#q goes for the business side of things immediately. its his best way of shutting down

[quackity1999]

…we didn’t quite run it. Or— you ran it, I stumbled it.

[ Tubbo laughs. He doesn’t feel good. His chest is still constricting. He can breathe fine. Everything hurts. ]

Hey, you used to keep me out of the public eye with so much of this shit. If you ever— need to like… y’know. Breathe. I can— Not.. I don’t know what I’m saying either.

[ Every desk looks the same to you. ]

Or I can just make burgers, and we can… uh… try to have normal people conversations?

[ And every relationship looks the same to him. ]

I’ve been learning how to talk about the weather, Big Q, I’m getting quite good at it.

— @bee-pbop

[ quackity doesn't sit down yet. he's caught in the spider web of being unable to let it go. ]

it's because i knew how to, tubbo. when the press says enough shit, you have to learn how to dissuade them.

[ "did you ever think twice about why i was able to keep schlatt looking good for the public? why nobody knew what dream did to you?" ]

i know what the reputation of a president can do to people. and we both know what it means to lose an eye.

[ quackity sinks back down. coughs. clears his throat of cigarette smoke, sets his thoughts onto the better train track. fuck. reel it in. you can't fix this. ]

the weather. ha.

yeah.

we— right. right, it's— none of that's the point. um. i mean, i haven't been by the restaurant in a while. so. are the sales still up? good profit?

[ prev. ] [ next. ]

[psychopersonified]

Kidnapped!Q

Don’t we 00Q shippers love a good kidnapped!Q story. Here’s my take on an attempted kidnapping story. 

Available on AO3 look for handle Psychopersonified. 

------

Friday 10:00am

The buildings’ security system pings his phone ::Lobby Alert:: 

Frowning, Q sets down the steaming mug of ginger tea. He was looking forward to the steam helping clear his congested sinuses. He’s developed a cold over the last couple of days, and medical sent him home yesterday for an early weekend.

He goes to the tablet mounted on the wall and pulls up the security feeds. There’s no one in the lobby which is a little strange. Movement in the next window catches his eye. It’s the hallway camera looking down the length of his floor, one of the lifts just opened and three men in paramedic uniform steps out. Curious. Who on his floor is requiring assistance? Wait, shouldn’t the doorman be escorting them? Belatedly he realises the men have stopped at his door...

They don’t even bother with a perfunctory knock. Q sees the police style door ram before he even hears the equipment colliding with his door. The door frame splinters inwards but holds. It is reinforced to buy him time but will not hold indefinitely. The loud crash sends a jolt of adrenaline into his sluggish system. 

He springs into action, punching the panic button on the wall next to the tablet. It should send a signal to police and MI6.  Q then grabs his MI6 laptop and turns it over. On the bottom is a red tab sticking out of a slot and he yanks at it - hard. It is the quick release mechanism for the hard drive - allowing the user to remove the hard drive quickly in an emergency. Pulling it also mechanically rips the chip from the board, damaging it hopefully beyond recovery. It also triggers a self destruct code in the laptop to wipe any remaining RAM. He designed the mechanism himself after the Istanbul fiasco and is now standard for all field issued laptops. 

He pockets the remains of the hard drive just in case along with his phone and runs into the bedroom. One of the windows here open to the fire escape. He looks around the room and grabs the nearest coat he sees.  

He makes it to the bottom of the fire escape just as the front door bursts open. Shit, shit, shit. He runs down the back alley and emerges onto the main street a block away - activating the tracking and distress signal on his watch as he does. 

His phone buzzes not even a minute later, he knows it is MI6. He swipes answer without hesitation. 

“Q? Are you alright? We received two distress beacons registered to you a few minutes ago.” He recognises R’s voice immediately. 

“Mayday, not a drill. Three assailants, they came in though the front door.” Q blurts out. The professional words belying the panic rising within. 

“Police are on their way as we speak. Where are you?”

“I’m no longer in my residence, hostiles in pursuit. Taking southbound route towards rendezvous point. Do you have me on camera?” He’s panting from the run. 

“Yes we see you.” That gives Q a little comfort. He needs to stay within view of the CCTVs. 

“The assailants?” Q inquires still running down the street. 

“Two on foot. Appears to be searching for you. Turning the corner.“

There is short crackle through the speakers and 007 joins the line. His comfortingly familiar voice comes over the phone,“Q? Stop running.”

“What??” Q’s chest is tight, his congested airways making it hard to breathe. The instruction is counterintuitive. 

“Stop running.” 007 repeats, Q recognises Bond’s tone of controlled annoyance. “Slow down. Walk at brisk pace. Put on the coat, it’ll disguise you.” 

Q complies. The coat is too big, it isn’t his. But that’s probably even better.

“Trust me, Q-..,” Bond assures, “..-that’s it. Good.” He must be watching the video feed. “At the next opportunity cross the street. Do not run. Do not look back. Keep your head down,” comes the next set of instructions from Bond.

“How much longer till the extraction team gets here? I don’t know if I can make it to the rendezvous point. I can hardly breathe,” his lungs are burning. The cold air not helping his already constricted airways.  

Q tries his best to follow Bond’s instructions. The temptation to look back and get a relative bearing on his assailants is overwhelming. But if he turns back, it will make it easier for them to spot him. 

“ETA 8 mins,” R supplies over the line.  

“We’re on our way, and police should be there before us,” Q can hear Bond’s voice sounding like he’s on the move; a few moments later, muffled sirens wail in the background. He wills himself to calm. Pulling in one stuttered breath at the time. 

Breathe, walk, repeat. Eight.minutes.more... 

A few minutes later, R pipes up, “Q, they’ve turned into the same street. 100 meters. Try and blend in with the crowd best you can.” Shit. Q turns up the collar on Bond’s coat to hide more of his face. 

“Q, do you have anything on you that can be used as a weapon?” 007 asks. 

Q checks his trouser pockets. There’s just the hard drive he pulled.. and a Waitrose receipt. The watch he’s wearing has no weapons capabilities. Then he pats down Bond’s coat- something slim and hard is in the inside pocket. He removes it. Its an unexpectedly heavy silver pen. 

“Umm… only things I have on me is the hard drive... my phone, my watch and your pen,” Q’s voice catches in desperation. 

“My pen?” Bond prompts for clarification. 

“Y…Yes. Silver pen in your navy wool coat. Off the back of the bedroom door.” Fuck. In the back of his mind, he’s mortified that he’s revealed something so personal over the comms. Their relationship isn’t a secret; its probably the worst kept secret in MI6 - but its not official either.  

R’s voice cuts in, “-50 meters… shit, looks like they are heading straight for you.” 

“Q...listen carefully. That pen is from Q-Branch. Recognise it?” Now that Bond has mentioned it, Q realises it does look familiar. The lack of air is not helping with his cognitive abilities. 

“Which one is it? Ss-sorry that was months ago. I can’t recall at the moment.” He really can’t, his head is starting to hurt. 

“Its alright... It’s the taser version.“ Bond’s voice is infuriatingly calm.

“30 meters,” R updates.

“Q…shift the pen to your dominant hand. Prime the pen, remember how you showed me? In a few moments, when you feel a hand on you, turn around and twist away perpendicular to where he’s coming from, jab the pen anywhere you can reach, the face or neck if you can-.”

“20 meters.” R’s tone is urgent now.

“...Then run as fast as you can in the direction you were going. We’re just coming up to the bottom of the street. Can you do that?“ 

No! - “Yes… turn, jab and run”. Q swaps the phone and pen in his hands. 

“10 meters.” 

“Get ready.” Bond’s voice is steel.

“NOW!” R’s warning shocks him into action.

Q ducks and twists around, the attacker barely has a grip on the collar of the coat. The action catches the attacker off-guard. Q then swings his arm around and jabs the pen under the man’s jaw, the tip lodging into the soft flesh there. A little more pressure and the pen discharges, sending the attacker spasming backwards and dropping him instantly. 

The motion throws Q off balance momentarily and he looses his grip; phone clattering to the ground. But he recovers an instant later. Q turns back and makes a run for it, pelting down the busy street as fast has he can. 

He can hear the screech of tyres and sirens up ahead. He sees a familiar dark green Range Rover and black Jaguar sedan skid to a stop, blocking the end of the street. 

So close. He looks back over his shoulder to see the second attacker just meters behind and gives his legs a last push. 

Ahead, he sees the doors of the vehicles fling open, agents swarming out. He doesn’t have time to slow down so he uses his momentum to launch himself over the bonnet of the Jag - sliding on his hip across it to land in a crouch on the other side, sandwiched between the Jag and Range Rover.

Behind him, he hears the sounds of punches and kicks being thrown. A choked groan of pain and a crunch of bones. Slightly further away, there’s the sound of agents calling out to a third assailant to stand down. 

He thinks to pear over the bonnet, but ducks again when he hears, “Get down!” followed by the rapid pop of gunshots. Then all hell breaks loose. People screaming and scattering causing absolute confusion. 

Over the gunfire, he hears, “Sir! Q! Get in!” An agent is standing over him and herding him towards the rear door of the Jag. 

He crouch-crawls his way to the back of the sedan keeping low. The agent shuts the heavy bulletproof door after him. A few seconds later another agent enters from the opposite door, throwing himself into the passenger seat next to Q and shutting the door. The Jag peels away immediately. 

Q exhales shakily after a minute. Finally taking stock of his surroundings. He can see Tanner’s familiar profile in the front driver seat, eyes on the road, weaving through traffic. 

“Alright?” the agent sitting next to him asks. Q turns his head, it’s Bond. Relief washes over him and it’s all he can do not to launch himself into Bond’s lap. He nods in acknowledgement.

Bond reaches across to squeeze his knee. The briefest of touches. He notices the fresh abrasions on the back of Bond’s knuckles. 

“Third assailant managed to escape. Police are in pursuit. The other two are in custody,” R’s voice comes over the speaker. 

“Received. Principle secured, we’re in transit.” Tanner replies. 

“R, do we know who they are yet? Links to anyone?” Bond asks.

“Nothing so far. Facial recognition is still running. CCTV shows an ambulance arriving outside Q’s building. The assailants posed as paramedics to gain entry. Once inside, they shot the plain-clothes police officer stationed there. They had a collapsible gurney with them too. We’re assuming that was how they intended to move Q once they’ve incapacitated him. It would not arouse suspicion.”  

Bond takes a deep breath, the only break in his cool and collected armour. Hearing the details was difficult. Too close. Too damned close.

The Jag pulls up at MI6, Tanner using the underground entrance. He parks the car in Mallory’s spot, close to the tunnel that houses the lifts, only then does Q realise the Jag is M’s government car. 

Tanner and Bond get out of the car. Bond crossing behind the car to open Q’s door. Q feels odd - his limbs sluggish, uncompliant and cold. Belatedly he thinks he’s in shock. It must have shown, because Bond reaches in to gently clamp his fingers around Q’s bicep and slowly help him out. 

They make it into the lift with Q increasingly leaning on Bond to keep himself standing. Why does his lungs still feel like they cant get enough air? 

The lift doors open and Q all but tumbles out into the lift lobby. His vision tunnels and the colours wash out. That’s the moment he crashes. 

“Q!” Bond lowers him onto the marble floor. Taking care to cushion his head.

Tanner is already on his phone, barking at medical to send a team, “Level 5 lobby stat!”

--------

Update: Part 2 here

Notes: Yes, prompted by that No Time to Die trailer. But this story doesn't take place in that universe so to speak. Was thinking to use this for the imaginary Q Netflix series I’m writing. 

If you’re interested: 

Series 1 Pilot here.

Series 2 Episode 1 & 2 here. And Episode 3.

[3one3]

The Sequel - 861

Forgettable

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“What was the last song stuck in your head?”

“Uhhhm...This morning, “Unforgettable”, from French Montana and J. Balvin.”

“Has it got a big beat that stays in your head, or is it catchy lyrics?”

“My girlfriend was playing it in the car last night- you know, singing and dancing with it very loud.”

“Is she a talented singer?”

“No,” Juan snorted with a great big smile. “The chorus part is in Spanish and she can’t say the words fast enough.”

“You’ve traveled to many different places, as a footballer, and on hol-“

Okay that’s enough, Christina grumbled after pausing the short video clip from a fun interview Juan gave at Cobham on Monday for a popular YouTube creator who produced football-related content with a number of typical partners like adidas, the Premier League, and Whisper Films. The rider was waiting for her agent and a TV crew from Sky Sports to arrive to do her own interview on Tuesday morning for the evening’s primetime coverage of one of the last days of the Olympics. They wanted Dirk, so they had to come to her, and they were late. Christina made what was fast looking like a mistake in deciding to kill some time by reading her Twitter mentions.

She had a very distant relationship with her fans on social media. Her policy was “don’t read the replies”, and Tim practically forbade her from responding to any of them unless she was specifically doing an open Q&A. Sometimes she interacted with actual friends in public on Twitter and Instagram. She commented on their photos, for example, or made jokes at their expense on Twitter. Sometimes she even flirted publically with André on both platforms. Mostly she just posted information and photos that she thought her fans would enjoy. Someone in Tim’s office also posted content on her behalf. Largely ignoring the comments and avoiding engagement didn’t mean she was unaware of the broad trends in conversation about her and among her supporters, and detractors. Christina was aware that there was a fairly vocal bloc of fans in her 600,000-strong following that was very much Team Juan. They called attention to everything she or the Spaniard did or said that could be some form of evidence to prove that they were either in love, having an affair, or secretly married. The bloc had its own warring factions that argued the details. So it didn’t come as a huge surprise to her that many of them, and perhaps some of Juan’s fans too, took note that he mentioned a girlfriend, that he said he was with her on Sunday night, and that his restaurant posted a photo of two Olympic medals that happened to be the same colors as hers on its Instagram that night too.

I’m not sure I can even be mad at him for this one ‘cause he probably has no idea what goes up for the restaurant. I actually think that’s Antonio’s job, and Antonio probably didn’t think he was going to go and drop the G-word in an interview 15 hours later, or ever, for that matter. This won’t get on Schü’s radar since he doesn’t look at his mentions either, but if these girls make enough noise then The Sun or the Mail are going to pick this up and make a thing out of it. Should I tell Tim, or just hope it goes away? I didn’t post anything about being in London, and Juanin knows like every Spanish person in sport, so it could have been someone else’s medals. I wonder if he’s even noticed this new- A knock at her office door put the brakes on Christina’s conjecture.

“Yeah,” she called to Tom. It had to be Tom, because no one else waited for a response after knocking. They just opened the door.

“They’re here,” he told her, meaning the visitors.

“Can you show them up to the lounge or something? I’m...err...busy-ish.”

“Schü is taking them up there for coffee.”

“Thanks. Is Dirk ready?”

“Yes. He would like to go back outside though.”

“We won’t be long, I hope.”

Tom nodded and shut the door he’d only just leaned through to talk to the boss. She originally disliked that her office door was solid and lacked a window. It was proving handy though, because sometimes she didn’t want anyone to see what she was doing in there. Sitting at her desk and glaring forlornly at her laptop wasn’t exactly a private activity, but it would have required an explanation if say, André peeked into the office on his way to the lounge upstairs.

I should tell Juanin which song is stuck in my head, and why. It’s “1000 Nights”. I know he knows it. I think he introduced it to me. It’s about wasting 1000 nights apart, and guess what. I did the math. I broke up with him almost exactly 1000 days ago. And sometimes it does feel like “for 1000 nights, I’ve been a restless soul”. I’m the poster child for all sorts of restlessness, and he’s proven to be my rest so, so many times. But Schü is too. Sometimes. Less than he used to be. Not often enough, really. Christina sighed and picked up her iPhone to text the Spaniard about his very public girlfriend reference, but she just stared at the black screen for a few seconds. I’ll call him later. I don’t want to get all...whatever...right before an interview. She slipped her feet back into her Rainbow flipflops under the desk, and then went looking for the party.

The literal crew appeared to be setting up right in the barn aisle, at the junction between the long part with all the stalls and the perpendicular aisle connecting it to the indoor. Dirk was on the crossties getting ready for his close up. His rider stopped to give him a kiss on his velvety nose on her way to the viewing lounge, which was where she figured they would do the interview. Everyone else who came to her farm to speak with her on camera wanted to do it up there. The interviewer and her producer were enjoying some lattes when she arrived, with Tim. André was a really great barista. He saw crafting espresso-based beverages as a competitive challenge. Every coffee was a chance to beat his personal best creation. He had a cortado waiting for her. They all talked about the Olympic experience and discussed how the interview would go. The subject asked the most basic of questions about it, like if her feet were going to be in the shot and if she had enough makeup on or needed to go reapply. She’d chosen nice clean, standard horse show color Pikeur breeches and a black adidas tee with a belt in between, thinking she would only be shot from the waist up. She also did her standard, casual daytime makeup. One of her Olympic pet peeves, for her whole life, was when American medal winners went on the Today Show in street clothes and excessive makeup and looked out of place and uncomfortable and unnatural. The media tried to turn them into celebrities and had to pluck them out of their athlete environment to do so. They put gymnasts used to wearing spandex every single day into ill-fitting jeans and tops that made them look deformed. Christina didn’t like that, and she didn’t want it to happen to her any more than it had been throughout her relationship with André. His status lent to her elevation as a recognizable name and face independent from her sporting reputation, and that was less objectionable to her, mostly because it wasn’t her choice. Being an Olympic medalist really didn’t feel any different than being a non-Olympian. The presence of a Sky Sports crew in her barn wasn’t even that exceptional. The only thing about her Tuesday that stood out from any other was her appointment at the Ferrari dealership. The woman interviewing her definitely wanted to know if her life was changed by the experience, and Christina told her the jury was still out but that, in general, she felt a new sense of accomplishment for having ticked off such a significant goal. She also asked her if she planned to reward herself for the achievement.

“Will you go somewhere for a holiday, or buy something, or maybe there is a week of binging on unhealthy food?” the interviewer asked her with a smile. They spoke in English because the rider preferred to do long-form interviews in her native tongue, to be more precise and thorough.

“I get to be home for a few weeks, which in itself is a treat,” she smiled back at the pretty brunette who covered all things equestrian. They’d talked many times before. “And I’m rewarding myself with...a new horse, actually,” Christina chuckled. Don’t brag. “A prancing black stallion.” Her innuendo was picked up immediately.

“Of Italian breeding, perhaps?”

“Could be,” she winked. Move on, lady. Don’t make me admit on TV that I’m buying myself a Ferrari. That’s such a spoiled rich girl thing to do.

She let her off. They wrapped up the questions and then moved outside to get some footage of the equine medal winner and talk about his experience in Tokyo, though his partner mentioned him as part of her answer to nearly every question already. The producer wanted to shoot him loose in a paddock, with the two women just talking in front of him. The horse was a ham. He wanted to be the focus of the shot, and the conversation, instead of background dressing. He stood patiently behind them and tried to interact with them instead of just eating grass or walking off to explore. The producer guy was loving it each time Dirk put his head over Christina’s shoulder, or sniffed at her face as if to give kisses.

“We should get permission to use some of this footage in the videos on the website for his breeding,” Tim said quietly from the other side of the paddock fence, where he and André were watching. “Buy yourself some semen and get not just a tremendously talented jumping horse, but also a lovable pet.”

“I think everyone interested in Dirk’s semen already knows he’s her 1200lb lap dog,” the other athlete shrugged. “Let’s not give her ideas about videos, or anything like that. Let her be for a while.”

“I have nothing for her after the pre-arranged media. Have you two done anything special to celebrate yet? Oh, remind me back in the stable, I have the bank check for the down payment for the car.”

“I don’t know if she’ll want to get the special one today or think it over after the test drives,” André replied. His wife’s Ferrari was going to be paid for with Lilly XO charter money, and owned by the corporation Tim set up to own the boat, for tax purposes. The company’s second address was the agent’s office. “There is also a small chance that she drives all of the cars and then decides she doesn’t need one. It’s so difficult for her to spend that much money on something for herself, still. Shoes that cost as much as a used Vauxhall are fine. Treating herself with a dream car...might be too much to get past her practicality filter.”

“Make her get it. She deserves something big.”

“I think for her the reward was the team gold- the result. She woke up early this morning and sat in the bathroom for 40 minutes with Lukas to see if he would poop in his little toilet. If she did something truly special last week and deserves a lot of special treatment, no one told her. I think she’s already moving past the Olympics and starting to worry what big thing will come next.”

“Is there any chance what’s next is a brother or sister for Lukas?” Tim turned to make eye contact with his favorite client, but both men were wearing sunglasses and couldn’t see each other’s eyes anyway. Still, André knew from the small grin that his agent thought he might be hoping Christina’s next big goal might not be in the saddle. And it made him wonder if it was that obvious to everyone that he did wish his wife could obsess over something else- perhaps something that was more for both of them than just for her. He wasn’t thinking about another child, however.

“None whatsoever.”

“Ah. Hey, it looks like they’re finished.”

“Good. She wants to ride before we go to Düsseldorf.

“You should get her to take the day off since you have off.”    

“I just told you- it’s back to normal here already.”

“Maybe she’s just waiting for someone to tell her she did something special and is worthy of taking at least a little time to celebrate and honor that...”

“Are you trying to say I’m not making a big enough deal?”

“I expected her to be hungover from an Olympic-themed party, and balloons in the house, and champagne glasses left all over the kitchen with a few sips left. You let me in the front door and there was no “Congratulations, Princess” banner hanging in the foyer and I thought, “Wow, have the housekeepers been here already this morning?” You didn’t give her a party with her friends or anything?”

Christina saved André from having to answer the question for Tim, but not for himself. She had questions for their agent about whether or not she could do a quick promo for some show for the network, so he went with her to speak to the producer. The footballer was left with his thoughts.

Should I have organized a big party for her, he wondered. She doesn’t really have friends here yet besides Marco and Mario, and she got here in the morning, so she saw Stefanie and Kyle and Isandro and did whatever big congratulations thing already before I could have had a party for her. It would have had to be last night. I didn’t even think to do it, he reminded himself, wary of letting himself off the hook on the difficulties of the logistics of a celebratory party when he knew full well that he didn’t think of doing it and then just decide not to because of those things. It didn’t occur to him that Christina might want or enjoy something like that. I assumed she would be most happy to be home with Mausi and me, and back with Dirk. But come on! She knows how proud I am of her, and she knows I think what she did is a big deal. I don’t need a party to show her that. And she would probably be annoyed if I had my parents here. André couldn’t help but consider the way his ex-teammate honored Christina’s achievement. She told him all about the lovely dinner, and how much she enjoyed being with Juan’s parents. Chris wouldn’t like coming home and having to host houseguests, and I don’t think she even cares that they were so proud of her too. She likes his parents better. They’re closer. I doubt she’d even have the relationship she has with mine now if not for Mausi. You don’t get to choose your parents but she kind of does because hers are not in the picture, and she chose Juan’s. His parents didn’t mind that she broke up with him and has been torturing him for years. Her relationship with Mama and Papa has never been the same since we were separated, and then it got worse last year when we were fighting al the time. Ugh, whatever. Letting her know I love her and I’m in awe of her and I’m inspired by her and what she did to get to last week and then what she did there really has nothing to do with parents, or parties. She knows.

“Hey babe, can you hand me Dirk’s halter?” Christina interrupted from the other side of the fence. She was standing on the bottom board and leaning over the top. “He won’t leave the camera equipment alone and he’s gonna get out when they go through the gate.” André passed the leather halter and lead to her. It had been on his shoulder, because he was a good Horse Husband and a good dad, and just held whatever was thrust in his lap, or put it on his arm, or safely in a pocket.

“Are they done?”

“Yeah. I think I should bring him in with us so Tom can put his bell boots back on.”

“Why are they all out right now?”

“We’re switching to daytime turnout today. Poor Calvin must be so lonely inside by himself right now,” Christina said before turning her lower lip over to pout sympathetically for her monstrous Hanoverian, who had to wait until they were finished shooting in his paddock before he could be turned out.

“Why don’t you ride him first since he’s already in?”

“I think I want my salami sandwich first.” Her eyes grew big and comical- a sort of self-deprecating gesture meant to mock her sometimes-limitless appetite. She stepped off the fence and turned her head to check on Dirk, who was checking the lighting guy for treats.

“Can I-“

“Be right back.” His human hurried to catch him before he could break something, scare someone, or sneak out behind the girl trying to carry two cases of electronics through the partially-open gate.

Eat lunch with you, the BVB man finished silently. Is it fair to say I can’t wait for the media stuff to finish in a few days so that I get her to myself for a while? Or is the media hype part of the whole experience and I should be happy for her that she gets this attention? Does she even care? Why do I have so many questions? Life has too many questions lately, André lamented. He hated second-guessing himself on matters relating to his wife. He was right to think it used to be easier. No one could instill doubt in him the way Tim just had. He knew what his girl was thinking, how she would take things, what she wanted, and what she needed. For most of their marriage, and their brief relationship before that, he didn’t have to wonder so often if he was doing the right thing. That was one of the reasons he loved Christina. They had an unmatched understanding of one another.

Christina was polite about seeing her visitors out. She had no urge to hurry them out and get on with her day. A side effect of securing those precious medals was no longer feeling like every day was a race to get to something. No matter how packed her schedule, her attitude was laid back. It took that switch for her to even recognize that she’d felt like she was hurrying toward something every day for a long time until about a month before the Games, when she transitioned to dragging her feet on everything because she didn’t want to arrive at her fate anymore. When she woke up the morning after the individual final in Tokyo, the way time passed changed. It no longer went too quickly or felt slowed down by her conscious effort to retard it. Time was just time, and it moved along in “real” time. She didn’t have 5 minutes to herself that day, but it didn’t feel that way. The noticeable change in her perception of time was strange but liberating.

“Lunch time?” André suggested as soon as the front door of the small van shut behind the Sky Sports interviewer in the front passenger seat. He and Christina were standing in the open doorway at the parking lot end of the main aisle, and the sunlight from above hit just her face because of the roof. Time hadn’t slowed down for him. He felt anxious about everything, all the time. He realized when he turned to look at his girl that he should have taken a few seconds to just enjoy how gorgeous her face looked in that sun. She hated sunburn, and she feared and respected UV rays because of a history of melanoma in her family and a desire to preserve her youthful skin, but her face really loved sunlight. Her pores shrunk, her cheeks plumped, and the little wrinkles seemed to disappear. Her face was like a flower turning up to the nourishing sun and perking up its petals to its most splendid and beautiful. André didn’t get to savor his sunflower because he asked her about lunch, and she had to look up at him to answer, and cover her eyes from the sun, and squint, and scrunch her face as she considered whether or not to go have her sandwich.

“Yeah, I guess so. Are you staying?”

“Is there enough salami for two?”

“Yes, but you know, the whole reason I brought the salami and the baguette and the cheese over here is to keep you and the Munchkin and the nanny from eating it,” she grinned. Several days’ worth of lunch ingredients accompanied her to the stable that morning. Good food was safer in the refrigerator in the lounge than in the kitchen.

“You can’t even eat all the bread before it goes stale,” her partner reminded her before sticking his tongue out at her and tugging on her bouncy and voluminous ponytail.

“If I put my mind to it, I could eat all the bread in the world. I fucking love bread.”

“I know you can, Prinzessin,” he chuckled. “You can do anything if you put your mind to it, clearly. I love you for that.” His hands reached out for her on their own, and captured her whole head in addition to the base of the ponytail. “I love that you never quit.”

“You’re so cheesy. And can you lean a little this way? Your big head can block out the sun.”

“Big head. Big brain.”

“Uhhuh sure. Big hair too.” Christina reached up to pat the side swept pouf of hair atop his head. “Let’s eat.”

See? Even when I try to tell her, seriously, what her accomplishment means to me, she just laughs and makes fun of me. I don’t have to do a party. She knows, the player reiterated inside as he followed her up the empty aisle. Their barn was full of light and the woody scent of pine mixed with the sweetness of fresh hay. Every stall but Calvin’s was picked clean and topped up with fluffy bedding. All of the black water buckets were scrubbed and filled, and there was a pile of hay in a back corner. Christina demanded that her staff take care of those things as part of the morning chores when the horses went out during the daytime. There was no taking the whole day to ready the stalls for the horses to come in in the evening. They had to be cleaned and set up right away, so that the aisles themselves could be blown and swept clean and not littered with soiled bedding and bits of hay falling out of wheelbarrows traveling back and forth to the muck pile outside. It also ensured that any horse having to come in during the day, to be ridden, or seen by the vet or farrier, for example, would come in to a clean stall ready with hay and water for him. That was important to her. It kept the animals comfortable and stress-free, and the whole process ensured order in her operation. Some of the other trainers who shared facilities with Eddie and Simon were not as deliberate in managing their grooms and stable, and things got in the way of finishing drawn out chores and then the chores never got done and horses were put back into dirty stalls with swampy buckets and nothing to munch on.

Another thing André loved and most especially respected about his wife was her ability to learn and absorb real knowledge from her experiences. Part of it was that she never forgot anything, and part of it was her special skill in following keen observation with intelligent deduction. Her mind collected all available information and processed it in a way that allowed her to use it right away, and in the most effective way. Her husband admired her ability to be good at totally new things just because she paid attention to everything and could translate her observations into policy, so to speak. She’d never run an elite show barn on her own before she suddenly found herself owning one. She’d never cared for a child of any age before she became a mom, and she handled it exceptionally well in his eyes. She had no media experience but knew how to handle press and how to conduct herself from the get-go. Those things stood out to him because he couldn’t do the same thing. He wasn’t good at adapting. He needed many things to align in order for him to succeed. The window in which he had the right conditions to play football at the level and consistency he desired was quite small, and it took him forever to figure out the conditions and how to create them.

“Are you going home to hang with Lulu Schü?” Christina asked him following his last bite of Genoa salami and provolone. Her sandwich was smaller so she finished it more quickly. They ate at the kitchen-style table in the viewing lounge. Spencer and Lucky were lying on the floor but remained vigilant in case of dropped food. They were mostly just happy to be free again instead of confined to their playpen outside the back entrance to the barn, where they couldn’t get into trouble with the TV people.

“Yeah. His singalong show with the sheep starts soon. He likes when I sing with him. I’m not usually home when it’s on.”

“What was the last song stuck in your head?”

“From the show?”

“In general.”

“”Swalla”. The guys play it in the dressing room constantly. Marc never stops dancing.”

“Do you remember what I was listening to when I was getting ready this morning and you were obsessively trimming your nose hair with the little buzzy thing?”

“No. Why?”

“Just wondering.” The rider emitted a barely perceptible sigh and picked up her water bottle for a sip.