Skirmishers’ arrival setting the bridge to rights as best she can.

She lingers at the door to the Commander’s Quarters, knowing that the kind thing to do would be to begin packing its contents away. She knows it is something Central will never do on his own, and not a task anyone else will be likely to undertake. If it is to be done, it falls to her.

She begins with the best of intentions, gathering glasses and plates to return to the mess. She folds clean laundry dumped on the sofa, separating the Commander’s clothes from his.

She takes one look at the piles folded, sorted, and separated and is on the ground sobbing before she can understand what’s come over her. She doesn’t remember the last time she cried like this, isn’t sure she ever has.

She knows so many people who are lost to her now. Her family. The Commander. Jane. Lily. Virtually every friend she’s ever made. Nearly the entire complement of the Avenger.

The loss is staggering.

It overtakes her, tearing sob after sob from her throat, til she can’t breathe, let alone think. She grips hard at the couch cushion, unable to muster any additional strength. She cannot feel the creature in her head, and she wonders, briefly, if it has left her.

I am here. I did not want to intrude.

She pushes herself up onto the couch, curling into one of the cushions.  She draws in a few shuddering breaths, frantically scrubbing at her cheeks with gloved hands.

She remembers, then, when she’d last cried like this. She was little, then, just barely eleven. Maman had been gone a few weeks. They were staying in a haven somewhere inland from the Virginia coast, a frantic bet on a gentler early spring, and ADVENT had come to pay them a visit, descending from the sky in dropships that had always, perhaps erroneously, reminded her of coffins. The air had reeked of blood and death, with corpses littering the ground. She had hidden, pressed flat to the ground under the remains of a rotting front porch, cowering in the darkness until she’d heard him calling her name. She had wriggled out, brushing herself off, and wandered towards the sound, through the remains of the encampment.

When she’d finally found him, the sound that escaped from her was barely human. He’d held her while she’d howled into his coat, howled the way she couldn’t when Maman had been found dead, when Papa disappeared, when the ships shaped like coffins dropped death itself onto innocents, time and time again.

The realization that she may never see him again, that even their best attempts may be too late, that she may have to file him away on the list of those ADVENT has ripped from her life, is too much.

Her hand flies out, grabbing a pillow and bringing it to her face to muffle the scream she can no longer suppress.

She stays hunched in on herself for a few moments, trying to regain some semblance of her composure.

I did not think you wanted to alert the ship, Asaru explains.

Good call.

--

She cuts through the brush, away from the Avenger, refusing to look back.

“I’m coming back with him, or I’m not coming back,” she’d said to Tygan.

Two teams of Skirmishers are inbound, one to lead the rescue, and one to prop up XCOM’s battered remnants.

She offers a silent thanks to the Commander for the effort she’d put into cultivating the alliance between the two factions. She cannot imagine such a response from the Reapers or Templars, cannot imagine aid given so freely.

The first team disembarks, and she points them back towards what remains of her home.

A helmetless Stun Lancer extends a hand. She accepts, and is pulled onto the craft .

Inside, she finds another Lancer and a Captain, similarly free of their headgear.

They have suffered, Asaru says. They have known cruelty.

That’s why they’re helping us.

No, he insists. They are helping us because they believe it is the right thing to do.

“Captain Royston,” the Lancer who helped her aboard begins. “I am Emra Alatall. This,” she says gesturing to the other Lancer, “is Amon Vemo. And this,” she says, gesturing towards the Captain. “is Cadna Eim.”

“You have my thanks, and XCOM’s,” she says. “I know this is a huge risk to take.”

“Your people have suffered an immeasurable loss,” Eim offers. “The Skirmishers will carry her memory forward. ”

“I just hope we get a shot,” she says.

“XCOM will not fight alone,” Alatall reassures her. “Have you been briefed on the attack?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“We are planning a stealthy approach,” Vemo begins. “We have many allies stationed at the facility holding your comrade. They have made arrangements for a transfer of custody. We going in as the transport vehicle.”

She nods. “How can I help?”

“In our experience,” Eim says. “Those rescued from the imprisonment of the Elders are often disoriented. A known face facilitates a smoother extraction.”

“Keep him calm?”

“Precisely.”

“How am I getting in?” She asks after a moment’s contemplation. “I can’t just walk through the door.”

“But you can,” Alatall says. “Though it will not be glamorous.”

She eyes the manacles hanging from the Lancer’s belt. “Prisoner?”

“Prisoner. It is the simplest and the safest way to maneuver you into the cell block where he is being held.”

She nods. “Understood.”

--

She can hear the Speaker’s voice before they even land.

“The degenerate XCOM has once again mercilessly struck down another innocent life.”

She can feel the hives threatening to bloom across her stomach and along her arms.

“A friend of the Elders, a tireless supporter of the ADVENT administration, and a true believer in the promise of the new world.”

Bile rises in her gut.

“Yes, fellow citizens, today we mourn the loss of Elizabeth Regan.”

No screaming. Asaru says. You cannot scream now. There is nothing to muffle it. We are close to the tall one.

You’re positive?  She asks.

Yes. We are close.

Alatall snaps the manacles around her wrists and Vemo helps her to the ground. Eim exits from the other side, leading their small procession through the gate and into the facility.

They walk some distance through dark, silent halls, eerie red light casting menacing shadows as they pass.

They stop in front of a door, and Eim places her palm against it.

She is wholly unprepared for the barrage of sound that assaults her ears as the door slides open. It Is the Speaker’s voice, entreating, demanding, berating, an endless loop of speeches, one no longer discernible from the next. She can’t remember the specifics of what constitutes torture, but she’s fairly certain this at least a close approximation.

Alatall removes the manacles from her wrists, and gestures for her to enter. “Our time grows short.”

He is curled on the floor, hands still cuffed.

She lowers herself to the ground next to him. “Central,” she says, gently shaking his arm. “Central, come on. Wake up.”

He stirs, and rises slowly. “Magpie? How did you …”

“I brought help. I’ll explain everything, but we’ve gotta go.”

He furrows his brow at her. “How do I know you’re---“

She draws a shaky breath. “I have seven perfectly white scars on my right shoulder from a friendly frag grenade that went off during an ADVENT retaliation somewhere in the middle of the place you said used to be Colorado. I was sixteen. I was too afraid to scream and I couldn’t down the liquor and you couldn’t decide if you were allowed to be relieved about that or not, so I gripped at the picnic table till my knuckles went white. And when you were done, you had to dig the splinters out of my hand by flashlight because they’d gone so deep.”

He reaches out a hand to cup her cheek. “You seem real enough.”

“I promise, I am, but we have to go.”

He nods, still dazed, and she works to help him to his feet, guiding him out from the cell into the quiet of the hall.  Alatell replaces the manacles on her wrists, and their small procession, now larger by one reverses its course.

Thank you, Asaru says. She would be pleased.

--

She’s sprawled across Central’s chest in the infirmary, taking comfort in its steady rise and fall. Sleep tugs at the edges of her vision, but she resists, fearing what dreams may come.

What is this? Asaru asks.

You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.

This.

Exhaustion?

No, I understand exhaustion. There is something else here.

Grief?

No, I understand that all too well. This is like what she felt for him, but it is different.

Love?

Yes, maybe it is that. But it does not feel the same.

It’s … think of it as an umbrella term. There’s a lot of different kinds. They all feel different.

What is this one?

She sighs. This is not one of her brighter ideas. It’s … it’s easier if you go look yourself. Try not … try not to hit anything too painful.

She closes her eyes and grounds herself in the steady thump of his heart in her ear. The creature picks through carefully, doing its best to avoid the worst of her memories.

Oh, Asaru says. So, that is what it is.

Yeah, that’s what it is.

--

She’s awake before he is, trying to trick herself into feeling useful, feeling something other than the hollow emptiness or all obliterating grief. She putters around the Infirmary, straightening cabinets and shelving supplies. She cannot cry, not again. There is too much to do.

The Skirmishers have been invaluable help, digging graves, clearing debris, and helping to repair damaged systems. They have watched, and guarded, afforded XCOM’s survivors a few precious moments to attempt to process the horrors of the last thirty-six hours, already fading into a blur of pain and terror.

Does he know? She asks the creature.

He suspects, but he does not accept, Asaru responds. Please be gentle with him.

Her shoulders sag. Asaru, all the gentleness in the world isn’t going to help.

I know. But she would want you to try.

She wipes an errant tear from her eye. She is not ready to do this. She doubts she will ever be ready to do this.

Briefly, she considers fleeing, pawning the job off on Tygan. She still has time. God knows she’d be well within her rights. This isn’t supposed to be her job; there is a reason Infirmary duty does not make its way onto her rounds. She has never known what to say to the grieving; she knows all too well that words do little to lighten the crushing reality. 

She’d spent her first few weeks with him in mute shock, unable to give voice to the words in her head. She’d wedged herself under his arm when she could, hoping he’d understand, hoping he’d know: I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me. I’m scared, and I can’t make the words come out. Please don’t leave me.  

He’d let her come to it in her own time, accepting half-French, half-English missives scrawled on scraps of rotting paper; hadn’t made a show of it when she’d finally managed to eek out a few words; had been there to listen once she could muster more than that.

No, she thinks, closing her eyes. This is my job.

“Sally?” Central croaks, pushing himself up.

She crosses over to him, wrapping her arms around his chest, and burying her face into the crook of his neck. It takes him a moment to respond, but he does, pulling her close, and settling a hand over the old shrapnel wound. She can already feel the tears coming.

“Sally, where’s Re---“ She shakes her head, lump growing in her throat.

“Sal ---“

Again, she shakes her head. Her chest tightens. She can’t do this. She can’t tell him. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.

“…Magpie?”

She lets out a sob into his shirt.

She’s never heard a heart break, a soul shatter, never felt the fire die in another human being before, but she has no other explanation for the sound he makes. She’s lucky he’s still on the cot, because she’s not sure she could support the weight of him otherwise.

She hugs him tighter, and feels his tears soak her shirt shoulder.

--

In three days, he has only spoken three words: Did she suffer?

Tygan splutters, unsure of how to respond.

“No,” Sally intervenes. “It was quick.”

Asaru offers more that she could add, words, and images, and emotions, but she knows Central, knows it would raise too many questions, knows it would not help.

She worries when he is in the bar. She worries more when he is not, the fear of discovering he’s found his own door and followed the Commander out gripping her. She moves through the ship expecting the worst, the disused spaces demanding close inspection, a steady reassurance that there are no surprises lurking therein. More often than not, that is where she finds him, flask empty and too far gone to think. When she can, she sits with him, refilling the flask from a container of water.

He doesn’t speak, but she understands: she is gone again and, this time, I can’t bring her back.

She cannot find him on the fourth night, and her mind jumps from possibility to possibility.  She is so tired of washing away the blood of others.

He is alive, Asaru says, stirring. And still on board.

Could you be a little more specific?

He does not like to leave her alone.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Oh, Central, she thinks.

She knows him, knows what he is like when he’s fallen too deeply in despair. She makes her way to the Crew Quarters, finding her way into his footlocker once again. Again, she makes a silent promise to apologize at some point.

It would not be the time, Asaru offers, trying, in its own way, to reassure her.

She appreciates the gesture.

She is always taken by the weight of the peacoat, of its heft in her arms. It is a scrap of the old world, with beautiful wool and embossed buttons, a shield borne forth against the insidious creep of the new. It has always been different, a far cry from both the makeshift hodgepodge of the havens, and the streamlined sterility of the city centers. She buries her face against it.

You will not lose him.

 She has come to accept that tears come from the smallest things now, from a kind word or a gentle comment. They come from almost glimpses and imagined voices, from wishes and would-have-beens. They come from memories of laughter, of happiness, of loss, of violence. It does not matter.

She is so tired.

She makes her way through the ship, down towards specimen storage. She pries open the locker door and finds him, just as Asaru described.

She steps in, shutting the door behind her, and drapes the coat over his shoulders. “You can’t stay here all night,” she says, softly. “You’ll freeze.”

He does not respond. “Betos’s people have a lead on the Warlock’s hideout. Wallace is going with them to confirm.”

She is met by silence.

Her breath hangs in the air, and she begins to shiver.

“Are you coming with us to take him out?”

Slowly, he turns to face her. His eyes are empty and bloodshot, sunken in, and ringed by dark circles. There is the tell tale swelling of a binge, of a man dedicated to chasing his own personal oblivion to the bottom of the bottle.

She doesn’t want to watch this. She wants to look away.

Instead, she lowers herself to the ground next to him, working her way under his arm like when she was a little girl. He neither helps nor hinders the endeavor, a living breathing ghost. She settles against his side, and can smell the booze on his breath.

Should we not --- Asaru begins.

No, this is where we’re needed. This is where we’re staying.

She rests her head against the crook of his neck.

After a few minutes, her teeth begin to chatter. “Come on,” she says, working her way to her feet. “You have to get up.”

He does not respond.

You will need ---

I know.

She bends down, trying to get a good grip around him, and begins the arduous process of dragging him to his feet. For all her strength, she still struggles, her progress more lateral than vertical.

Should you get ---

No one else needs to see this.

She fumbles with the handle for a moment, and nearly trips on the lip of the doorway. Never once does he make a move to help her; she doubts he is even capable.

She drags him away from the freezer, towards the wall on the far side of the room, and props him into a sitting position. She collapses onto the floor next to him, her muscles burning from the effort.

“Please don’t do this to me,” she says after a moment, “I know the temptation is there. XCOM still needs you. I still need you. Please don’t make me bury you both.”

He does not respond.

--

The confirmation comes through the next day: they have located the Warlock’s base of operations.

--

They shrug silently into their armor, absent the bravado that would normally accompany such an assault. She feels something rattle against her thigh plating and pulls out two small aluminum rectangles

“What’re you doing with my dog tags?” Central asks, confused.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I borrowed them. When we went to get you out.”

That is not much of an apology, but it is something, Asaru comments.

“Why?”

“Luck.”

“You’re a little late for that, Sally.” He insists, but there is no venom behind the words, only a sort of grim resignation.

Sally’s gaze flicks over to Wallace, and sees her concern mirrored in his eyes, but in neither Novikova’s nor Hagen’s. She knows better than to look to Thomas.

-- The wound on Hagen’s arm is bleeding more than it should. Sally dashes across the temple, dashing around fallen Priests and Berserkers, practically sliding into cover. Her eyes dart up in time to see Thomas and Central slice a chryssalid each clean in half.

“Wallace,” she says, unhooking the medkit from her belt and spraying Hagen down. “What are your sight lines like to that sarcophagus? Think you can finish it?”

“It’s as clear a shot as I’m gonna get!”

“Take it.”

He fires and the massive block shatters, bursting into flame.

“Impossible!” The Warlock bellows, teleporting back into view atop the raised platform at the center of the room.

Hagen takes aim and fires, winging the bastard, but he teleports away before Novikova can take aim.

He reappears on the left most platform and she fires three times, the shots from her pistol wedging into the Warlock’s knee.

He disappears again, just out of strike range for Central’s blade.

“Ahhh, Bradford,” he intones. “I would have thought you would have already found a way to join your infidel Commander. Perhaps you may yet.”

A purple jet shoots from the monster’s hand, curling around Thomas. The Ranger raises his gun and takes aim at Central.

Do something! She shouts at the creature in her head.

Oh, I intend to, Asaru says, and energy flows through her veins, buzzing. The Null Lance flies forth from her hands, striking the Warlock in the chest before Thomas can fire.

He teleports for the last time, collapsing in front of his shattered power source.

“I hear their voices!” He proclaims, sinking to his knees. “They are … every … where.”

A purple flash overtakes his body, bathing the room for an instant in a blinding white light. All that remains on the platform is a stone corpse.

She stands, helping Hagen to her feet, as Central makes his way to the platform. Sally walks toward him as he unloads his gun and locks the safety into place. He swings hard, the side of the rifle connecting with a sharp smack against the corpse.

He steps back, and swings again.

All eyes are focused on him.

Cracks begin to form in the body, the material far more brittle than they had anticipated.

“Central,” she calls.

Another swing.

And another.

She stands before the platform and watches as pieces begin to fall from the remains.

“Central!”

More swings, each one harder than the last. The thing lies in pieces.

“Central!”

He brings his boot up, pulverizing the Warlock’s head into bits, then raises it again to crush the pieces.

“That’s it,” she says, vaulting the platform, and catching him by the arm. “That’s it. It’s over. We’re done.”

He considers her for a moment, then nods reluctantly.

“Let’s go home.”

--

They bury the Commander next to the shack Central had built almost two years ago, next to the place where he’d first gotten word that there was hope, that Raymond Shen and his daughter were placing everything they had on a downed alien vessel, a craft they were calling Avenger. It had seemed like a fairy tale then, even more so now.

The October chill sits heavy in their joints, and he builds a small fire in the nearby clearing to warm them while they work. When all is said and done, when they have offered her all that they are able, they take refuge around it.

“I’m not going back with you.” Central finally says.

He is what? Asaru squeaks.

“I’m sorry; what?”

“You heard me: I’m done fighting.”

“What’re you gonna do? You know what we’re up against.”

No.

“Not gonna be a problem much longer,“ he says, unscrewing the lid of the flask and taking a drink.

“We won’t make it without you.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he says, softly.

No.

“Central, who’s gonna hold us together?”

“Not much to hold together, Magpie.”

 “What am I gonna tell the others?”

 “Tygan already knows.”

 Stop him.

 “And he’s okay with it?”

 “Doesn’t really matter if he is.”

 “Who’s gonna fly the ship?”

 “Don’t have enough people to crew it. You know that.”

 Stop. Him.

 “We’ll get more.”

 “Shen figured out the autopilot.”

 “Shen’s gone.”

 “She left notes.”

“We need you! I need you!”

“Magpie, sweetheart,” he says, standing. “I’ve got nothing left to give.”

Stop him!

“Central, I---“

“Sal, I got you as far as I could.” He douses the fire. “It’s up to you now. You should go. They’ll be waiting for you.”

“I didn’t trip the ---“

“I did.”

He reaches out a hand, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing away the tear spilling down it. “I’ll see you on the other side.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, and walks off, back towards the shack.

Asaru, she says. I don’t think I can.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Pls imagine wondercoldwave and their strange courting. Two thieves attempting to woo her with stolen artifacts and good food. Because jewelry is kid of useless but old relics? Or Weapons? Ah yes perfect gifts. (And also a little bit of jewelry.)

I love this pairing. I love this pairing SO MUCH words don’t even. Like, I have a million other things to be writing but I dropped everything to write this. 

ao3

----

It was Lisa’s fault.

Well, okay, that’s a lie. Lisa wasn’t even there.

But she had finally graduated high school, turned eighteen and gone off to college with a handful of scholarships and all the money Len and Mick had stolen for her in a giant fuck-up of a job, which had encouraged them both to head for more forgiving climes for a while. They’d gone to the Caribbean, first, but then Len had played a few too many card games with some Family guys down there and now he might or might not own an island but he certainly wouldn’t last long if he stayed there.

So they go to Europe.

Nice, proper European tour. Why not?

Because Leonard fucking Snart, that’s why not.

“It’s the Louvre,” that’s what he said. “We have to!”

“We won’t be able to fence anything we get,” Mick pointed out.

“But it’s the Louvre!”

And so they’d broken in there. Mostly just for kicks.

Then Len got distracted by some pottery. Mid-heist. This never happened back at Central.

“Look at it,” he enthuses. “Do you even know how old this is? Look at the characteristic neck – and the design – ugh, why isn’t this out on display? Don’t they realize how awesome it is?”

Mick personally thought all pottery looked the same, but he was currently flipping through some watercolor sketches and making happy sounds, so whatever, to each his own.

“Look at the glazing on this one –”

Mick only looks up when Len cuts off mid-sentence, which was most unlike him.

He’s blinking owlishly at a statute.

No, wait.

That’s not a statute, that’s a woman. A statuesque, gorgeous woman, in glasses and a sensible business suit.

With her hands on her hips.

“300,” Len says blankly. “Crane or heavy-backed floor.”

“I beg your pardon?” the woman says. She has a faint accent – something Mediterranean.

“He’s trying to figure out how he would steal you,” Mick translates, since Len’s grip on speech has apparently failed. He’s accustomed to the bizarreness of the Snart mentality; most people are not. “Assuming you were made of marble.”

“Clay would be easier,” Len says, still sounding vaguely dazed. “You’ve got a finer neck than this vase, and that’s saying something.”

The woman abruptly grins, and it’s frankly stunning even to Mick, who takes a good while to warm up to anybody. “You appreciate art,” she says approvingly. “Why do you not come during the day?”

“It’s the Louvre,” Len says, vaguely scandalized. “We had to try to break in.”

“You succeeded,” she says. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to show me the weakness in our security system you exploited; not every thief will be as respectful as you.”

Len clutches the vase he’s holding to his chest, holding it with the delicacy you would expect from a man holding a baby. “That would be awful,” he says, and he means it, too, the moron. He very gently puts it down. “Yeah, we’ll show you.”

Mick makes a little whining sound.

“…after Mick finishes going through the watercolors,” Len amends.

“They are very fine watercolors,” the woman says. “My name is Diana Prince; I am curator here.”

“Leonard Snart,” Len says. He nods at Mick. “Mick Rory.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mick says politely. “Why ain’t there an exhibit of these? They’re amazing.”

“We’re planning one,” Diana says. “But it has been difficult to convince the museum director…”

“Does he have a name?” Mick inquires very seriously. “Or, better, an address?”

She hides a smile. “You should not threaten people over artwork, Mick.”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he grumbles. “Just a bit of scaring. It’d be good for him.”

“You are welcome to finish perusing the watercolors,” she says. “Leonard – may I call you Leonard?”

“Sure,” Len says. “I mean, I usually go by Len, but, uh, Leonard sounds just fine when you say it.”

She smiles. “Leonard, then. It suits you. Perhaps you could show me the weakness in the security while your friend here finishes up?”

Len nods like a bobble-head doll and she takes his arm and puts it in hers and then they go off.

Mick shakes his head, amused, and dives back into his watercolors.

Diana – and she insists on it being ‘Diana’, not Miss Prince or anything else – is kind enough not to call the police, either.

Len offers her a tour of the local art galleries, after-hours. He’s got a hell of a crush on her already.

He always did like women who looked like they could break him over their knee.

“I couldn’t,” Diana says, but she’s smiling.

“Why not?” Len asks.

“Well,” she says, and then stops, considering.

“You’ve got to have fun sometimes,” Mick tells her, because he’s the best partner ever. “Or else you’ll forget why you do the rest of it.”

“Oh, why not indeed,” she says. “Very well; let us go. I am most intrigued by your unorthodox method of getting around.”

They spend three weeks in Paris, all told. Len teaches her pickpocketing and lockpicking; Mick tells her stories he’d thought he’d forgotten, about being born on a farm so far away from the water he didn’t even know what it looked like until the first time he’d gotten on a plane; she talks of art history and of kindnesses, great and small.

She confides in them that she was raised on an island with a – and here she smiled – unorthodox view of property.

“Now there’s a place I’d like to visit,” Len enthuses.

“Simply because there are no laws against theft?” she laughs.

“That’s the best sort of place! You could try out all sorts of tricks, teach yourself to be better and better, and people wouldn’t throw it in your face when you give something back,” he says.

“Tell me more about how people eat,” Mick requests. He’s really into fresh foods and community gardening back at in Keystone, but he’s run up into a wall of people not believing they can work, or thinking the food will be stolen the second it grows. He doesn’t know how to explain to them that that’s the point.

Diana’s nice, and funny, and smart.

She also, in one memorable instance, throws a truck at someone’s head.

It doesn’t start that way, of course; Diana shows up right when Mick is trying to find his misplaced gun and – upon seeing his panic – asks what the issue is.

“Kids,” Mick says. “Len – the local mafia outlet – he found out – they trade in kids, and that’s kind of a trigger issue for Len so he just jumped in –”

“He has gone to rescue them?”

“Kids,” Mick growls. “If it was anything else, he’d have planned it out first, but not when it comes to kids. I can’t blame him, not really, but I can’t even find my gun -”

“You will not need it,” she says, and it’s almost like she adds an extra foot of height when she straightens her back.

Mick gets his gun anyway. “He’s my partner,” he tells her, because he will be damned to hell before he’s intimidated out of his rightful place at Len’s side, whether into heaven or into hell. “You can help me kick his ass when we find him.”

She blinks, then smiles. She’s still a little too tall, a little too other-worldly, but the smile helps make her a little more human. “Yes,” she says. “After we rescue him, of course.”

“Can’t kick his ass without that,” Mick replies, tranquilly.

“You are a good partner, Mick Rory,” she says. “Leonard is lucky to have you.”

“And me, him,” Mick says, more honestly than he meant to be. “He saved my life.”

“He told me you saved his.”

“He saves mine every day,” Mick tells her, because Diana has a way of looking at you with her old eyes that makes you tell the truth even if you don’t want to. “Just by being who he is. Have some pity on the man and let him down easy when you do, will you?”

Diana arches her eyebrows and presses her lips together thoughtfully.

“Lead the way,” is all she says.

They find Len, who’s having it out with a bunch of assholes, a child clutching at his hip, an even smaller child held under one elbow, gun out in the other. “Don’t make a fucking move,” he’s saying, but there’s more of them than of him and they’re inching closer.

“I’d listen to the man,” Mick says, and Len’s eyes flicker to him, betraying relief.

The little movement is what the local Family assholes were waiting for, guns at ready, and they lunge forward.

So does Diana.

Diana wins.

More people run in.

It would take far too much time to explain the whole sequence of events – Mick honestly doesn’t remember much of it, torn between his surprise at Diana’s surprising strength and protecting Len, and erring to focus on the latter – but it concludes with Diana thrown a truck at the Family guys and their lines breaking and fleeing.

“That was amazing,” Len says, beaming at Diana. “Now, here, hold Lucille while I convince Isabelle to let me go get the others.”

It’s clear to Mick that Diana anticipated many possible reactions to her actions, including how impressed and starry-eyed Len is, but having a small child shoved into her arms wasn’t one of them.

“Petit Izzy,” Len croons, kneeling down. “Tu parles Anglais?”

“Non! N’y va pas!”

Diana kneels and says something in French.

Isabelle just grabs onto Len tighter.

Mick walks over and says, “Okay, brat. Hop on.” He holds out his arms.

Isabelle looks at Len, who nods.

She immediately detaches from Len and flings herself into Mick’s arms.

Mick speaks exactly zero words of French, but he’s got a way with kids.

“I’ll get the others,” Len says. “We’ll take them back home so they can rest. Then we can figure out what to do with them.”

“The police?” Diana asks.

“Probably corrupt,” Len says grimly.

“He always thinks police are corrupt,” Mick interjects.

“Because they usually are. Who the hell operates a child smuggling ring this close to a police station without someone looking the wrong way?”

“I will investigate,” Diana says. “In the meantime, I have connections with several good organizations that will help locate their parents, if possible.”

“And monitor them,” Mick says firmly as Len strides off to find the other children he referenced. “I was in the system for a bit, and there’s risk involved.” He hesitates and glances in the direction Len went. He doesn’t want to mention unpleasant things, but if Diana will be placing the kids… “Len’s got some things to say about blood relatives not being too trustworthy either, if you want to hear it.”

Diana nods, her expression solemn. “They will be guarded. I will confirm it myself.”

“This way,” Len sings out cheerfully, leading the children out of the dark like some sort of Pied Piper. He has a way with kids, too. “Follow me, mon lupins. Hop, hop.”

“Lapins,” the older children, the ones with a big of English, giggle. “Not lupins!”

“What’s the difference?” Len asks innocently.

They take the children to Diana’s friend.

The children are all quite fond of Diana, who is also good with children, especially once little Isabella tells the others about the truck; Diana is apparently called L’Princesse Amazone, or ‘Wonder Woman’, in Paris for her little way of solving issues. They go happily.

Len looks after them wistfully for a few minutes before turning to Diana. “That,” he tells her solemnly, “was wonderful.”

“That,” Mick grunts, “was awful.”

Diana laughs.

They leave shortly thereafter, albeit regretfully. Len wants to avoid any Family recognizing him and Diana is occupied with the placement of the children; there’s really no reason to stay.

Still, it’s hard to tear themselves away. Not just Len, but Mick, too. He’s grown more accustomed to her than he’d have thought.

“You should come visit us in Central,” Len tells her before they go.

“Perhaps I will,” she says with a smile.

Impulsively, Mick steps forward and presses his lips to her cheek. Len blinks in surprise, but when Diana doesn’t object, he steps forward and does the same to her other cheek.

And then they’re off.

Even though Len made the offer, no one is more surprised than he is when a year later, back in Central, the Central City Museum announces a partnership with the Louvre in which a curator will be swapped for three months every year.

Len and Mick are there on opening day.

Diana smiles.

“Perhaps you will show me around here, too,” she says, holding out her hands.

“Absolutely,” Len says.

Mick nods.

“And this time,” she continues, her smile widening, “I will not let you two escape with only a kiss good-bye.”

Len and Mick exchange blinks.

“Uh, we can do that,” Len says.

Mick nods furiously.

"I brought the rope," she adds innocently.

"We can definitely do that," Mick enthuses.

“Oh, and we got you a present,” Len says.

“It was in a museum,” Mick adds. “Sort of.”

“Was it obtained illicitly?” Diana asks with a knowing smile.

“No more illicitly than the museum originally got it?” Len tries.

Diana laughs.

(Fifteen years later, Diana looks down at the Flash, pinned under her boot. “You will not interrupt our dates,” she says sternly.

“I will not interrupt your dates!” he squeaks. “Also, wow! You’re real! And…dating my villains?”

“We were dating first,” she says. “I will discuss their life choices with them another time.”

“…can I have your autograph in the meantime?”)

[cverture-a]

Date #3 | @residuex

“I want to know everything about you.” Beth admitted, though hoped she wasn’t coming on too strong. She couldn’t help that since they had first met serendipitously, her curiosity had grown in immense fashion.  The problem was further exacerbated by the rate at which they had been making plans to see one another as of late. They’d watched the sky together into the early hours of the night; had partaken in conversation over dinner that he made them before watching a movie she had insisted he could not prolong further; most recently they’d met for coffee, lingering longer in the cafe than the average casual get together. Eventually they had left the welcoming scent of baked goods and coffee beans in favor for a walk throughout Central Park, strolling slowly through the brisk fall air as if they both had been trying to stop time. Before either of them had realized, their eyes found the setting sun over the Central Park Reservoir.

It had only been scarcely a week since they had last been together, their time away spent supplemented with the game of “20 questions” they had begun weeks ago over text messaging; by now they surely had gone above and beyond game requirements,  yet the more she learned the more she felt the need to know about this man that had made a comfortable home in her mind: she was always thinking about him, even when she had no intentions of such. It seemed there was a lot already that reminded her of him.

Ethan made her feel good, and in the purest sense of the word. He radiated a positive light that she had previously only briefly considered as something she could require. Each time they kissed, Beth was certain her knees would turn to jelly and cause her body to collapse in on itself - though a faint voice in her mind told her that even if she were to lose her footing, the last place she would end up was on the ground. Not while he was around.

Earlier in the week she had, though somewhat hesitantly due to a strange fear of rejection, extended an invitation for him to visit her at home - under the guise that they could spend hours laughing at old episodes of America’s Funniest Videos, a cache of which had been recently added to Netflix. In truth, Beth didn’t care much what they did - she only wanted to offer up her time, and hoped he would allow her some of his own in return.

The late afternoon sky had quickly turned shades darker out on the streets of New York, though still lit with ever present street lights. As hours passed with their attention (truly only half) on the television, kernels of popcorn strewn about from a battle they’d had at one point during the marathon. Half-gone bottles of water rested ahead of them on the coffee table, and other than the glow through her windows and from the television, lighting was dim; comfortable.

It’s while Netflix is queuing up the next episode that the words are spoken; head turning to offer a shy glance to the man that sat beside her on the couch. Beth herself was seated with her feet tucked comfortably under her, knees bent and facing him as her elbow provided leverage against the rear cushion - though Ethan was sitting like an actual human being, his back aligned properly with the rear cushion, as was intended by the manufacturer. He had one leg resting on the knee of his other, hand relaxing casually at his ankle. Following the statement, her glance was matched; though a subtle expression of bewilderment caused her smile to stretch thinly before she began to explain.

“Not in like, a serial-killer-i’m-gonna-stalk-you-and-kill-everyone-you-love-because-if-i-can’t-have-you- nobody-will kind of way.” Smooth, Johanssen.“It’s just that I sometimes find myself thinking about you. Wondering. Little things, like your favorite food. Or what your favorite time of day - or, right now, how crazy you think I am.” A nervous laugh escaped briefly parted lips before they once again formed a thin line, her hand fumbling as it entangled with its other. It couldn’t be hastened, the nerves nor the notion that perhaps she was beginning to go insane. It did, however,  help to hear his chuckle of amusement from her string of words. Beth was thankful that at least she was entertaining, if nothing else.

“Those are bad examples, “ she began again, rambling away as if to offer up a better explanation. “I’ve never really wondered what your favorite time of day is. What I really mean to say is that I hope our game of twenty questions never has to end. Those text messages are often the best part of my day.” Except when she was actually able to see him, though she felt this may have been obvious without having to be so blatantly admitted. “I don’t know where all of this is coming from, and I apparently cannot stop talking.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes at herself, though became flustered as she stole another glance and met his eyes. The words ceased, then. They’d continue to fail if she tried to explain the way her heart began to pound, how her palms began to sweat and her mind was scarce of thought that pertained to anything but Ethan Andrews. It surprised her, the sudden need to communicate - and more specifically so, the need to communicate her emotions.

“Did you know that I started to develop software to help establish the idea of a ‘smart home?’” Beth didn’t mind changing the topic. She had begun to feel as though she had three heads, unsure of the level of vulnerability she was revealing to him - unsure if she would only end up making a fool of herself. “I headed up a software start-up with that very intention. My team and I coded various applications that most people are pretty familiar with. You know Alexa? Amazon’s cloud service? My company invented the fundamental code that allows her to turn lights off in a home, or change the temperature without having to do anything but speak.”

She was proud, sure. Yet nothing made Beth Johanssen more proud than her accomplishments of the ARES mission; how she had birthed the basic coding systems that operated Hermes, which would shuttle astronauts for missions to come to and from Mars. She understood it better than the back of her own hand, and sometimes she still found herself sifting through memorized sequences in her mind in order to further better the ship’s workings. As time passed, some algorithms became redundant or obsolete, and it had been her job to cultivate the best working operating system available.

“Selling the start-up had been easy, but saying goodbye to Hermes? That was hard.”

⏳⌛⏳⌛⏳⌛⏳⌛

She didn’t know what time it was - nor did she particularly care to know it,  because as the moments had passed they settled into more comfortable positions on the couch. Beth’s knees were pulled to her chest and he was hunched forward, closer to where Ethan sat, turned with full attention to the woman who’d spent three years in space. Their heads were nestled close together against the shared back cushion of the couch and she could scarcely stand refraining from reaching out to hold her palm to the side of his face, or to allow her fingers to join with his. It was foreign to her, the urgency to feel such subtle affection. Even more so was the desire to give it - and yet the longer she sat looking at him, the stronger the feeling became.

“There are so many stories I could tell you,” she began again, after the silence had hung in the air between them. It had not felt awkward, though she noted that it had been strange that even in silence, being with Ethan felt right.

It was only another hour later that she caught herself yawning in the middle of explaining one of the many training exercise she and the rest of the crew had to complete before launch, keeping the conversation flowing with tidbits of dialogue that had mostly been from Martinez or Watney; the comedians of the crew — Or so they both thought. Beth was capable of staying awake for hours - often days - at time, but she realized that while she had that ability, not everyone was an insomniac like her; not everyone was often afraid to fall asleep. Hesitantly, she sat up in attention before rising,  her feet planted firmly on the coolness of her hardwood floor. Her sleepy doe eyes peered down at him, a smile offered in assurance before she spoke with further invitation.

“Come to bed?”

⏳⌛⏳⌛⏳⌛⏳⌛

The sleep that they did have were mere spans of thirty minutes at a time wedged between conversations ranging from topic to topic; stories they’d shared with one another, more questions asked and answered. She would ask about his days teaching and in return offer up tales of her time off-planet. They’d offer up comment when deemed necessary, a chuckle here are there or the occasional hint that they were still awake. Beth had been happy when she whispered in question if he had fallen asleep and received no answer, her eyes glancing beside her at the man whose eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, and for a moment she committed the shadows on his face to her memory. Soon enough, he had woken again and they had proceeded with drowsy discussion.  In the moments that became more serious, Beth found herself inching closer to where he lay beside her; a silent expression of thanks for him being there - that he was someone she could be happy to share things with - including her bed. And unexpectedly, her heart.

Eventually they had both drifted off, Beth having burrowed herself in closer to his chest so that her face was almost pressed tightly to the fabric of his shirt. As if he were waiting for permission to do so, she moved her hand to guide his arm - allowing it to drape over her small frame - his hand respectfully finding it’s place on her back. Before succumbing to slumber, she would later recall a feeling of relief wash over her; could anything truly  ever be this good again?

⏳⌛⏳⌛⏳⌛⏳⌛

”Ta-daaaaaa, it’s an Eggo Triple Decker Extravaganza!” On the plate revealed three toasted Eggo waffles, between each layer was whipped cream and assorted types of Halloween candy; mostly chocolates such as Hershey kisses and Reese's pieces, but there were gummy worms hidden beneath the fluffy clouds of white. Beth had been given the idea from the recent release of the second season of Stranger Things, having quickly decided that she wanted to make the treat herself; it was simple enough, she thought, that not even she could mess it up.

“I don’t exactly expect you to eat this because it’s an obscene amount of sugar, but I did manage to warm up a few croissants.” It was important to note her words: warm up. Not for a second was Beth claiming to have actually baked the buttery, flaked rolls herself, but rather she had them purchased them the day before - with other breakfast trappings: orange juice and various fresh fruit she had found at the market - in preparation for a morning she was hoping she would be able to share with him. She had promised him breakfast after all, and so breakfast indeed he would have.

“Here we are again,” Beth���s eyes found him then, a wide and warm smile spread across her features. “In my kitchen, drinking coffee. Eating breakfast.” It was obvious that she was referring to the first morning they had known one another - she had found him making breakfast in the very same spot she stood in now. Though the previous experience had been much more tense; awkward, given that they hadn’t technically known one another then. Life was funny, sometimes. It was comical to reflect back on it now and Beth couldn’t stop herself from extending upon her tippy-toes, her hand resting upon his arm to steady her balance, to place a gentle kiss on the side of his face - and another quickly against the corner of his lips. “I’m really glad you’re here, Ethan.”

[imran16829]

Sean Doolittle Biography, Wiki, Age, Wife, Net Worth, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Fast Facts You Need to Know

Sean Doolittle Biography, Wiki

Sean Robert Doolittle is an American professional baseball pitcher for the Washington Nationals of Major League Baseball (MLB). The Oakland Athletics selected Doolittle in the first round in the 2007 Major League Baseball Draft, as a first baseman/outfielder. He made his MLB debut in 2012. He previously played for the Athletics and was an All-Star in 2014. Sean Doolittle Age He was born on September 26, 1986, and he was 33 years old. Sean Doolittle Early life Doolittle grew up in Tabernacle Township, New Jersey. Sean lived close to the baseball field and often would go there to practice. He played Babe Ruth Baseball and excelled as a pitcher. Sean Doolittle Education, Early Career He attended Shawnee High School, in Medford, New Jersey where he was a stand-out pitcher. A great hitter, Doolittle led Shawnee to a state championship. Doolittle played for the University of Virginia as both a starting pitcher and first baseman. He formerly held the record for wins in a career for a Virginia pitcher — 22 — which has since been passed by Danny Hultzen. In 2005 and 2006, Doolittle was named to the USA National (Collegiate) Baseball Team. Sean DoolittlePersonal life Doolittle is active off the field with a number of charities and was recognized for his work in 2016 by being nominated for the Roberto Clemente Award. Doolittle supports Operation Finally Home, a nonprofit dedicated to providing housing for U.S. military veterans and their families, and Swords to Ploughshares, a Bay Area organization devoted to helping veterans with housing and employment. In June 2015, when the Oakland Athletics Pride Night received backlash from some fans for the team's support of LGBT rights, Doolittle and then-girlfriend Eireann Dolan bought hundreds of game tickets, which they donated to local LGBT groups, and raised an additional $40,000 in donations. Sean Doolittle Married, Wife Doolittle and Dolan married on October 2, 2017, eloping the day after the Washington Nationals' last game of the regular season. In November 2015, Doolittle and Dolan hosted a Thanksgiving dinner in Chicago for 17 Syrian refugee families. In October 2016, he was one of several professional athletes to denounce Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump's comments about non-consensual groping of women as not being "locker room talk". Doolittle identifies as independent politically. Of his charity work, Doolittle told the New York Times: "When I was a kid, I remember my parents would say, 'Baseball is what you do, but that's not who you are' — like that might be my job, but that's not the end-all, be-all. I feel like I might even be able to use it to help other people or open some doors or explore more opportunities." Sean Doolittle Father Doolittle's father is an Air Force veteran, and his seventh cousin is pilot Jimmy Doolittle, famous for the Doolittle Raid of Japan during World War II Sean Doolittle Brother Sean's brother, Ryan Doolittle, was also a part of the Athletics' farm system at the same time as he.

Sean Doolittle Career

Minor-league career The Oakland Athletics selected Doolittle in the first round, with the 41st overall selection, in the 2007 Major League Baseball Draft, as a first baseman/outfielder. He made his professional debut on June 18, 2007, and was expected to make his major league debut in 2009. Despite being injured for most of the 2009 season, Doolittle was ranked tenth in Oakland's farm system according to Baseball America. Doolittle missed the entire 2010 season while rehabbing from 2 knee surgeries. In the 2011 offseason, he was placed on Oakland's 40-man roster to be protected from the Rule 5 draft. After missing more than two years, Doolittle converted back to pitching, making his professional pitching debut in the instructional league in Arizona in 2011. Major-league career Oakland Athletics After only 26 professional entries, 25 of them in three minor league stops in 2012, Doolittle was summoned to the majors on June 5, 2012 against the Texas Rangers throwing one and a third-inning while striking out three with all the balls Fast and none. below 94 mph. He quickly became a key piece of the bullpen as the best left-handed specialist who obtained his first professional rescue on July 21 against the New York Yankees. He served as a preparer for the A Grant Balfour closer the rest of the way while Oakland won the American League West on the last day of the season. Doolittle signed a five-year, $ 10.5 million extension with Athletics on April 18, 2014. Doolittle and right-hander Luke Gregerson entered the regular season as late-entry setup pitchers for the new closer Jim Johnson. However, after an abysmal April, Johnson was removed from the exclusive closing role. Doolittle, Gregerson, and Johnson spent the next 3 weeks throwing closer by committee. Doolittle finally named A's closer on May 20. Doolittle was one of the six A players named for the 2014 American League Star Team; He faced three batters at the end of the game, striking out two. Doolittle started the 2015 season on the disabled list due to a shoulder injury. Sean Doolittle Gnome Day was April 30, 2016. The first 15,000 fans received a Doolittle Gnome that plays a brief sound of Metallica, Doolittle's incoming music. While on a rehabilitation task with the Nashville Triple-A Sounds, Doolittle threw the seventh inning of a game without hits against the Omaha Storm Chasers on June 7, 2017. Starter Chris Smith threw the first six innings and then went followed by Doolittle, Tucker Healy, and Simón Castro, who launched an entry each. Washington Nationals On July 16, 2017, Doolittle was traded to the Washington Nationals, along with Ryan Madson, for Blake Treinen, Sheldon Neuse and Jesus Luzardo. On July 18, Doolittle recorded his first save for the Nationals in a 4-3 victory over the Los Angeles Angels. In 30 games for the Nationals, he was 1-0 with a 2.40 ERA in 30.0 innings and 21/22 in save opportunities. For the 2018 season, he was named closer to start the season and until July 11, he had 22/23 opportunities to save before falling on the disabled list with an inflammation of his left finger. He was activated from the disabled list on September 7. In 2018 it was 3-3 with 25 saves (7th in the National League) and 1.60 ERA since in 43 relay appearances he threw 45.0 innings and struck out 60 batters (12.0 for 9 innings). He threw a fast four-stitched ball 88.8% of the time, the best in MLB. In 2019, he was 6-5 with 29 saves (sixth in the National League) and 4.05 effectiveness, since in 63 relay appearances he threw 60.0 innings and struck out 66 batters, and led the National League in finished games ( 55), empowering his Nationals for an appearance in the World Series and a save in Game 1. Awards 2008 California League Mid-Season All-Star 2008 Arizona Fall League Rising Stars 2008 Arizona Fall League All-Prospect Team Nationals pitcher Sean Doolittle declines White House visit National pitcher Sean Doolittle has refused to visit the White House on Monday for a ceremony honoring the historic victory of his team in the World Series, citing President Donald Trump's rhetoric as the reason he will not attend the celebration. "There are many things, policies with which I disagree, but at the end of the day, it has more to do with divisive rhetoric and the empowerment of conspiracy theories and the widening of the gap in this country," Doolittle said in an interview. Friday with The Washington Post. "At the end of the day, as much as I wanted to be there with my teammates and share that experience with my teammates, I can't do it," Doolittle told the Post. "I just can't do it." The relief pitcher told the newspaper that he did not want to be a distraction for his teammates who want the experience of meeting with the president. "People say you should go because it's about respecting the president's office," Doolittle told the Post. "And I think in the course of his time in office (Trump) he did many things that may not respect the office." Doolittle told the Post that he feels "very strongly" about "Trump's problems in racial relations," mentioning Central Park Five, the Fair Housing Act and Trump's comments following a white nationalist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, in 2017. Doolittle, who spoke at the time of condemning the Charlottesville demonstration, told the Post that Trump's rhetoric has allowed and enhanced racism and white supremacy. "I don't want to date someone who talks like that," he said. Doolittle also told the newspaper that his wife has two mothers involved in the LGBTQ community and that he "didn't want to turn his back on them." "I have a brother-in-law who has autism, and (Trump) is a guy who made fun of a disabled journalist. How would that explain that I dated someone who made fun of the way he spoke or the way he spoke? What moves your hands? I can't get over those things, "Doolittle told the Post, referring to Trump's 2015 attack on a New York Times journalist who has a physical disability. Quick facts you need to know Read the full article

[senorplume-blog]

Reunion (a short story)

   Henry throws on his favorite shirt, a concert tee that he got at an Arlo Guthrie concert some years back. Pulling the shirt over his head, he eyes the bottle of ale that sits on the kitchen table. Reaching out with his left hand he grabs the bottle and takes a long pull from it. Friday night and not a thing going on. Luckily.     With the drink in his hand he walks over to the living room window and takes a peak at the great outdoors. Folks arriving for a CYO event at the school across the street. Looks like a basketball game as he spies on the young girls showing up in their cheerleader outfits. Some adults walking in and a young man about 20 has his head stuck into his cell phone, texting as he moves straight ahead. Henry closes the curtain tight and walks away quite glad that he is not playing a game of basketball tonight. As much as he complains about the loneliness of his life, he has adapted to it and some nights, such as tonight, he is glad for his solitude lifestyle.      The television is on but thankfully muted while the record player spins the vinyl album around at 33 and a third. A collector of sorts, he stops and stares at his records. A massive amount that must be well into the thousands. His father started him out young to the pleasures of music and he never looked back. His dad left him his old records from the 40's to the 70's when he passed away. Alphabetized, he goes down to one knee to look through the Z's. Pulling out Frank Zappa's first album he takes the record from its sleeve and stares at the grooves that the needle reads. Henry can, and will spend hours now gazing at his collection with pride bursting up through his soul. Nothing can or will make him as happy as rummaging through these records and trips to the Salvation Army for more is his true joy in life.      Stopping only to gather up a plate of nacho's and a few beers, Henry has just spent the complete Friday night alone with his records. He plans to leave the house tomorrow morning for a trip to the local hotel where a huge record sale will be going down. Once a month there is a gathering of all types of venders selling off their albums and other music related items. Henry looks forward to this with unbridled glee. He takes to the computer and after seeing there was not one email waiting for him he begins to compile a list of albums that he must have and hopefully he will be able to find them there. Some records he just never stops looking for. Years and years he has waited for somebody to sell them off. A Beatles record nicknamed the Butcher Album due to the cover showing the Fab Four dressed as butchers covered in raw meat and doll parts. A true and rare collector's item. He saw one once when he was visiting his sister in California. He had it in his hands and as he always does, he smelled the inside of the cover. There really is nothing finer than the scent of an old record Henry believed. The asking price for the album was a hefty 1000 bucks which he did not have at the time. He has saved up for the day it would appear to him again. He would not miss out on it twice.     With the need to take a piss Henry, drunk now, as he always is on the weekends, stumbles to the bathroom. Holding on for dear life he lets out a long sigh and out of the blue the telephone rings. He usually unplugs the fucking thing on the weekends but he must have forgotten.  The answering machine pick up. It is a woman's voice and it is unfamiliar. Without washing his hands, Henry walks to the bedroom to hear the voice say goodbye and then the tape rewinds. Who the fuck could that be? Henry presses play and he listens in carefully.   "I'm looking for Henry Coda. If this is the wrong number I apologize but I really want to find him. This is Anna Baez. I went to school with Henry back in the 80's and I would like to invite him to our schools 25th anniversary. It's this upcoming weekend…seven days from now and it will be a ball. So Henry, please if you could join us at the school at 7 in the gymnasium… I would be thrilled to see you again. We all would. It will be a blast. I hope this is the right number. Call me at 722-5733 to let me know if you can come. Thanks and goodbye."     Christ. Anna Baez. Henry takes a long drink from the bottle…killing it and he heads to the bookshelf to pull out his senior yearbook. The cover says Binghamton Central High School. It has been years since he has looked at this thing. He takes a seat on his bed and opens the book. He flips through the pages with a bored look on his face until he comes to the page he wants. Under his nose is a picture of Anna. A blonde beauty that was quite popular in school. Unlike Henry she excelled in school, running for class president and winning. A cheerleader and if he remembered correctly, she was crowned prom queen…a prom in which Henry did not attend. His book was signed a few times and he reads a few. "Have a great summer Henry…see you at the college." "Henry, keep playing that guitar and I am certain you'll be top of the pops in no time." "You are one weird fellow man. Don't change."    Henry never ended up going to the local community college and he never made it to the top of the charts. He was still weird and he has barely changed since the 80's. He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. He remained on the bed thinking of school. How he hated it and most of the kids there…except for one girl…Nancy…or Nan for short. Nan, he had the biggest teenage crush on. She was always friendly with him but she was dating the same guy from their freshman year right up to the senior year. They were friends…she was kind to him and although her boyfriend hated him she didn't care. She was nice. Rising from the bed he began to think about her. Nan, I wonder if you are even still alive and if you are I bet you have fourteen kids and a beefcake husband. He wandered out of his room and made it to the kitchen to grab a fresh beer. Cracking it open he heard the needle hit the label on the record he was playing and he knew it was time to flip it over.    Playing the Stones now he could not get his mind off of that girl. Nan. Henry hardly left his house for any kind of social event. Skipping family reunions and the like. But this…this could be…interesting. He wanted to see Nan and that was the only thing that made him pick up the phone to call Anna back.     She answered right away and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him. She told him that he was all set. That it was to be a casual party and that he could bring a friend or spouse if he wanted to. Henry asked how many people have signed up to go and she told him that it will be a packed event. "Expect at least a hundred kids to be there. It will be lots of fun. And Henry, feel free to bring some of those records of yours with you. I bet we would all like to hear them." After saying goodbye and hanging up Henry crawled into bed and found himself…drunk and daydreaming about Nan and just what he could say to her. It made him nervous just thinking about it and soon he blocked it out and fell asleep with the full bottle of beer next to his head. ——————————————————————————————–                    After about four beers Henry was ready to leave for the reunion. Dressed in khakis and a seersucker shirt he bent down to tie his shoes when he felt the urge to throw up come over him. He ran to the kitchen sink and made it just in time. Four beers down the drain, all sudsy and wiping tears from his eyes he went to swig some mouthwash around in the bathroom.       Outside now Henry tucked the cuffs of his pants into his socks and jumped onto his bicycle. The school was only a few blocks away and it was a pleasant night. He had no intention of trying to impress anyone there. His bike was fine and he enjoyed riding it more than driving anyway.      Along the way there his nerves grew worse and he checked the time on the side of the bank on the corner. 7:15. He was late and he did not care. He toyed with the idea of not showing…no one would miss him anyway but Nan…he was dying to see what became of her. He stopped his bike in front of the tavern Rocco's and parking his bike on the side of the building. He went in. "Henry! Long time no see my friend. How goes it?" Rocco extended his hand and Henry shook it with a weak smile on his face. "Get me a cold one please Rocco. Lord knows I need one tonight" "What's the big occasion? You got a hot date tonight? If you do, bring her here. I'd love to see the kind of girl you could pick up Henry."       The bartender, a black guy with muscles that would put Schwarzenegger to shame cracked the top off the bottle of Bud and handed it to Henry. He took hold of it and brought it to his mouth and drained half of it in a mere two seconds. His eyes darted around but he found himself slowly calming down. The television above the bar was on showing some soccer match and the jukebox was playing the old Turtles tune.. .'Happy Together.' "Henry, it's been a while, a few days now perhaps since you last walked into my establishment. What's been happening to you? You depressed? Did a fire destroy your record collection or something?" "No. Just been busy is all. Listen Rocco, I need your advice here. I'm now headed to my 25th reunion at school and I am rather nervous about it all. There is a girl there…or a woman now and I really want to talk to her but I am a social dud. I have no idea what to say to her. What's a good ice breaker? Something that won't make me look like a total dick head. Just a little dick head." Rocco smiled and said " Ah Henry, you seeing an old flame tonight? Some girl who used to give you hand jobs in the basement? Something like that eh?" "No…not at all. Just a girl who I was friendly with. Though I have to admit that I dreamed of her and those hands giving me some relief. I don't know. I can't think of what to say to her when I see her. I need your help here."   Rocco pulled up a stool and thought for a while. "What did you guys used to talk about in school? Back then. What did you talk about?" Henry thought for a while and he said `music.' "Ok, then you talk about that. Just say that you heard an old song on the radio and that it made you think of her. She'll be pleased to hear this…hopefully and there you go. You'll be off to the races." "But I never listen to the radio…all those commercials and that terrible hip hop music they play now a days…It gives me a head…" “Then, forget the radio part…just say you heard a song…somewhere… and it made you think of her. Just wing it from there. She'll want to know what song and then you'll be in a real conversation and I bet it will be the first one with a woman for quite some time. Am I right?" Henry sighed and took a drink from the bottle. "Yeah, music, that's kinda what I had planned on anyway." "That's all you ever talk about actually Henry. This is the first conversation we've had that wasn't about music or music related. You must really be nervous." "Yeah, I am. What time is it Rocco?" "7:30." "Shit, I gotta go. Thanks for the help. I appreciate it, man."     Rocco wished him good luck and said that if he gets lucky with the girl to bring her over to the bar so he could see what all this nervousness was all about. Henry killed his beer and slammed the bottle down on the bar with a determined thud. He stood and with a wave left the bar and found his bike waiting for him. He climbed aboard and began his trek to the school. ————————————————-      Inside the gymnasium it was sweltering. He was informed at the front desk, where old Anna Baez was sitting, that the air conditioners were on the fritz and to expect it to be a little warm in there. Warm? It was horrible. Henry went immediately to the bar and ordered a beer. A nice cold beer would really hit the spot and maybe calm his nerves a bit.    Drinking, he looked down to his name tag. Henry. Who the hell is going to remember me anyway? This is a mistake. He had a few friends in high school and they all went to universities and left him in his hometown alone and friendless. Sure, he knew some of the guys and gals at the record conventions but he wouldn't be able to really call them friends. He was a lonely guy who simply loved his records and beer. He looked up and watched all the people milling around and some dancing. A few guys whom he recognized as old jocks were standing at the bar, drinking and laughing, without a care in the world. Henry felt the sweat dripping down his back and he flapped his shirt a few times to get some air in there. His ears pricked up when he heard a Duran Duran song playing and he was just about to head over to the DJ booth to talk to the guy about his CD's when he saw Nan walk in. The light from the gym was weak at best but he knew it was her although he could not read her name tag. My goodness…there she is he thought to himself. I'll just wait for a while to let her mingle with the people that she really wanted to see and then, then he would walk up to her and reintroduce himself to her.        Henry wiped his brow with the back of his hand and struck up a conversation with the DJ. They shot the shit for a few minutes when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw Nan smiling ear to ear. "Henry Coda…my God…you look exactly the same. You really do. My goodness…how are you?"       Henry's shirt was sopped with sweat as he opened his mouth to return her greeting when a group of guys walked up to Nan and began to talk excitedly to her. Henry shrunk back to the DJ booth and just stood there watching them enjoying their conversation. I wish I was normal he thought to himself. I wish I could talk and feel carefree with others. Instead I am a sweating fool all alone with social anxiety and a drinking problem. He took a swig from his plastic cup and turned around to stare at the wall.     A few minutes passed while a Van Halen song played. Henry began to recall the time he had bought the album which this song came from when he heard a woman's voice say something. He turned around to see Nan staring at him. "Hello…anyone home? I've been trying to get your attention for a minute now silly. Daydreaming about music I bet. This Van Halen song sure brings back the memories don't you think?" "I was just playing this song a few days ago actually. All in all it's a great album with very little filler. Sure, a few of the songs aren't all that great on it but not many records from that period were masterpieces. You know what I mean?" Nan smiled at him and told him that he has not changed all that much from 25 years ago. Henry smiled and tried hard to think of something to say to her. He decided to ask her about her life now but she spoke first. "So tell me Henry…tell me about your life. Are you married? Is your rock and roll wife around here somewhere?" "Wife? Ha, no…No wife. Never. Never was married. You?" "Well, remember Davey? My boyfriend in school? We married after college and 10 months later we were divorced. Still to this day I have no idea what went wrong but that band of gold on my finger just cursed us. It was something else, I'll tell you, I won't be walking down the aisle again, you can count on that." Henry looked down at her finger and even in the bad light he could see that she was not sporting a wedding ring. "Gee, I'm sorry about that Nan. Geeze…will he be here tonight? Davey?" "No, he moved to Washington State after our divorce was finalized. I haven't seen him in years now. No kids…thank God." "Oh…well that's good I guess…divorce can really be hard on kids; at least that's what I've read in magazines and all. So…you live around here?" Nan answered his questions and boy was there a lot of them. Henry at times felt like he was interviewing the poor girl but he really had nothing else to say to her so he asked questions. Query after query but she didn't seem to mind at all. They talked for a while when he realized he was in dire need of a drink. He tried to back step a bit to get closer to the bar hoping that she would follow him…slowly but two steps back into his plan she stood right there, not moving an inch. He would have to ask her if she would like a refill on her wine…or what appeared to be wine. Maybe it was punch. It was red and that was all he could tell. In a break in the conversation he asked her if she would like a refill and that he could really go for a cold beer in this stifling heat. "I know! It's so hot in here…I can't stand it. Want to go outside for a bit? I could use some fresh air and besides…and don't tell anyone but I am dying for a cigarette." "Outside? Certainly. I'd like that. I'm beginning to melt in here. Please just let me refill my beer here. Can you wait?" She nodded her head and Henry went to get a beer. Turning to Nan he asked her if she was good. She replied that another cup of wine would be great and she handed him her now empty cup. "…A nice cold Michelob and a wine please Jerry."    The bartender filled up the two glasses and they headed outside. On the way to the front doors Nan was greeted with many hellos. Henry couldn't remember her being so popular in school. It was mighty crowded and Nan grabbed his arm and pulled him along and he was happy to be lead away out of there. Outside the cool air was a Godsend. They both needed the cool night air on their hot skin. "Now this is much better, don't you think Henry? So, tell me now…back in school you loved music more than anyone I've ever known. You ever made a career of it? You in a band or anything?" He felt like he was letting her down as he went on to say that not only was he not in a band but that as a career he chose media marketing. "What exactly is that Henry?" "You know those jingles you hear on the radio? I write them. I make commercials for the radio and television." "Oh my, how interesting…anything I would know?" "You know Champs Fried Chicken? The chain of chicken places? Well that one ad..the one that goes:

`Champs…is the place to be when your down and hungry, a dollar 99 is all you got? you'll dig our chicken, you'll dig it a lot.'

I wrote that." "Holy shit Henry, I know that song! It's the catchiest tune like ever! Wow…I'm with a celebrity here!" "Ha…well…it pays the bills. It's not going to get me a gold record but I suppose I can't complain." "Well, I think it's awesome…simply awesome Henry. I'm not as famous as you but I guess my job is ok…I sell real estate in North Carolina. I'm not rich or anything but like you, I can pay the bills."     Henry found himself relaxing a bit. The cool night air did him well and he found that he could keep up his end of the conversation. He went in a few times to refill their drinks. He was feeling alright by the time of his 7th beer of the night and Nan was really knocking the wine back. They talked about many things and a few people even recognized him as they made their way out of the gym to return home.    Around the time of Nan's fifth cup of wine she realized that the party inside was dying down. "I should really go back inside and mingle a bit more. You wanna come along with me? There has to be other people you want to see besides me." "Not really, Nan…in fact the only reason why I came to this high school heat wave was to see you. You were always so nice to me…don't think I've forgotten it these many years later." "Oh Henry, that's so nice of you to say. Shoot…I should go back though. You sure you don't want to come with me? I'll buy you another drink." Henry thought about it and decided not to go in. "I'm sorry Nan but it's really too hot for me in there. I'm going to head to Rocco's for a nice air conditioned beer." "Sounds splendid. Ok…I understand. "It was nice to see you again Nan…really. Take care now." "I will. Thanks for visiting with me. I had a ball. Enjoy Rocco's" And with that they hugged each other goodbye and went their separate ways.

      Around 1AM Rocco was placing the chairs up on the tables when there was a knock at his front door. He checked the time on his wrist and went to tell them he was closed. Through the door he saw a woman standing there. "I'm sorry Ma'am but I'm closed now. I open at 9 if you still need a drink in the morning." The girl was swaying a bit but managed to steady herself. "Is Henry there? Henry Coda? I'm a friend of his." Rocco opened the door and told her that she just missed him. "He left about 10 minutes ago. You don't happen to be Nan are you?" "Yes..why?" "Oh boy was he going on and on about you. You made quite the impression on him tonight. He usually only talks about music but not tonight. It was Nan this and Nan that. Sorry you missed him." "Yeah, me too. Please tell him I stopped by ok?" "I will. Goodnight." And with that she turned away and headed back to her waiting taxi. “Thanks for waiting. Please take me to the Serling Hotel.”   The driver nodded and turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the tavern.  Nan, drunk… rummages through her purse as the taxi speeds through the early morning darkness as the car radio plays an REM song and Nan smiles to herself as she zips up her bag and quietly sings along to the tune as it plays.