#settle into their new life where nothing horrible or ghost related could ever happen

[bitchfitch]

help people are mistaking the opening chapter of my psych horror story about a man getting trapped in a demented game of house with a personification of the US Military's rot for a cute gay romcom about veterans relaxing after achieving glory

[fourangers]

Some bad porn can turn out to be good (3/3)

Summary: “Why are you watching porn on broad daylight and…is this…is this a blond guy fucking a japanese man?”

Who would have thought that porn watching could have such enlightening results. NaruSasu, blow job, anal sex, mutual pining without angst, Comedy, Romance, AU working in an advertisement agency. Some InoSaku.

AO3 link | ffnet link

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

--.--

Best way to squeeze the life out of a stupid blond mor|

An idiot just shot me down after he kissed me and I goddamn gave him a blow job, what’s the fastest way to kill h|

10 fast steps to understand the mind of a total dumba|

How to get rid of a dead dumbass bod|

Naruto Uzumaki addr|

Sasuke huffed loudly, smashing the backspace button as it erased the sentence in the search bar. He was in a murderous mood but it was rather counteractive doing the deed, no matter how much he’s been longing to reach Naruto’s neck and squeeze it really hard.

After last night, that dumbass didn’t answer his messages, didn’t return his calls. This turn of events didn’t make one lick of sense and worst of all, Naruto didn’t explain whatever the fuck had happened yet. He wrecked his brain trying to understand whatever the fuck was going on, because one moment Naruto was kissing him as if his life depended on it, one second after, he was literally fleeing out of his reach.

That kiss…he could also not get this out of his mind. Its fiery passion overwhelmed him, making him out of breath, engulfing to the deepest depths of his heart. 

It also felt much more personal than simply a heat of the moment. At first Sasuke thought he managed to convince Naruto for a physical tryst, but…the way he devoured his lips, arms held his body as if Naruto didn’t want to let him go, the vulnerable and yet covetous eyes that pierced through him, holding onto hope that maybe…Naruto actually returned his feelings⏤  

Until he was shot down, completely. Dead. Done. Over. Whatever the fuck had happened.

There laid a bizarre paradox that he didn’t make many strides to crack it down. Naruto desired him, somewhat, after all Sasuke made sure he had Naruto’s consent before he gave him that blow job, because God heavens he’d never force himself onto him. And yet, all that was left was this cryptic puzzle in the end.

Jesus Christ, why was anything related to this dumb blond so complicated? Another good reason to wring that stupid neck. Sasuke even arrived late at the ad agency, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of that golden hair but so far he’s the only one in the whole building. Everyone was stuck in the traffic jam since there was a horrible storm, leaving him in his lonesome brooding self.

He heard a ping.

“...hey everyone, sorry I’m late I⏤oh fuck!” Sasuke ran after Naruto the moment he heard his voice, blocking him from reaching back to the elevator with a snarl. “H-hey Sasuke, ‘sup?” Naruto mumbled, while he tried to slide away from his grasp.

“You’re not going anywhere before you explain everything.” Sasuke growled, gritting his teeth.

“Yeah, and I will! But um…” Naruto managed to wring his arm out from Sasuke’s hand and sprinted. “We gotta work first right?”

“No one have arrived here yet, it’s only us two. So talk.”

“Whoa really? I mean, that means someone will arrive soon! Plus we still have other jobs to do, maybe we can talk on lunch time?” Naruto said, placing his umbrella at the entrance to let it dry.

Sasuke scoffed. “So that you’ll find a way to avoid me till there? I’m sure that I deserve an explanation right at this very fucking second.”

“But⏤”

“Because you fucking ghosted me all night you fucking coward!” Sasuke shouted, and this uncharacteristic display of emotion startled Naruto, freezing on the spot. “After everything that happened to us, for how long we know each other, I thought at least you’d give me some satisfaction and give me a clear concise explanation instead of simply running away, you asshole!”

Naruto opened his mouth, before he closed thinning his lips, looking away. Sasuke stared back with building consternation, unable to comprehend why the blond man had such troubled expression. He raised his hand to touch Naruto’s face until⏤ 

All the lights were out.

“What?” Naruto mumbled, glancing at the ceiling. Both men jumped when their smartphones began chiming at the same time, with a barrage of new messages in their company’s group chat. Most of them were confused and shocked that there appeared to have a massive electric blackout, affecting most means of transportation. 

People began discussing whether the blackout would take too long, as it appeared that it affected the entire city. There were some concerned texts about finishing the project, the CEO also began typing worried. He contacted the building’s manager and their response was rather alarming; it might take at least 6 hours to return to normalcy.

Since everyone was stuck on traffic or couldn’t move with the subway not being operational, Naruto and Sasuke were the only ones in the company left. 

Fortunately Temari had the faster insight and was already contacting her client to extend the deadline. They waited with baited breath until she received the positive confirmation that they could give the presentation two days after the original date. The CEO thanked everyone for their attention, everybody was relieved to return to their homes until further notice.

Thus, both men were left watching the storm rumbling from the window, while they sat on their respective desks. Sasuke perused Naruto’s contemplative eyes, closing his laptop loudly to catch his attention as he sat on the table next to the blond man.

“Well. Now that we literally have nothing else to do, are you finally going to explain this to me?”

Wringing his hands together, Naruto stared at the ground pursing his lips, while he crossed his arms waiting. Naruto exhaled very tiredly, Sasuke had some satisfaction that at least this blond dumbass also appeared that he had suffered on his behalf, seeing the bags beneath his eyes.

“Yesterday, I kept thinking…We shouldn’t have done that last night.”

There was a sharp stab in his heart, but Sasuke spurred him on, craving for answers. “Oh? Care to explain why?”

“I did it by impulse…And I’m sorry…I mean, like, after I made you give me a blow job⏤”

“You didn’t make me do anything, dumbass, I was an active participant.” Sasuke growled.

Naruto blushed, scratching his head. “...okay, and then I kissed you and I was really…I feel so bad, I was leading you on but I couldn’t push this forward, you know what I mean?”

Sasuke frowned, but remained silent, waiting for better explanation. 

“And well…it’s just so complicated, 'cuz I know our interests are different. And it's my fault, I shouldn't have jerked off in the first place and attracted your attention when we have different expectations and⏤”

Sasuke narrowed his eyes.

“And you know, I wish I could keep things simpler but I can’t, because⏤it’s” Naruto opened his mouth, struggling to come up with his explanation. “It’s like…you know, I got too attached and I can’t really settle for something simple⏤”  

It’s the first time Sasuke had listened to such long diatribe and yet he’s still not understanding one single word. 

“So I guess I created a misunderstanding when you thought I’d want something simple and be done with one or two nights or less? And I should have suppress it better but I’m also in the wrong just kissing you and going away.”

He guessed that this blond dumbass will go round and round and never get to the point. 

“I mean, I should have prepared myself to get only one or two nights but it’s difficult for me to settle just for this so I would probably bother you when⏤” 

“Naruto, stop fucking around and just tell me what you really want to say.” Sasuke glared, interrupting.

“I really like you.” Naruto squeaked in a rapid mutter.

Sasuke widened his eyes, heartbeats drumming loudly in his ears, warming his core and leaving him speechless. 

 “Like…really, really, really, like you⏤” Naruto's face were getting redder with each punctuation of the word. “Oh God, I can’t get you out of my head for…I don’t know, since I started working here? I really wanted to date you and go all the way through, I always thought I shouldn’t.” 

His jaw was still slack, completely shocked by this extraordinary outcome. He didn't know if he was going to cry or laugh, kiss or punch this idiot. This entire time, this whole time they could be in a relationship already with plenty of sex, and this dumbass held out to him for this long??

“And I shouldn’t have kissed you like that because well…I know you don’t want the same thing I want with you.”

Sasuke’s brain finally kicked in for a much needed reboot, so he growled, mildly miffed. “Wait, since when you thought I wouldn’t want the same thing you wanted?”

Blue eyes blinked from his interruption, fumbling the edge of his t-shirt. “Um…you just want to keep things casual, right?”

“When and where the hell did I ever say that to you?” He snarled.

“You didn’t but…” Naruto shrugged one shoulder, not meeting his eyes. “I heard⏤”

“You heard.” Sasuke punctuated the last word; whoever that kept spreading those lies will face a slow and torturous death. “And you actually believed in whatever rumor was going around me. Have you ever thought, you dumbass, to ask me about this first?”

“Yeah…I know but well…you didn’t seem to be interested in a steady relationship because there are stories that well…you never bothered to date more than twice I think, you’re always picking guys for some one-night stands so it’s, you know, incompatible with what I want with you.”

Feeling slightly uncomfortable by the accuracy of Naruto’s description, Sasuke pressed on, nevertheless. “And why the hell would you ever believe in those stories?”   

“Sasuke…” Naruto pursed his lips, looking apologetic. “Karin is my cousin.”

This time Sasuke, grimaced, raising his eyes to the ceiling and huffing. Goddammit, Karin that tattletale…next time he’d meet his gang, he’d let Suigetsu pester her to no end. 

“Ok…ok, I guess I can’t really argue with that, considering that your source came from Karin.” Sasuke grunted, then sighed. “But, have you ever thought that…even if I never had a steady relationship before…that I might be looking for one this time?”  

His statement caught Naruto off-guard, glancing for a second before hastily dropping his gaze. He said with a guilty tone. “Well…Karin told a lot of⏤”

“Yes, I can bet that she probably gave you a very detailed description of my past encounters, but it’s like I’ve said; it’s all part of my past.” Sasuke muttered, approaching towards Naruto and inwardly sighing in relief that he didn’t mind the close distance. “You’re…unique to my life, I’d enjoy trying something more with you.” 

Naruto stared back with furrowed eyebrows. “You didn’t seem to be interested in me in that way before you realized that I’m into guys.”

“...” Sasuke felt a migraine coming up on its way. “...Naruto, I’ve been trying to flirt with you since forever and you fucking dumbass never noticed.”

Naruto growled in indignation, before he muttered bewildered. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

“I could see that. That’s why I figured that the only way you’d finally realize my feelings is through a more direct approach.”

Sasuke could almost see the gears moving in Naruto’s mind as the blond man finally put two to two. “Yeah, sucking my dick definitely sent a direct message, for sure.”

“And I guess that this created this misunderstanding, but on the other hand, if only you weren’t such a dense dumbass, none of this would have happened.” 

Naruto harrumphed, crossing his arms. “Yeah well, what I was supposed to think then? First time when you saw an opportunity you’d suck my dick, it just showed that you were only trying to get into my pants.”

“Every time I flirted with you I was immediately shot down you dumbass, since gods know when. So forgive me when I was a teensy bit excited with the prospect that you might be interested in me.” Sasuke muttered with an equal bite. 

Bracing himself, he expected the blond man to bristle in indignation. However, Naruto squinted his eyes, before broadening a mischievous grin. “So you like me this much huh.”

Sasuke could feel his face heating up, though he still managed to chide with an even tone, chin raised up. “Considering that you took this long to finally understand it, I’m having second thoughts about all this.”

Naruto’s smile didn’t dim one bit. “But you liiiike me~how cute~~~” Sasuke rolled his eyes when the blond man circled around him, interlacing his fingers and placing next to his cheeks with a girlish singsong voice. “Awwwieee~~you have a crush on me? How embarrassing~~”

“Debatable, doubtful and inconclusive since it doesn’t have any substantial proofs.” Sasuke muttered unflappable, hitching a lopsided smirk. “And the prospect of me being infatuated towards you, I assure you, it’s dwindling by the minute.”

This time Naruto didn’t miss his message, approaching wearing his same smirk. “Oh? Then lemme me help you change your mind.” Sasuke’s heart skipped a beat when he felt warm fingers holding his nape, lips were against his.

Sasuke breathed a sigh of relief now that finally, finally, they were kissing without any hindrance or misinterpretation burdening them. He reached up and pulled Naruto closer, his mouth parting the full lips, tongue drawing a line on the lower lip before sliding in, swallowing Naruto’s groan. He felt his back digging on the table behind him, as Naruto pressed forward, kissing with eager excitement, with the same intensity he had felt last night. 

Naruto retreated for a second, eyes full of wonder and amazement while he let his fingers brush the pale cheeks. He sought for another deep kiss, lips then gliding to his chin, peppering kisses downwards before he bit hard on the juncture between the neck and his shoulder. Sasuke moaned in response, Naruto licked on the reddened spot on his skin until he returned to taste Sasuke’s mouth. His own arms flung around the tanned neck, enjoying the weight warming his body, getting high with Naruto’s scent. His veins throbbed when a hand intruded inside his shirt, caressing his stomach. 

Sasuke sat on the table, his legs were already enveloping around Naruto’s waist as his body demanded for more, letting this passion run awry and consume them all. He slapped those buttocks, fingers digging on the soft molds, noticeable even beneath the fabric of denim jeans. With a husky growl, Naruto yanked his shirt out, though such action made Sasuke stop his motions for once. 

“Wait. You really want to do it now?” He mumbled, cupping the tanned cheeks with his hands and staring the bewildered azure eyes.

Naruto blinked, before broadening a very playful grin. “I always wanted to try having sex in the office so, if you won’t mind…”

Sasuke rolled his eyes, unbuckling Naruto’s belt while the latter removed his own t-shirt. Naruto sucked his neck again, gazing up with half-lidded eyes.

“So you want to top? Bottom?” Naruto didn’t even let Sasuke open his mouth, planting a cheeky kiss. “Alright, you took too long to answer, so I’m topping.”

He lowered to take out Sasuke’s dark pants, raising an eyebrow when he received no sign of struggle. Sasuke stared back. “Well? I don’t have all day dumbass.”

Naruto wrinkled his nose. His teeth lightly gnawed his lower lip, muttering. “Right, so you have any lube and condoms? Because I definitely didn’t expect getting some booty tonight, I got nothing.”

Sighing, Sasuke kissed him back, gesturing on the general direction of his backpack. Naruto understood at once, grabbing it and offering to him. He picked the items at once, until a hand seized his wrist, lowering him to the desk as a moist tongue explored his torso. He gasped, now sensing the hard surface of Naruto’s barbell contrasting the soft texture of the appendage. 

“Oh, you didn’t even open the cap of the lube.” Naruto noted amusedly. “Someone is really eager over here.”

Blushing, Sasuke glared. “Maybe it’s new because I need to restock them constantly.” He taunted. 

Naruto’s expression closed off in an instant, approaching with a feral expression that thrilled him to his spine. “Who, where and when?” He snarled through gritted teeth. “I swear if I get them, I’ll⏤”

“I was joking you dumbass.” Sasuke scoffed, lightly bumping his hand on the blond’s head. “I haven’t got involved with anyone else for over a year.”

Naruto’s furious growl deflated to an embarrassing one, scratching the back of his head. He gave a light peck on his mouth, holding Sasuke’s nape loosely. 

Sasuke smirked inwardly, knowing that he was going to be playing with fire once he uttered the next set of words. “But I might change my mind if you take too long, idiot.”

In a split second, his belt was unfastened with a loud clattering noise, blunt nails practically ripped his pants down to his ankles, blazing blue eyes stared him down while Naruto worked to take off his shoes. A hot hand was already palming his clothed erection before jerking it free, pumping dry and earning a grunt from Sasuke. Naruto licked his nipple, lightly scraping with his teeth and swirling around until it was hard. He removed the dark navy boxers, coating his finger with lube and nudging in with one smooth move.

Sasuke inhaled sharply, shutting his eyes. When he noticed that Naruto didn’t move one inch, he snorted. “Well? I told you I don’t want to waste any of my time.”

Naruto rolled his eyes, dropping another moist kiss. “Impatient and demanding bastard. What am I gonna do with you.” He complained with a visible grin, one hand stimulating the head of his cock, while another one continued to widen his entrance. He nudged Sasuke’s legs to spread apart, stroking the prostate with tip of his fingers. The charging pleasure began building up with Sasuke’s rapid breaths, expanding and tingling throughout his skin. 

And yet this wasn’t enough to quench his hunger. Glancing down, he saw to his utter bewilderment that Naruto just unzipped his jeans, his erection still confined beneath the boxers with a wet patch on the head. 

Naruto smiled roguishly. “Another kink I have.” He chuckled when Sasuke just shook his head in response, taking out his cock and rolling the condom on it. He poured copious amounts of lube over it, pumping with a low moan. One glance from Sasuke’s darkened eyes was enough to throw one pale leg over his shoulder, thrusting in that tight hole.

Both men groaned from the overwhelming sensation, stopping at once. In one infinite moment, they spent gazing towards each other awestruck. After so many months of longing, at last…Sasuke wholly accepted Naruto’s amorous kiss, welcoming the rush of warm delight encompassed with each pulse of hips.

Those kisses started lethargic, indulging even, sparking with more hot passion as Naruto’s cock impaled in a faster pace. His hands travelled to fondle his ass cheeks, gripping them tightly when he drew out and thrusted, growling loudly. 

“Naruto⏤!” Sasuke screamed, hands trying to hold onto anything with no avail, settling to touch the sturdy pecs. Naruto’s lips brushed on his mouth, breathing rapidly.

Out of nowhere, Sasuke lost the thick girth of the hard cock inside him, groaning in reflex. He was flipped around, hands holding on the edge of the table as the penetration begin anew. This time he could feel the thrusts going deeper, faster and stronger, letting his lust spiral out of control. Naruto kissed and licked his back, holding his hips while his erection continued to drill in mercilessly. 

Leaning his weight to his elbows, Sasuke rested his forehead on it, taking in all this sweet torment. However, Naruto’s fingers threaded through the dark strands, clutching on it and dragging his head backwards till he arched his spine. In one sharp thrust, Sasuke slipped out a loud erotic scream, escalating in volume as it drove faster.

“Is that how you like it?” Naruto licked his earlobe, reverberating a dark whisper. “A little pain?”

Sasuke bit his lower lip, ecstasy drowning out any rationality and making him craving for more. More, drill me, fuck me like that, oh God yes, more, faster, fuck me Naruto; he wanted that thick cock inside him, slamming in him over and over, the volatile flame that ignited his whole soul. 

Nimble fingers encircled around his red erection, pre-cum dripping to the floor. When Naruto pumped his cock, Sasuke went rigid, all the pleasure overflowing till he orgasmed with a hoarse scream. 

Naruto bit his shoulder till it drew blood, few more thrusts as he also reached his climax, burrowed deep in Sasuke’s ass. They took long breaths, milking the after-shocks while Sasuke collapsed on the table below, pale skin red with exhaustion.

Naruto gazed down to Sasuke’s firm buttocks, not resisting the urge to fondle and slapping on it, admiring how it jiggled a bit.

“Hm.” Sasuke grunted in between gasps. “I guess you’re doable.”

Naruto quirked his eyebrow, tilting his head to one side. “Doable.” He repeated.

Sasuke turned around to face him, moving his hand around with an airy voice. “Yes, doable, decent, sufficient, tolerable, moderately satisfactory, whatever word that floats your boat.” He licked his parched lips, smirking. “I might need more rounds to reassess my judgement.”

Naruto grinned, eyes darkening with lust as he kissed him again. “Alright you walking thesaurus, how about we go to my apartment so I can show how ‘doable’ I am?”

⏤.⏤

Sasuke sighed happily, walking towards to the cafeteria with a slight limp. He had the most wondrous weekend spent with Naruto, having sex non-stop with varied array of positions. Pretty sure they completed everything in kama sutra, from head to toe. Twice. 

Naruto was probably busy doing the last touches of his layouts, so he went ahead first. He heard familiar giggles.

“They are about to kiss, aren’t they? I mean, the sexual tension is off the roof.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought first, but they have been talking for about half an hour. Ino-pig, fast forward it.”

“Aaaaah Sakura, honey, then you’ll ruin the whole suspense.”

“Screw the suspense, I want to see Naruto screwing Sasuke!”

Sasuke narrowed his eyes.

“Wait wait. You really think Naruto is going to top Sasuke? No way, Sasuke is the aggressive one.”

“You kidding me. Can’t you see it’s his mating ritual for Naruto to hump him? Plus Naruto is the masculine, more physically built one, and Sasuke is the lean one.”

“No, no. They are roughly the same. And Naruto will let Sasuke top him. After all, it fits, that Naruto with all his bright personality, will be the one who will comfort Sasuke, break the emotional shield he kept all the time and open him up.”

“Where in the hell did you think of something ludicrous as that? From a fanfic?”

“Shut up, you’re the one who compared body physique with topping and bottoming! And if you’re really thinking in that vein, Naruto has the boyish, gentle face while Sasuke is the one with sharp features, showing he’s dominant. It’s clear as day!”

“Oh God, you serious? Sasuke is the one who has a pretty face, while Naruto is boyishly handsome!”

“Well, but if you see the shape of Naruto’s eyes⏤” 

Sasuke had enough. He stepped in, clearing his throat in front of a group of shocked women. “What the hell are you all watching?” He grumbled, noticing that everyone encircled around Sakura while she was behind a laptop.

“Oh, nothing Sasuke! We’re just talking about a soap opera we watched yesterday!” Sakura chirped in.

“Don’t give me such a weak excuse Sakura, I heard my and Naruto’s name being mentioned all the time.” 

Sakura deflated her shoulders, not meeting Sasuke’s sharp glare as she said sheepishly. “Well…”

“We’re watching you two doing the nasty from our company’s surveillance tapes.” Ino said nonchalantly.

“What.” Sasuke snarled. “But there was a blackout last week.”

“The cameras have an extra battery, in case there’s any breaking in we’ll be able to record it.” Ino explained, smiling. “I figured since only you and Naruto were in there, you two idiots will finally realize the undying love you have for each other and have hot, hot buttsex. We’re betting who is going to top this round.”

Sasuke glared.

Ino continued her winsome beam unapologetic. “Sasuke, everytime you laid your eyes on him, it always looked like you wanted to jump on him.”

“That doesn’t mean you all are warranted to gossip about our relationship and make money over it⏤” 

“I won!” Sakura shouted, interrupting him. “I won everybody, Naruto is topping. Pay up."

Tenten complained. “What the hell, I’m not seeing any ass fucking Sakura, this doesn’t count.”

“Naruto is fingering Sasuke, Tenten, it definitely counts.”

“And how the hell you know anything about fingering?”

“How the hell wouldn’t I know? How do you think I have sex with my girlfriend?” 

“Okay, gurl, too much information.” She shook her head with a grimace. “Well, we should see this to the end, just to make sure⏤” 

Sasuke shut the laptop. “This is an invasion of privacy and I should sue you for this.”

“What? Everyone signed their contracts that they allow themselves to be recorded but we’d never use the footage for profit or personal gain.” Ino exclaimed.

“Exactly.” Sasuke growled.

“So maybe I should also file a complaint about how you and Naruto are using private grounds for activities unsuited for this company then.”

That made Sasuke stops in his tracks. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would.” Ino laced her hands together and rested her chin on it. “Imagine the entire court seeing the tape as part of evidence. It’d be espetacular. It’s just some pocket money Sasuke, you two entertained we all, for a very long time.” She offered her hand. “I’ll let this slide if you let this slide too. I swear we won’t do this anymore.”

Sasuke glowered, before returning the handshake. “I’m impressed how you knew this would happen.”

Ino’s smile was wide and amused. “Sasuke, you’re not the first and definitely will not be the last engaging secretive trysts in this company. So don’t worry about it.”

Sasuke wrinkled his nose, narrowing his eyes while Sakura collected the money.

“I’ll let bygones be bygones. Also giving you this.” Sasuke caught the pendrive Ino threw towards him. “The only copy of your sex tape with Naruto. Let’s just say this is me, expressing my gratitude for helping my girlfriend winning this bet.”

Sasuke stared the innocuous gadget, closing around it into a tight fist. He was ready to smash into a pulp till Ino reopened the laptop.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t want to sell a copy for me and Sakura to watch? I mean this⏤” Ino pressed play and the screen showed him taking Naruto from behind. Sasuke closed the laptop in one snap, glaring. “⏤Is really hot. I think you’ll make tons of women and gay men happy all across the globe with this sex tape. Think about it.”

“Delete it. Now.” Sasuke demanded so, with a sweet smile, Ino opened her laptop, obeying him with a clean click.

Almost as if the gods were listening above, Naruto appeared, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey Sasuke, sorry I’m late! Oh, hey ladies, you were chatting with him?”

“Yeeeeep.”

“Mmmhm.”

“You can say that.”

“...what?” Naruto questioned when Sasuke grabbed him by his arm, turning around so they could have their lunch in peace, far away from those opportunistic harpies. 

They still had enough time for a quickie.

(and Sasuke did leave a copy of the video in his desktop. For…later inspiration)

--.--

AN: Holy fuck I'm sleepy. I hope you'll enjoy the smut and please leave a review and make this author really happy. ;)

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (43/45)

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: Welcome back to New York and Game Six and pre-game makeouts. They’re making out again and everyone knows and everyone has opinions and there’s lots of family-type sports feelz on the horizon. I am still just stunned and vaguely overwhelmed by the incredible response to this story. You guys are the best. As always @laurnorder, @distant-rose & @beautiful-swan made this better. Also hanging out on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

“Sign this,” Emma said, pushing a pair of gloves at him.

Push was generous. She threw them, letting them land in on his legs and he hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. If he didn’t get out of bed, then he wouldn't have to actually put words to whatever was happening in the pit of his stomach.

Nerves.

Killian was nervous. Again.

Because they could win. Again. On Garden ice.

At least he’d slept the night before – and the last two nights since he’d shown up in Emma’s apartment and used the word home several times and neither one of them had talked about that yet. She’d just pressed a key in his hand before they brought an absurd amount of promotional signage back to the Garden, ducking her eyes and muttering so you don’t have to give me a heart attack the next time you come back home in the middle of the night.

He’d kissed her.

And then fell asleep in her bed later that night. Theirs? They’d have to talk about that eventually.

They should win a Cup first.

Killian glanced up, mouth half open to demand a pen, if I’m going to sign them, Swan, but the words got caught in his mouth, eyes going wide and breath rushing out of his lungs and he’d lost his train of thought completely.

Emma grinned at him, crossing her arms lightly over the jersey she was wearing – his jersey again, it was always his jersey and maybe always would be his jersey and they really needed to start making schedules for these conversations. He had a lot of points he wanted to make. If he could ever remember to how to talk.

“Something wrong, Cap?” Emma asked, eyes bright as she shook her hair back over her shoulders. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip, rocking back on her heels and he’d been so caught up in the look on her face and his number plastered across her back that he’d barely even registered everything else.

Or, rather, a distinct lack of anything else.

She was all long legs and oversized jersey and that smile still plastered on her face and he had to swallow once before he started actually shouting everything he was thinking. She could probably tell anyway.  

Killian shifted slightly, blankets just a bit more troublesome than they’d been a few minutes before as he tried to sit up straight. “That’s playing dirty, Swan,” he accused, tossing the gloves over the side of the bed.

“Hey,” she shouted, rolling her eyes at his complete disregard for what was, probably, game-worn merchandise. “Come on, I need that.” “Yeah, I don’t care.”

He moved before she did, leaning across the bed and the blankets to wrap his fingers around her forearm and tug her closer to him, appreciating the soft sound of surprise that came with her movement. The pillows shook when Emma landed next to him and Killian swore he could feel her laughter everywhere, inching through every single muscle until it seemed to smother the recently resurgent batch of nerves that had settled in his stomach.

“I really need you to sign that,” Emma mumbled, voice muffled by the pillows and his lips and her hand found the top of his shorts much quicker than he expected.

Killian jerked back when her fingers moved again and everything felt a bit hazy – that was probably because he couldn't remember the last time he’d taken a deep breath.

“Like, you know, soon,” she continued, but the demand lost a bit of its edge when her tongue traced along his bottom lip and one of them made some kind of ridiculous noise when Killian’s hand moved under her jersey.

“I’ll sign the gloves eventually, Swan,” Killian promised and his fingers trailed along the inside of her thighs, pushing her shoulder into the mattress with his own.

“Eventually?” “I’m a bit preoccupied now, you see.” “You have to get downtown.” “So do you.” Emma sighed, but there was still the ghost of a smile on her face when he pulled back to stare at her speculatively. “Where’d you get this one?” Killian asked softly, tugging on the bottom of the jersey and they’d never actually gotten around to taking off clothes.

“The jersey?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat, dragging his mouth against her neck and maybe they should take off the jersey because it was getting in the way of the rest of her and the half a plan to kiss every single inch of skin before they even considered getting out of bed.

Their bed.

It was absolutely their bed.

They should buy a new mattress. And he should tell her every single plan he’d come up with after they won a Cup.

They were going to win the goddamn Stanley Cup that night. He knew it.

“Yes, Swan,” he muttered, palm flat against her side and she jumped slightly at the contact. It left her hips hitting his and Killian squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to remember how to properly put words into sentences. “This one.” Emma narrowed her eyes slightly, rolling her shoulders and his gaze caught sight of the patch he absolutely hadn’t noticed either. He had, apparently, lost all ability to reason as soon as she showed up next to the bed.

“I…”

Her voice trailed off and her teeth were back on her lip and that wasn’t doing anything to whatever tenuous grip Killian had on his control. He was half half a moment from ripping the damn jersey in half.

“The jersey, love,” he said, tapping one finger on the Finals patch just underneath her shoulder. “Looks decidedly new.” “It’s not.” “No?” “Well, not in the way you’re thinking.” “And, what exactly, do you think I’m thinking?” he asked, hand inching higher and she closed her eyes again.

“What was that you were saying before? Playing dirty. Pot meet kettle or whatever.” “Don’t start cliché-ing while I’m doing this, Swan.” “So many rules.” Killian laughed softly and Emma made a face, pushing the hand that wasn’t otherwise occupied into his hair and pulling his mouth back towards hers. He groaned again, trying to move enough that the absurd amount of clothing they were, somehow, still wearing found its way to the floor with the game-worn gloves.

He moved slower than he wanted, determined to take his time when he absolutely didn’t have any and they both should have been dressed and out of bed and he absolutely did not care. Emma moved again, fingers still entrenched in his hair and he could feel her heels pressed into the back of his calves.

There was a bruise there.

There were bruises everywhere. His back was still purple.

He hissed when her hands found the spot on his hip that had hit the boards particularly hard two days ago and Emma’s eyes widened. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said quickly and he couldn’t really brush her off with one hand in between her legs.

“Add that to the rules too, no more apologizing” Killian mumbled, dragging his teeth behind her ear and Emma’s breath hitched.

“You can’t do that,” Emma argued. He barely heard her – her hand, finally, moving under the waistband of the team-provided shorts he was wearing as she pushed down on fabric. “And are you bruised everywhere?”

The jersey was halfway up her body now, twisted up underneath Killian’s stomach. “Probably,” he answered, before he realized they were having two different conversations at once. “Wait, what? God, Swan, you’ve got to take this jersey off.” “The beard,” she explained, tapping on his jaw for emphasis. “You’re going to scratch my neck to hell.”

Killian laughed, his breath leaving goosebumps on the skin he’d been so intent on kissing and Emma wriggled underneath him. That wasn’t exactly disproving his point that she was playing dirty.

She smiled at him, tongue pressed into the corner of her lips with her eyebrows raised like she was waiting for him to do something. He was frozen. He couldn’t move. He’d forgotten about the jersey completely.

“What?” Emma asked, the concern in her voice obvious as she tried to pull the jersey back down over her exposed stomach. He shook his head once, smile inching across his face and then he kissed her again – heady and desperate and a mix of tongue and teeth and the want he’d felt in every inch of him as soon as she walked into the Garden.

They were going to be late. He had walk-through and film and he still needed to sign the goddamn gloves and there were more promotional signs piled in the back corner of Emma’s office that promised pre-game events and pre-game auctions and he didn’t care about any of it.

He cared about her and that noise she kept making whenever he moved his hips, his shorts still hanging off his left ankle underneath the blankets that were only just clinging to their spot on the mattress.

They both made a noise when they moved a very particular way and Killian might have briefly considered the idea of just kissing her for the rest of his life.

To hell with Game Six.

“Killian, you’ve got to move,” Emma muttered. He did and she did and time seemed to stop for a few moments – which was good since they didn’t have much to begin with anyway.

He still couldn’t breathe even after he’d fallen back to his side of the bed and tugged Emma to his side and his hand wouldn’t stop moving. It kept tracing across his name and his number and one of their phones was ringing.

Neither one of them moved.

“I bought it,” Emma said softly and Killian hummed in the back of his throat, glancing down at her when she propped her head up on her hand.

“What?” “I bought it. The jersey.” “You bought my jersey, Swan? You didn’t have to do that.” She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling and he’d never bothered pulling his shorts back up. “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” she continued. “The gloves and the jersey...where are the gloves by the way?”

Killian shrugged, eyebrows pulled low at the movement – his back would probably hurt for the rest of his life. They kept hitting him. Hard. “Probably somewhere underneath the bed at this point, honestly.” “Shit,” Emma sighed, leaning over him to pull at half-discarded blankets and, apparently, his shorts and that wasn’t helping either one of them actually get out of bed and back on schedule.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, wrapping his arm around her waist and she glared at him when he pulled her back up. “The jersey, love.” “You have to sign those gloves.” “I will sign the gloves, explain the jersey. And you can’t just lay across me like that.”

Her eyes got brighter and it was the most ridiculous thing he’d thought in his entire life, but then he remembered he was trying to win a Stanley Cup for her and he had every intention of putting a Conn-Smythe in the kitchen and, well, maybe this was just himnow.

“What’s the matter, Jones,” Emma laughed. “Can’t handle it?”

“Obviously not.” “We’re very late.” “I still have to shower.” “None of this was on the to-do-list.” His chest shook when he laughed, Emma’s hand resting across his stomach. “I’m almost glad it wasn’t,” Killian said. “Come on, Swan, you’re stalling. Where’d you buy the jersey?” She scrunched her nose, tapping out a rhythm with her fingers and her wrist looked decidedly bare without her laces there. He should fix that. “From the auction,” she mumbled. “Mer’s probably going to kill me because this was supposed to be one of the bigger things, but, well, I wanted it and I bought it, so it’s not like GD’s not getting its money.” At some point, he was convinced, Emma Swan would stop amazing him. Maybe. Probably not.

It didn’t really matter.

He kind of hoped it wouldn't ever happen.

“We’re going to win tonight,” Killian said and it wasn’t the list of plans he had in the back of his head, but Emma’s smile widened.

“I know you are.” She kissed him again, tugging on his lip with just enough force that he felt himself chasing after her as soon as she moved. She laughed softly when her feet hit the floor, pulling on the bottom of the jersey again. “Go shower.”

Killian smirked, pushing the rest of the blankets away from him and appreciating the way her mouth opened half an inch. His hands found her hips as soon as he was standing in front of her and Emma tilted her head in unspoken question.

He kissed her.

Again.

For several more unscheduled minutes. And around the doorframe and into the bathroom and the shower and they were nearly half an hour late.

Arthur glared at him when he did his best to sneak into the back corner of the film room and the entire goddamn roster probably noticed, Will’s laughter at Killian’s sudden appearance in their row some kind of flashing neon sign at his arrival.

“We going to have to start fundraising to pay for your fines too, Cap?” Will muttered when Killian sank into the seat next to him. “I don’t know if we’ve got enough, between you and Arthur.” “Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian mumbled, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt and Arthur was, apparently, trying to glare at all of them at this point. They probably shouldn’t sit in the back row of the film room.

“Will both of you shut up,” Robin hissed, leaning around Will to stare at them like they were Roland and Henry and Killian slumped a bit farther into his seat.

Arthur kept talking about hits and getting the puck against the board and something that might have been if you guys let Cap get hit in the back again, I’m going to murder all of you and fucking enjoy it, and he was half an hour late to film and Killian already wanted film to be over.

He wanted to be on the goddamn ice.

And maybe, this time, he’d hit something.

“Are you even listening?” Arthur snapped and Robin elbowed him in the side. That was bruised too.

“Jeez, Locksley,” Killian groaned. “Wait until I’m dressed before you start trying to kill me.” Will’s whole head fell back when he started laughing again and Arthur had given up on even trying to yell anymore. He threw the remote at them. “You been particularly undressed today, Cap?” Will asked, not even bothering to keep his voice down.

Killian ran his hand over his face and maybe he’d just start hitting his teammates. Or ignore whatever post-game celebration he knew Ariel had half-planned if they managed to actually pull this off in a few hours.

Maybe he’d just find Emma and start kissing her again before puck drop.

“Ah, no, I figured you’d do that,” Merida said, leaning up against the doorframe in Emma’s office and eyeing her with a very specific look.

“What?” Emma asked. She groaned slightly when she snapped her head up and Merida just raised her eyebrows, smile tugging on the ends of her mouth as she crossed her arms lightly and pushed the toe of her shoe into the absurdly blue carpet of the hallway.

“As soon as we put that jersey on there, I knew you were going to take it.” “I bought it!” “Really?” “Jeez, Mer, you think I’m just stealing merch from GD auctions?”” Merida shrugged, smile full-blown now and her phone buzzed in her hand – probably Aurora demanding the merch that was sitting in a pile a few feet away and Emma had managed to get the gloves signed, but only after they ran out of hot water and Ruby had practically cackled at her when she walked into the Garden half an hour after she was supposed to.

“You tell me, boss,” she said, taking a step into the office at the same time Emma’s desk phone went off.

Emma made a face, bordering dangerously close to sensory overload with the absurd amount of phones making noise in her general vicinity. “I just did. Actually.”

“Yeah, well, I knew you were going to take it. Even if you bought it like you were supposed to. You should answer Ruby, she probably wants to give you the videos from media to send out.” “They’re not doing media yet,” Emma said before she could stop herself and Merida made some kind of impossibly judgemental noise.

“You’re not doing yourself any rumor-type favors, boss.” Emma tugged on her hair, trying not to actually slide off the chair as she continued to ignore the multitude of ringing phones and, as if on cue, heard the telltale sound of heels coming down the hallway.

“Brace yourself,” Merida warned, glancing over her shoulder before Ruby could march into the office with something that might have actually been a sneer on her face.

The heels seemed to echo off the walls and that didn’t make any sense because there was carpet on the floor and Ruby seemed to pick up more speed as soon as she brushed past Merida.

“You look like you’re on a mission, Rubes,” Emma said, doing her best to keep her voice light and it didn’t work at all.

Her phone – phones, God – were still ringing.

“Is he living with you?” Ruby asked, not even bothering to mince words and they better win tonight if only because Emma was half certain the whole Garden would implode if they had to deal with a Game Seven.

Merida sounded like she was choking. Or maybe just collapsing against the doorframe.

“Who told you that?” Emma muttered and it wasn’t the answer it probably should have been. She didn’t have the answer she probably should have.

Were they?

Kind of? She’d given him a key with some excuse about not terrifying her when he came home in the middle of the night during the season and the season was almost over. She absolutely meant next season and indefinitely and Emma should probably mention that too.

After they won. Tonight. When they got back home.

Together.

Ruby made a noise, fingers a blur across her phone screen. “The same people who think he’s going to propose on the ice later on tonight.” “Oh my God,” Emma sighed and Merida muttered sorry under her breath. “Don’t you have a job to do? Media’s in an hour.” “How do you know that?” “I work here too.” “Working on Cap more likely.” “Jeez, what the fuck, Ruby?” Ruby didn’t look even remotely apologetic, smile just a bit more predatory than it probably should have been a few hours before puck drop. “Don’t you have a job to do,” she challenged. “Maybe a few phones to answer? Get you back on schedule, or something.”

“Witch,” Emma muttered, but her desk phone was still ringing and she was, somehow, still a half an hour behind schedule.

She couldn’t think straight. The word distraction flitted through her mind and that wasn’t really right either – it wasn’t quite enough.

They were definitely living together.

“I think you’re blushing,” Ruby laughed, taking another step towards her and her eyes widened slightly when her gaze landed on Emma’s neck. “And I think you should consider keeping your hair over your shoulders when David gets here.” Emma didn’t bother responding, just grabbed the phone on her desk and ignored the buzzing cellphone a few inches away, well aware it was a near-constant stream of updates from David who was on his way to the Garden in another team provided car with Mary Margaret.

And maybe Ruby was right.

“Ms. Swan,” the voice on the other end of the phone said and Emma blinked, waving her hand at Ruby when she refused to stop laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Emma said quickly and it was all she could do to tug her hair back over her shoulder and try to push memories of the morning into the back corner of her mind. Later. Tonight. After they won a Cup.

“There’s a whole group of people down here. Say you’ve got tickets for them.”

She resisted giving voice to the groan in the back of her throat, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling instead and she didn’t have the tickets – will-call had the tickets, that was why it was will-call and will-call shouldn’t be calling when they were in charge of this.

“So….give them the tickets?”

“They’re under your name, Ms. Swan. I can’t give them the tickets until you’re down here.”

Oh. Maybe her phone wasn’t just David’s stream of Rangers-based consciousness. Ruby looked a bit wary at whatever was happening with Emma’s face as she tapped her nails over the back of her wrist in frustration.

“Of course not,” Emma mumbled. “Alright, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” “Thank you.” “Yup.”

Emma slammed the phone back into its holder and Ruby whistled as soon as she pushed out of her chair and marched around the front of her desk. “Hair over your shoulder, Em,” she said softly, tugging on the side of her blazer for good measure. “Can’t scare away the in-laws before you even get them tickets.” Her mouth fell open and she’d lost complete control of the day. God, they better win.

“How could you possibly know that?” Emma asked, some of the tension falling off her as soon as Ruby looked at her. Merida chuckled.

“We’ve been over this. I know everything.” “How?” “Aside from the fact that I just walked by the entire Vankald-Jones clan on my way up here?” “Yeah, aside from that.” “David told me. He’s trying to work out some of his pre-game anxiety by texting every single person in his contacts.”

Emma rolled her eyes again – there was a crack in the ceiling that she should probably get someone to fix – and she couldn’t quite completely mask the look of frustration and her own pre-game anxiety as her phone buzzed again.

“It’s going to work this time, boss,” Merida said.

“They can’t get shut out at the Garden,” Ruby reasoned and she hadn’t moved her hand away from Emma’s shoulder yet. “They’ve been ridiculous here.”

Emma scoffed. “I don’t know if the guys would appreciate ridiculous as some sort of game-defining term.” “That’s a compliment!” “You want them to use that during media?” “Whatever,” Ruby mumbled. “Go tell your new in-laws that you and the captain of the New York Rangers are totally living together.”

It took her four minutes to sprint down the stairs from her office to Chase Square and if she were being honest with herself, Emma probably should have been down there already – supervising Rangerstown and the auction and that was probably why Merida had come upstairs anyway. She’d never actually bothered asking.

She’d just shown up half an hour late with the ends of her hair still a bit damp after her second shower of the morning and sprinted into her office to make sure there weren’t any pre-game stories.

There weren’t.

Small miracles or something.

“Emma,” a voice shouted and she had half a moment to see a blur of red hair and the C on her shoulder before she felt Anna collide with her body with enough force that she was half certain she’d be bruised as well.

“Hey,” Emma breathed. “Sorry they couldn’t give you the tickets, I just figured they’d see the Jones jerseys and it’d be fine.” “How come you’re not in a jersey?” Anna pulled back slightly, eyebrows pulled low as she examined Emma’s blazer and blue dress and she did her best not to blush. Again. This was ridiculous. There was a game to play.

“God, stop screaming at her Anna,” Elsa said softly, throwing an apologetic glance Emma’s way. “She can’t wear the jersey to work.” Anna’s shoulders sagged and she stuck her lower lip out slightly. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “I guess that makes sense.”

They were an army of Jones jerseys, Emma thought, taking a look at all of them – a sea of blue and the number 20 and Stanley Cup Finals patches. God, they’d all bought brand-new jerseys. “You guys look great,” Emma said honestly, smiling widely and Mrs. Vankald looked like she was already on the verge of tears.

“I can’t believe we actually made it,” Liam admitted, muttering towards the twins who’d already started racing towards the Rangerstown booths a few feet away as he shifted a tiny, blue bundle in the crook of his elbow.

Oh. She’d kind of forgotten about that.

It had only been half a plan – a text message sent to Elsa just after Emma had given Killian the key and they’d taken the downtown one together like some kind of collective, domestic unit and she hoped it would work.

Elsa made sure it had.

She’d promised they’d figure it out and Emma was half convinced Elsa Vankald-Jones was the superhero Killian claimed she was because she got three kids in a car and got Anna tickets and, somehow, managed to get a several-weeks old newborn from Colorado to Chase Square in front of Madison Square Garden.

“We finally got her to fall asleep somewhere between the Holland Tunnel and here,” Liam explained, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“It’s some kind of Game Six miracle,” Emma added, smiling at Elsa and glancing down to her wrist quickly.

There still weren’t any laces there.

Emma bit her lip tightly and leaned forward slowly, staring at Lizzie Jones like she’d never seen a baby before in her life.

“I’m so glad you guys are here,” Emma whispered, blinking quickly and maybe she and Mrs. Vankald should be quarantined to some corner of the team suite where they could both work out whatever mess of emotions they both seemed to be dealing with.

And it didn’t seem quite fair that Emma met Lizzie before Killian did.

“Us too,” Liam said. “They’re totally going to win here.” Emma hummed, not taking her eyes away from the somehow-still-sleeping baby and she could hear Anna corralling the twins again. “I know they are,” she said.

“He’s got good stats here in clinching games,” Liam continued and Emma didn’t care about any of that. “You know he’s scored twelve times in clinching games at home?” “I did not.”

“He’s been looking up stats since whatever happened at the Staples Center,” Anna mumbled, eyes widening meaningfully. “Like KJ’s not just going to will the whole goddamn team to a victory tonight.” Emma laughed, but she couldn’t bring herself to disagree either. Liam grumbled slightly, careful to keep his voice soft so as not to actual wake up Lizzie and maybe the baby was the superhero, managing to sleep through the entire event two hours before puck drop. There were tiny headphones sticking out of the bag slung over Liam’s shoulder.

The twins were still shouting, Anna not quite able to contend with both of them at the same time and Emma bit her lip tightly at the scene in front of her.

“You know,” she said, taking a few steps forward and crouching down next to Anna until she was level with the pair. “There’s a virtual reality thing over there where you guys can actually save shots on net.” They both started shouting before the words were almost entirely out of her mouth, one of them jumping up and down while the other tried to actually drag Anna towards the booth.

“Alright, you terrors,” Liam muttered, shifting Lizzie into Elsa’s expectant arms. “Let’s go make some saves and after the game you can tell Jeff how much better you are than him. Uncle Killian will appreciate that.”

He was gone a moment later, Mr. and Mrs. Vankald half a step behind with their phones out and Elsa shook her head slowly as half a dozen Jones jerseys walked away from them.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly and a bit louder than than any of the ridiculously loud noises around them. Emma jerked her head back, glancing to her right where Elsa was standing, staring at her like she’d only recently realized who she was.

“What?” Emma sputtered. Her phone was ringing now. David and Mary Margaret were there.

“Thank you,” Elsa said again. “For getting us here.” “You got them in the car, El. That was the majority of the work. The team suite is huge, it’s not a huge deal.” “That’s not even remotely what I’m talking about.” Emma blinked once, turning slightly until she was staring straight at Elsa and she looked as exhausted as she probably should have, but she also looked a bit like Mary Margaret did whenever Killian slung his arm around Emma’s shoulders or kissed the top of her head in the restaurant after a game.

“I’m very confused,” Emma admitted.

“I told you at Christmas, this season was different. And I thought I knew then, but it’s been...so much more than that. You’ve been so much more than that.” “Me?” Elsa nodded slowly, humming softly when Lizzie started to stir. “And then some. He is...I’ve never seen KJ this happy. Ever.” Emma didn’t know what to say, every word she’d ever learned forgotten in the middle of her own event and Elsa just kept smiling at her. “You look happy too,” she added, muttering the words until Emma was certain they were practically hanging in the air.

“I am,” Emma said quickly and easily and, well, it wasn’t quite as unexpected an answer as it would have been a few months before. “We are.”

“He really doesn’t know we’re here?” “No,” Emma said, shaking her head. “They’re totally going to win. Even without Liam’s stats, which he wouldn't shut up about by the way. The entire drive, finding new numbers and facts no one’s ever tried to look up before. I’m surprised he hasn’t just been texting you constant updates.” “It's probably good he hasn't. Something about distracted driving, right?” Emma asked. “And to be fair, I’ve been kind of ignoring my phone for most of the day.” “Would you believe he actually paid for wi-fi at the hotel last night so he could keep looking up stats? He’s probably the most nervous out of all of us. Although he’d never admit it. Wait until puck drop, he won’t sit down once.” “Well, that makes two of us,” Emma admitted.

Elsa nodded slowly, lips tilting up in understanding. “They’re going to win,” she said again. “And there weren’t any stories today. A said they probably wouldn’t ask at media either.” “Ruby would kill the lot of them right there in the locker room if any of them did,” Emma muttered. “She’s been on a warpath the last couple of days. She pulled that guy’s credentials for the New York games.” “Remind me to thank her later.” “We can go in on some sort of edible arrangement together.” “Deal.”

“Did you check for stories?” Emma asked, mumbling the words together as she tried to bore a hole in the ground.

Elsa made a noise that might have been agreement. “Every morning since this started. We should probably get Arthur something too.” “They paid his fine.” “That one was a story.” “Of course it was,” Emma laughed. “Ruby wouldn’t miss a headline like that.” Elsa grinned at her and Lizzie was awake now, mumbling as much as a baby could actually mumble and Emma’s heart might have actually exploded in her chest. “I’m glad we’re here too,” Elsa said.

The locker room was packed, phones and recorders shoved in their faces while they sat in front of their respective lockers and Killian tried not to groan when he had to re-lace his skates again – it was difficult to do that while talking and answering questions and, well, maybe he was a bit distracted, gaze darting around the locker room for blonde hair and green eyes and a jersey he knew was still sitting in a heap just outside the bathroom door.

“She’s not here,” Ariel said, dropping down next to him on the bench in front of his locker with a soft huff. “Make a fist, Cap.” Killian shot her a look, rolling his eyes and someone a few feet away asked him another question about how excited he was, like he could be anything but. He ignored them.

“What?” he asked Ariel, trying to brush her away when she just grabbed his wrist and pushed her thumb into the back of the back of his hand.

“A fist,” she repeated and her grip tightened when he tried to pull his hand away.

“Red, I can’t do that if you’re trying to cut off the blood flow to my fingers.” “You’re a doctor now, then?” “Let go of my hand.”

She did, grumbling under her breath slightly as she crossed her arms over her bright blue polo and Killian heard Will laughing a few feet away again. “God,” Ariel muttered, tilting her head to the side when he started to clench his fingers together. “Scarlet is the absolute worst isn’t he?” “He doesn’t know how else to work out his pre-game aggression.” “If he gets a penalty in the first Arthur will kill him.” She paused, twisting her lips and something flickered in her gaze. Killian turned on her, lowering his eyebrows and she sighed dramatically when he didn’t actually ask a question. “You’re super frustrating, you know that?” “I’m just sitting here, Red.” The reporters were, mostly, gone – disappointed with Killian’s distinct lack of quotes and no one in the locker room seemed very interested in talking with just a little over an hour to puck drop. He needed to actually get his jersey on.

And maybe check his phone one more time before he got on the ice.

Ariel sighed again and Killian felt a flush of worry shoot down his spine that had him practically frozen to in front of his locker. The jersey could wait.

“What’s the matter, A?” Will asked, appearing suddenly next to them with Robin just a few feet behind and Ariel twisted her fingers together. Killian pulled her hands apart slowly, eyeing her as she rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath.

“Talk, Red,” he said and it sounded a bit like a command.

She let out a shaky laugh and none of them moved. “Aye, aye, Cap,” Ariel muttered. She didn’t pull her hands away from Killian’s. “We’re, uh, we’re moving.” “What?” “Out of the city?” “Was that a question?” Ariel shook her head, eyes trained on her shoes and Will sank onto her other side, arm flung around her shoulders when her breathing started to pick up. “A different team, A?” he asked softly and Killian’s stomach clenched, dimly aware of someone moving in the doorway.

“What?” Ariel asked sharply and Will glared at the tone in her voice. “No, of course not!” She yanked her hands back, dragging her knuckles underneath her eyes and practically jumping off the bench to turn on all three of them with a look that probably could have started several small fires.

Or melted the ice in the Garden.

“What is happening right now?” Killian mumbled, glancing at a stricken Robin and Will. They shrugged. And there was still someone standing in the doorway.

Ariel groaned loudly, rolling her whole head back as she stomped one of her feet on the carpet. “God, you idiots,” she half-shouted, but there was something on the edge of her voice that sounded a bit like happiness. “I’m pregnant!”

Killian’s mouth hung open and Will might have actually whooped, smile taking up the majority of his face as he punched his fist into the air. Robin was the only one who moved, taking three quick steps towards Ariel and wrapping his arms around her tightly.

He muttered something against her hair and Ariel was crying, tears falling down her cheeks quicker than she could wipe them away.

“We’re buying a house,” she continued, pulling out of Robin’s grip and Killian still hadn’t moved away from his locker. “That’s what I was talking about. They’ll have to push me out of the Garden to get me away from this team.” Killian shook his head slowly, smiling pulling on his mouth as Ariel glanced at him cautiously. “Why all the cloak and dagger, Red?” “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she shrugged. “At least not until after we won. But well….” “What?” “I’m happy,” Ariel said simply. “And you were half an hour late this morning, so I know you’re happy too and…” She shrugged again. “This is good. I wanted you to know.” He was on his feet before he realized he’d even bent his knees, standing up and pulling Ariel against him, her forehead pressed against his heavily bruised shoulder. “Why is everyone on this team so concerned with what time I got to the Garden today?” Killian asked and he could feel Ariel laugh, burrowing her head against his neck.

“You’re happy, Cap,” she answered and he couldn’t bring himself to argue.

“And you said after we win.” “We’re going to.” “There weren’t any stories today either, Cap,” Robin added, clapping him on the shoulder. Killian twisted back, arm still wrapped around Ariel and he laughed in the kind of disbelief he probably shouldn’t have had.

He’d almost walked away from all of this.

And it still surprised him how happy he was.

“He was totally checking for stories before you got to film,” Will laughed, moving his eyebrows quickly and Robin sighed dramatically, as if serving as some kind of de facto team dad was particularly trying at the moment.

“How often are you looking for stories, Locksley?” Killian asked and he was half certain he already knew the answer.

“Every day since this started. Gina looks at night. I look in the morning. Sometimes we swap which one of us looks at New York and which one of us looks at Los Angeles. She’s in charge of threatening editors, though.” “You’d get fined otherwise.” “Yeah, well, we’ve got another kid to feed now, so…” Killian barked out a laugh, running a hand through his hair and Mulan was already taking pictures of them, the shutter sounding louder than it should have been in the suddenly empty locker room. “Lucas put you up to this?” Killian asked and Mulan didn’t answer, just kept taking pictures that would get sent to season-tickets if they won.

When they won.

“Ruby’s been with Emma all day,” Ariel said and Killian’s eyes widened immediately. “They were running Rangerstown stuff when I went outside to get some air.” “You need air, Red?”

“Morning sickness is a lie they tell you to make it seem like any of this is going to be easy.” He pulled her against his side again, kissing the top of her hair and ignoring another demand to make a fist, just one more time, before you guys have to get on the ice.

“Where are they sitting?” Killian asked instead, glancing towards Robin and he didn’t really need to be any more specific.

Robin looked like they’d already won. “By the boards. Henry and Rol practiced cheers the entire ride down here.” “There are signs,” Will added, his own smile on his face.

“They put you on the signs too, didn’t they?” Killian asked knowingly and Will nodded enthusiastically.

“Look who’s gunning for top non-Locksley favorite now, Cap.” “That doesn’t even make any sense.” “Whatever, I’ll be A’s kid’s favorite.” Ariel scoffed. “Please,” she muttered, shaking her head slightly as she grabbed Killian’s hand and started examining another bruise in between his thumb and pointer finger. “Cap’s totally going to be their favorite and you know it.” “See, that’s just mean for no reason at all, A.” Robin rolled his eyes, shrugging into his jersey and the noise from the ice was starting make its way down the hallway – pre-game music and probably Arthur already pacing along the bench and pucks hitting up against the boards and Killian’s stomach was in his throat.

It wasn’t because of the game.

Fuck, if he wasn’t the happiest person in the entire goddamn world. Lucky bastard. He wished El and Liam were there.

“Here,” Robin said pointedly, pushing an unopened bottle of Gatorade at Killian.

“What am I doing with this?” “Well, no jinx, or whatever, but we should acknowledge this moment or something, right? I’d say we should steal the champagne, but A’s pregnant and she knows how to break bones so….” “I don’t know how to break bones,” Ariel argued, pulling the bottle of Robin’s hands before Killian could and throwing the top over her shoulder. “Just make sure they don’t rebreak once you guys have ruined them.” “Semantics. And this is better than whatever champagne we got in Vancouver.” Ariel clicked her tongue. “We did that for your own good. Only so many options in the middle of the night.” “Yeah, well, only so many options in the middle of the locker room or something,” Robin argued and they were going to spill all the Gatorade on the floor before they even got around to whatever it was they were doing. “Anyway, to...us.” “Us?” Killian repeated skeptically and Robin shrugged. Ariel was crying again.

“I like it,” Will said, taking a swig of Gatorade that was far more than his allotted quarter of the bottle. “Straight to the point, Dad.” Killian laughed loudly, the force of it making his shoulders shake, and Robin looked slightly affronted. “He just called you dad!” “I have ears, Cap,” Robin muttered. “Whatever, I take my toast back. You guys are all assholes.” “And you looked up stories to make sure I wasn’t getting distracted.” “Yeah, so what?” Robin challenged. Ariel was probably going to cry until the final buzzer went off. Mulan was still taking pictures.

“Thank you,” Killian said, trying to put years of everything into a couple of letters. Robin’s lips tilted up and his chest heaved when he took a deep breath, visible even under the brand-new jersey he had on.

“I should have thought of a cliché about team for a moment like this.” “No I in team,” Will muttered. “Or us since Dad was getting all sentimental with his toast. Either way it works. I’m totally going to tell Mrs. V. I’ll be her favorite.”

“That seems fair,” Robin admitted, holding his hand out to Killian and he took it without a second thought. “Let’s go win a Cup.” It was loud when they got on the ice – seats packed even for warmups and Killian swore he could feel the Let’s go Rangers chants echoing in his head, settling in his center and he’d never been more ready for anything in his entire life.

The anthem took forever, stretching out somewhere closer to never-ending and he could feel the camera focusing on him, shifting back and forth on his skates as he tapped his stick impatiently. Will laughed quietly behind him, muttering something under his breath that sounded a bit like relax, Cap. He didn’t stop.

“What do you say, Cap,” Will said, moving towards center ice and the opening faceoff and Game Six and the entire goddamn Garden was shaking, he was convinced. “One more round of the bet?” He grinned, skidding to a stop next to a Kings player that stared at him like he’d spent the better part of the last forty-eight hours coming up with half a dozen different ways to get him against the boards, nodding towards Will. “Name your stakes,” Killian answered.

Will shrugged – as if he hadn’t planned the whole thing hours before. “Let me be A’s kid’s favorite.” “You want to bet favoritism on an unborn baby?” “Don’t tell A, then.” “You’re insane, you know that?”

Another shrug and there was a whistle and a hockey game to be played. “Sell your apartment then. That less weird?” “Oh my God,” Killian said, but it wasn’t actually the disagreement it probably should have been. And maybe while Robin and Regina had been checking for stories and distractions, he’d spent several hours looking at real estate listings on his phone.

Will didn’t know that. The Kings player hit him as soon as the ref dropped the puck, shoulder colliding into Killian’s and he grunted when he felt the hit through his pads, a stick knocking against his decidedly un-covered ankle. “Fuck,” he mumbled, turning on his skates and trying to get away from a freakishly strong winger who knew how to check very well just a few minutes into a Finals-clinching game.

His back would never recover.

“Hit him back, Cap,” Phillip shouted late in the first period, skating around him when Killian found himself, once again, pinned against the boards with a stick hitting against the back of his calves and each one of these goddamn referees appeared to have forgotten the definition of a slash. His wrist was bleeding underneath his glove.

Killian grumbled when another Kings player collided with his back, half convinced the entire Los Angeles roster was trying to get the puck out of the corner.

He twisted his stick again – could dimly make out Will’s string of curses a few feet away from him as he pushed into the melee and Arthur would kill them both if they turned the puck over in the defensive zone. Or got a penalty.

Either or.

There were only a few minutes left in the first and it hadn’t been a perfect start, but they hadn’t drawn a penalty yet and he hadn’t actually given into whatever game plan the Kings seemed to be staging – a never-ending supply of insults and hits and they wanted him to fight.

They wanted him off the ice.

They’d have to drag him off the fucking ice.

Killian stabbed his stick forward again and he heard the puck shift, kicking at it with the side of his skate for good measure and his legs were on fire, or possibly made of jello and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed for a shift.

It didn’t matter.

“Go,” Phillip shouted, nodding up the ice as he elbowed an oncoming Kings winger. Killian gritted his teeth when he moved, but there were only a few minutes left and someone needed to score. He turned again, leaving a small pile of ice-snow in his wake and Los Angeles was already in the middle of a change.

There was a lot of open ice in front of him.

Phillip knocked the puck back behind him and Killian was moving as soon as he heard it hit Will’s stick, ignoring the pain that shot up his legs and settled into the base of his spine and he was behind the defense in a few strides and shit Will was never going to let him live that pass down.

It was a good pass – right to his stick and in between defenders and he could only marvel at what a complete shit time it was for Los Angeles to change.

He was wide open.

The cheers were still echoing in his head, puck pushed out in front of him and legs somewhere close to just dissolving at this point and Killian didn’t slow down.

Forehand. Backhand. The goalie was already out of the crease and there was a sliver of space to his right – it went right under his outstretched glove.

The light went off.

He scored.

They were winning.

And everything seemed to slow, Killian slamming his back into the boards when he spun out and that didn’t even hurt. He might have yelled or maybe screamed, his own voice sounding like an echo when all of New York City seemed to erupt in the stands around him.

He must have made some kind of ridiculous celebratory move though, bending his knees and clenching his fists and Will was already laughing when he crashed into him.

“Did you see that pass, Cap?” Will shouted. “Twenty points at least!”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Killian argued. “I scored. Give me fifteen points for that juke. I’m totally beating you.”

“Nah, nah, ten points for the juke. At most.” “Are you two serious?” Robin asked and the horn was still going off. The crowd sang through the goal song twice. “We are in the middle of a fucking hockey game.”

“If Cap loses he’s going to sell his apartment.” “For real?” “I never agreed to that,” Killian said, slinging his legs over the boards and Arthur glared at all three of them.

Will groaned, disappointment on his face clear through his visor and the set of his shoulders when they, eventually, walked back to the locker room. “That’s stupid. You’d make a killing on that apartment.” “If you three want to shut up,” Arthur hissed, marching into the center of the locker room with a still-intact white board gripped tightly in his hands. “We’ve still got forty minutes of hockey to play and the Kings are trying to get Jones to fight.” “I’m not going to fight anyone Arthur,” Killian promised. “That’s Scarlet’s job anyway.” “Nuh uh, Cap,” Will argued. “I’m not doing anything to jeopardize my points standings here. I’m absolutely winning and a penalty’s just going to fuck that up. Get ready to list that apartment.” “When did you become some kind of real estate matchmaker?” Will stuck his tongue out and Robin sighed again, rolling his eyes for good measure. Arthur hit the whiteboard up against Will’s shoulder. “Enough,” he snapped. “I don’t care about any of this. No penalties, more goals, less play up against the boards. You guys look like shit there.” “Motivational as always, Arthur,” Killian laughed.

Arthur pressed his lips together tightly, eyebrows drawn low as he took two measured steps closer to Killian and his outstretched skates. “Nice shot. And I’d be less worried about Scarlet’s match-maker tendencies and more concerned with Lucas more or less announcing that you’ve got a ring stashed somewhere already.”

He didn’t say anything else, leaving Killian open-mouthed and wide-eyed with his helmet resting on his knee while Will and Robin doubled over with laughter on either side of him.

Forty more minutes of hockey.

[mister-tom-a-dildo-lover]

Strive Pt. 14

{PART 1} {PART 2} {PART 3} {PART 4} {PART 5} {PART 6} {PART 7} {PART 8} {PART 9} {PART 10} {PART 11} {PART 12} {PART 13}

Pair: Tomarry

Rating: M-E(depends)

Tags: Mild Language, Homosexuality, Sexism, Obsessed Tom, Time-Travel/Dimension-Travel, Teacher/Student, Eventual Romance, Teacher-Harry, Grey!Harry, MoD(sort of), Death!being,

NOTE: One of my many headcanons is that the Diary Horcrux was improperly made. Since the Basilisk was the one that killed Myrtle, as she doesn’t understand Parseltongue and can’t actually know what was said, there is no proof that Tom Riddle actually told the snake to kill her. He took credit for it and used it as a murder requirement for the Horcrux ritual, but there was no dialogue or order given to our knowledge.

So, Tom did the ritual without a fractured soul(because he didn’t personally murder Myrtle) and ended up ripping his soul in half which caused immense damage to his sanity. It would then explain why he went crazy so fast if the very first one was done incorrectly. And that’s the plot used in this fic.

Professor Potter sighed and removed his glasses, setting them on the desk and folding his fingers beneath his chin. He proceeded to stare Tom down evenly, green eyes flashing ominously. "Albus decided to inform me, 'for my protection' apparently, that you are a Parselmouth. He heavily implied that you are the Heir of Slytherin and that you are the cause for what happened a couple of years ago with the Chamber of Secrets."

Tom would never admit to stiffening. He liked to pretend that he was not worried or scared of what Professor Potter thought of him. He didn't care, even though he really did in a way. And it was so pathetic, that he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, would be so fixated on a single person's opinion of him. He didn't give a bleeding damn what Dumbledore thought, so why was Potter any different?

Because he treats you fairly, came a whispered voice in his mind. Because he doesn't single students out and actually treats everyone the same. Because he doesn't pity you. Because he is different than everyone else in your life.

"Just because Albus is right, doesn't mean there is proof against you, and trying to manipulate someone's view of you was foolish of him. I haven't let myself be tricked like that in a long time and I refuse to let it happen again. I can determine for myself what you are like, through my own experiences with you."

His left eye twitched only just a little bit. He kept a straight face though it was like his body was caught between the need to either frown or smile. Potter wanted to judge based on their interactions and not by Dumbledore's bias. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, sir." Admit nothing. That was usually the Slytherin mentality.

Potter shrugged, his unearthly green eyes flashing with hidden knowledge. "It's obvious that an Acromantula didn't kill Myrtle Warren. They consume their prey differently, and there was not one mark on the girl that came from a creature. Besides, anyone with a brain knows that only one creature can petrify its prey, and that is a Basilisk. Had she been lucky enough to look into it's 'great big yellow eyes' as she described to me, through another object like a mirror or a puddle, she wouldn't have died and would have just been frozen."

Professor Potter had actually spoken to Myrtle Warren's ghost. He asked her what had killed her and she described the Basilisk's eyes perfectly. A sinking feeling was settling in Tom's stomach. He didn't like how familiar he was becoming with it.

The professor leaned back in his seat and waved his hand twice. A dark book levitated off his bookshelf and opened for him, hovering in front of his almost disinterested face. His eyes roved over the page. "A Basilisk in the school wouldn't make sense normally, if one of the Founders wasn't a Parselmouth. However, each of the Founders placed a creature of their choosing to protect the school. Godric had a dragon that some fool in the 1200s killed for its hide, Rowena had a Sphinx that was sent back to Egypt in the 1600s, and Helga had a Phoenix that seems to have befriended Albus, and goes by the name of Fawkes.

"Anyway, only those of Slytherin's blood can control the Basilisk, as the book states. Which would mean you as you are a descendant of the line through the Gaunts."

Tom's eyes stared intently at the book that he did not know the name of. He had never see any book like it before, so he knew it wasn't from the Hogwarts Library. He never knew that any of the other Founders had creatures in the castle at some point. Perhaps it was a Potter Family artifact? And how had Potter known that he was related to the Gaunt Family? After all, Tom could have just been an unexpected relation that came from a splintered off line of Salazar's.

"Sir, where did you get that book? I've never seen such information in any books about Hogwarts and I made sure to extensively study the history of the school as well as our community." For my own gain, he neglected to add. It was obvious enough for him to not have to mention it.

Potter smiled, and the book slowly floated toward Tom, until he could literally pluck it out of the air. It was strangely soft, and the covering on it was unfamiliar to him. The size was larger than any tome he had ever encountered, and much heavier. Even the parchment was foreign to him. It was so… strangely brittle and solid all at once.

"My friend Mortimer helped me acquire that book. He had the knowledge of its existence and we went and fetched it from its old holding place. Normal magicals wouldn't even be able to read it however, because its author held knowledge of a specific language that is rare in this side of the world and is only connected to one family over here."

Tom turned the book over, opening up to the very first page. All of a sudden, the odd squiggles on the page righted themselves and the words SALAZAR SLYTHERIN stood out in large blocky calligraphy. His ancestor had written the book in his hands. He's written it in Parseltongue?

"Parselscript," clarified Potter, as if knowing exactly what Tom was thinking.

Parseltongue had a written form.

He frowned when he realised. "Professor, you speak Parseltongue as well?" Were they related? Was that why the man knew of his mother and knew that he was a Gaunt? Was he a cousin or something? He didn't look anything like Morfin did. And his surname was Potter.

Were they perhaps brothers and Tom's mother had a relationship with a Potter who then took Harry away? From what he'd learned of the Gaunts, they weren't a family anyone wanted to align themselves with. It would be social suicide, especially for a Potter who was of the Light side.

"Tom, what do you know of the Gaunt Family?" asked Professor Potter, sitting back in his chair as if this was not the most confusing and revealing conversation of Tom's life. "Do you know anything beyond you being Salazar's possible second to last descendant?"

'Possible'?

Knowing it was pointless to lie when he would get nothing from it in this situation, Tom shook his head. "There isn't much about the Gaunt Family beyond them squandering their former wealth and inbreeding too much just to keep themselves 'pure'." He sneered the last word, disgusted at the thought of performing any type of sexual acts with relatives. Especially with how their looks apparently degenerated overs the centuries. He couldn't understand the desire.

The Defence professor nodded and leaned forward until his elbows could rest on the desk. "In the 1600s, Rionach Gaunt broke off from the family and married William Sayre, who shared her ideals about being kind to Muggles."

Tom's upper lip rose in a sneer, but Potter ignored it.

"Their daughter Isolt, was a brilliant little witch, but ended up losing her parents to a fire. Her mother's estranged sister Gormlaith Gaunt 'found her' and 'raised her' with dubious teachings and under Dark Magic to force her compliance and isolation for years. Isolt eventually learned that Gormlaith murdered her parents and had kidnapped her, and came to resent her. She was refused any chance to attend Hogwarts, because Gormlaith didn't like it, and spun tales of why it was supposedly terrible. She decided to teach Isolt all the Dark Arts she knew instead."

Was everyone that Tom was related to, somehow a bloody moron? How could Hogwarts be horrible in any way? Sure, there were some fools here and there and Dumbledore surely tainted the air with his existence, but he would not be around always, and Tom had growing plans to make things follow his way of thinking in the future.

"Isolt learned enough magic by the time she was twelve, to successfully steal her aunt's wand and escape. She fled to England and disguised herself as a Muggle boy, who then sneaked onto the Mayflower that was headed for the New World. Long story short, she met the natives of the land, befriended some magical creatures, and ended up creating the first magical school in the states, which is called Ilvermorny."

Tom's jaw actually dropped. A descendent of Salazar Slytherin founded one of the other large magical schools in the world? And no one thought that the Founder of said school was evil or bent on world domination?

"If you want more information, I have a book that is a copy of her own bibliography. I had to go directly to Ilvermorny and be put through many tests to get it, but I do have it. It'll tell you more about Gormlaith and the Gaunts. You'll be interested to know that the wand that she stole from her aunt was once Salazar's wand. And in the end, she buried it in the ground within Ilvermorny, and it sprouted a large Snakewood tree that has magical properties that are said to heal anything if any part of it is consumed."

Isolt Sayre was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. She never received a Hogwarts education and was only taught the Dark Arts. She went on to build the most powerful magical school in North America. And no one thought terribly of her? They didn't think she was a Dark Lady? And Salazar Slytherin, who was considered evil by most of Hogwarts for the past several centuries, had a wand that would basically be a Healer's dream come true?

"Isolt is recognised as a heroine in magical America, Tom. And her descendants are spread across the world due to traveling. I'm even distantly related to her through my mother, oddly enough. And through my father, I am distantly related to you because the Potters and Gaunts came from the same line, which are the Peverells, and many Gaunts married into the Potters way back when."

The Necromancer Three. Tom knew about them as much as anyone in Britain would. The family itself wasn't important until the three brothers supposedly created some of the most powerful magical artifacts in history. Then they drew enough attention to themselves and their craft. And they became history. Their rise and fall was described in many children's books.

Potter was nodding. "Cadmus, the middle brother, sired an unwanted daughter who changed her name when she fled his old village. She didn't want to be found and have the stain of her being a bastard following her everywhere. She became the first Gaunt, and settled down with a young and impressionable wizard from the Slytherin Line, who was angry for not being the first born and not getting the privileges of the first born. When the Slytherin Family died out a century later, the Gaunts were glad to let people know of their connection to Salazar."

"And which brother are you directly related to, professor?" asked Tom. Nothing ever said Antioch had sired children, but since he hadn't known Cadmus had any, how would he know?

"Ignotus, and even more distantly, Cadmus. Ignotus moved away from the bad reputations of his brothers and started his own family, passing down secrets and slowly changing the family name over the centuries. Peverell, Povrell, Povell, Potell, Pottel, Potter. Ironically, there are some Gaunts who married into my direct Potter branch and one of Isolt Sayer's children was my mother's some form of great-grandmother from the 1800s, which would explain the Parseltongue."

He had a distant relation who wasn't a bumbling fool. It was like a breath of fresh air in some ways, while in others, it made him a little annoyed. Why wait until now to say anything to Tom about it?

Also…

"How did you know my mother sold the Slytherin Locket?" He still couldn't understand that. That had not been explained yet. Potter had given answers to things he didn't even ask, but neglected to answer the one thing he wanted to know the most.

Potter sighed for the umpteenth time. "Mr. Borgin isn't very good at keeping secrets and it only took some persuasion when I inquired about it. Add on the fact that only one Marvolo ever attended Hogwarts, and it was Marvolo Gaunt, who had only one daughter and one son. Marvolo and Morfin had made a reputation in the magical papers as 'Possible Threats to the Statute of Secrecy' since both had been fined multiple times for casting magic on the Muggles in Little Hangleton. The daughter Merope, was the only one with a clean slate and according to the dwellers of said village, she disappeared around the time you were born, with a muggle aristocrat sharing your exact name. He returned months later, without her, and was screaming about witchcraft and love potions. It really wasn't hard to put together once everything was listed."

Tom's breathing calmed slowly. His professor had actually done some studying instead of being like Dumbledore and just accusing him of unfounded things. He researched and compiled all the evidence he had. And he wasn't treating Tom like a monster despite Tom basically admitting that yes, he was behind the Chamber fiasco.

He didn't come out and directly say it, but his questions and answers gave it away. And still Potter was being fair.

"Myrtle was a mistake," he found himself explaining, and wanting to be consumed by Fiendfyre on the spot. The look on Potter's face was of obvious surprise, but it didn't make him feel any better.

Tom bit his bottom lip for a second, before continuing. "Her death wasn't deliberate. I was simply trying to scare the students. No one actually got hurt or died, despite the bloody messages on the walls. Myrtle was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was the one who found her and it was only because the Basilisk called out to me from the lavatory. I then had to skillfully redirect some students in hopes of them finding her instead, which one of them finally did. Said student was even Myrtle's frequent bully, so it only seemed right."

He didn't send the Basilisk to kill her. He hadn't even been there when the death occurred.

"I did find it strange how they actually carried her body off," said Professor Potter, a look of confusion on his face. "Basilisks consume their prey whole, unlike Acromantula who like to draw out their feasting time so the innards can deliquesce. There shouldn't have been a body, and if you had murdered her, you would have hidden the evidence so as not to have any leads that could trace back to you."

Exactly. Tom was much better at plotting. He'd killed Tom Riddle Sr. and his parents, with Morfin's wand. And he worked some incredible magic to implicate Morfin in the scenario. He would never leave such proof behind, no matter what.

But… just because Tom didn't order it specifically, didn't mean he wasn't partially responsible. After all, he had reworked the wards on the Chamber and the lavatory, which allowed the Basilisk to open the entrances and exits with its own Parseltongue. So the Basilisk came out for another chance to explore the castle under Tom's watch, only to literally kill a student the moment it slithered from the hole beneath the sinks.

As the serpent was under Tom's orders to make such rounds about the castle, he was to blame in a sense. And when he finally learned of the ritual required to make a Horcrux a week later, he used that as his 'murder' requirement to complete the ritual. And now Tom had two Horcruxes.

So yes, it was his fault in a way, but Myrtle would not have been his choice. He would have much preferred Eldrid Avery. Because what good would it do him to pick on the pathetic and weak? Myrtle had nothing when she was alive, but seeing Avery dead and unable to bother him any longer, would have been ideal. After all, Tom targeted those who wronged him in some way, and there was no satisfaction in proving how great he was over a trampled mouse.

Eldrid acted as if he was Merlin's gift to Slytherin, and Tom would have gladly put the other in his place. In fact, he was considering using him as his next Horcrux sacrifice.

While none too fond of Muggles nor how he'd been treated for everyone assuming he was a Muggleborn, he didn't care too much. Those unworthy to be in Hogwarts would have fled upon the opening of the Chamber, and since several had actually transferred out, the school was in fact free of their taint. And no, not all were Muggleborn. Tom simply hated those who worked against him. They were removed first and foremost.

"In conclusion to this hour long discussion," said Professor Potter as he glanced up at the clock on the wall, "let's put it all out there. You are the Heir of Slytherin. We both are Parselmouths thanks to Gaunt ancestry in our lines. We're both Halfbloods who are related to the Peverells. Your mother was named Merope and she was wandering about London on her own in December of 1925 and only got ten Galleons for the Slytherin Locket. You were born at Wools' Orphanage at the end of the month and grew up there. Albus was the one to visit you. Albus doesn't like you at all and is trying very hard to ruin your reputation among others. And it would behoove to refrain from using anything but Light magic in the coming weeks."

At Tom's frown, the man shrugged. "We're dealing with Albus Dumbledore, who has many awards already and a good portion of the Light people in his pocket, no matter what the papers say of his actions. He can and will convince someone to investigate you or me if he feels threatened. A proper diagnostic scan on a wand - that is taught to the Aurors - only shows the last one hundred castings. Practice the Patronus Charm a lot just to cover yourself even further."

And just as some of his questions had been answered, he was left with dozens more. How did his professor know about the training that Aurors went through? Was he formerly an Auror? And why was he so against Albus Dumbledore when half of Britain worshiped the man? Other than gossip, Dumbledore didn't come across as an annoying person upon first meeting, so what could have put Potter off to the man?

"You may borrow that book, though I would see it returned in the state it is currently in," said Potter, drawing his attention back to the present. Yes, the book that Tom was holding was still open. The book written by Salazar Slytherin.

Realising that this was the time for him to depart, Tom stood and closed the book gently. He then slipped it into his expanded bag and gave a small bow.

"Thank you, sir." An expression that was directed at more situations than just the book lending.

The green-eyed man waved his gratitude away. "It's only right that you learn about Salazar from his own writing. Take care of the locket. Perhaps you can get a portrait of yourself put in there."

Potter would not give him away. The man had already known everything and hadn't said a word to anybody. It was strangely comforting to know that. To know that there was an adult - and he used the term lightly since they were near each other in age - who was decent and could actually be trusted to be honest and relatively impartial.

He knew that Professor Potter would do his job, and that was good enough. And when he admitted to having a hand in Myrtle's death, the man hadn't glared at him. He didn't regard Tom with disgust. He simply accepted the answer for what it was and moved on.

It was nice… to have someone that didn't fear him. It was nice to not feel that telltale sign of nausea around someone. Potter was someone that treated him well, not because Tom threatened him into compliance, or because he wanted to get on Tom's good side. The man was just genuinely kind to everyone. Except perhaps Dumbledore, though the old fool deserved if it he kept trying to enforce his opinions and views on everyone he met.

It was halfway back to his dorm that Tom realised something else. Potter's Dueling Club was starting soon. He had to work on his Patronus even more if he wanted to impress the man and the class. A happy thought or memory strong enough to power such a spell.

He blinked for a moment, and in a moment of intense thought, he lifted his wand. "Expecto Patronum."

In the darkness of the dungeon corridor, Tom Marvolo Riddle was witness to the brightness of the very first corporeal Patronus he'd ever summon. It was a large, writhing serpent covered in odd markings. It reminded him very much of Professor Potter's Patronus, which shouldn't surprise him, since it was a thought of the man himself that had fueled the charm.

Tom smiled, enjoying the sight and the proof of his own ability. He felt a little giddy actually.

It was… nice.

A/N: I’m glad to see this chapter finished. 3500+words. Tom did the charm! Harry’s POV is coming in chapter 16, so be prepared.

[3652k17]

March 16th 2020

Quarantine Day #3: 

What is the world these days? I’m sure there will be a great pouring of people who are now trying to blog about their experiences but to be fair, I’ve definitely kept trying to come back to recount my journey through life, this ain’t no fleeting, novel thing. Speaking of non-fleeting novel thing; the Coronavirus is now spreading throughout the US and LCPS wrote today to say that we certainly won’t be going back until after Spring Break. Karen Langrock had said, the day before we were closed unexpectedly in the middle of the night, that once we’re out, we won’t be back. When she said that statement, there was a genuine beat where I tried to take that information in. There I was, standing in the 600 hallway, with Madelaine, Rohin, and Caitlin all waiting to waste some time after school. Her words sent absolute panic through me. To not be back here every day? To not see my kids? To no longer be Madelaine, Rohin, Jake, Ryan, Chas’s teacher? It was something that I just couldn’t comprehend, and when I turned to Rebecca, with fear in my eyes, she said, “You can’t think about it.” It all seemed very far away. 

The infamous Thursday (March 12th, although it feels 1000 years ago) will remain emblazoned in my memory for as long as I live (which will hopefully be longer than the year 2020). It’s similar to 9/11, although not nearly as evil or as violent, but something I won’t forget. The night before, when I had finally finished up SAT with Caitlin, our last session before her test that weekend, and made it home, I dissolved completely into tears. I cried most of my way home. I cried while I was heating up my leftover Indian food from Maddy’s birthday dinner the night before. I cried at the kitchen table and couldn’t move to watch television, to continue to grade my timed writes. I couldn’t bear the idea that this time next week, the school year might be over. However, I brushed it off and decided that tomorrow ‘I’ll make the best of things. I’ll take a selfie with all of my classes, I really try and enjoy every moment with them the best that I possibly can”. The next morning I shook myself awake, scared that I was going to sleep in for Orange, checked my email and saw that there was a department meeting agenda waiting. I scanned over it, thinking about the info that might be shared about the prospect of “distance learning”. I thought briefly about PLC social, who would be winning the supposed coveted (but actually very much resented) apple award. I thought about Ben’s PD the following day. I thought about that day’s 7th-week schedule, and how I would need to get my act together to make sure all of my grades would be in ok. I didn’t think to check my email again. I went to Orange, and thought about how many more sessions would I get before they either closed or I had to freeze my membership? Turns out it was just once more. It was a great class, with a teacher I don’t usually have, and I was so glad that I made the decision to go in. I went to the store straight after, as I had run out of milk for my tea and infamous cereal, and I noticed that the store was a little fuller than it usually is at 6:00am. I had also noticed that a lot of people dropped off early that Orangetheory class, but decided to think nothing of it. I pulled into school, with the darkness still hanging heavy in the air. There wasn’t another car in the parking lot, although this isn’t too unusual at this point. I opened my car door and I genuinely paused and listened to the still morning air, punctured only by the birds in the surrounding trees. The air had a slight balm in it, as a sort preview of the what spring may hold. At that moment, it was hard to think of the world crashing in around us.  I took a deep breath and looked up at the brick building and somberly smiled. “How many more mornings would I get like this, “ I thought, “It’s mornings like these I’ll really miss when we’re quarantined in two weeks.” That’s how long I genuinely thought we’d have. I pulled myself up the stairs, my heels echoing ominously in the deserted stairwell. I did my hair, makeup and decided to go and wash my mugs. The clock was inching towards 7, but still, the hallway lights weren’t on, and the heavy sound of the football practice wasn’t filling the hall. Everything was still. Too still thinking back. After washing out all of my mugs and filling my two cereal bowls with water to wash later (and never did come to think of it) I sauntered down the hall, looking around at the cavernous ceiling, that seems so much taller when the lights were off. That’s when I bumped into Deb who looked as though she had seen a ghost. The first ebbs of morning light were starting to creep in through the large glass window at the end of the 600 hallway, and there she was, aghast that I was just going about my merry way. My phone was left in my gym bag. I hadn’t checked my email. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to be there anymore. When she first told me, I thought she had made a mistake or that she was crazy. There was no mistake. I went into my room and started to find a way to call Becca. “This can’t be happening,” I desperately thought. “Did she say we’re closed for the next week or so? How can that change in less than 24 hours.” Becca’s laughter and confirmation did make me settle down. It felt like that time, earlier in the year, when I had gotten to school and we had actually had a snow day. It was a delightful mix-up. I scurred on home and rejoiced at getting back an extra day to play the sims and watch TV with Becca, Ellie, and Scout. At that moment in 607, it felt as though this was all a big joke and would be fixed tomorrow. Fred then found me and expressed his own surprise and encouraged me to get my things and head out. The ever creepy janitor Tim was delighted to find me and escorted me out to my car. Didn’t help with anything mind, but walked me out there. I had taken as much as I could possibly carry from my classroom, threw it into my car and called my mum and dad. It still felt like a snow day gone wrong. 

It’s been 3 days since that happened, and although not too much has changed, I know that it will. LCPS discussed that it would be potentially 12 weeks until we could go back and by that point, the end of the year is already upon us, and it would almost seem foolish to go back. Which means from March-August, we hadn’t seen our classrooms, our kids, or each other. There are times when I don’t know what I miss most. The hubbub of the normal, hectic school routine, the kids saying something nutty, or the people who will listen to you explain this nuttiness and relate. I know that I’ve been working very hard over the last few months, and for all of that to come to a grinding halt is beyond disarming. I completely agree with all the measures that the surrounding places are taking. We should not be interacting with each other. We have to stay protected from this horrible illness as long as possible. We’re doing the right thing. 

But that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t love: a PLC social to complain about; to see Will and Ais in advisory; to have another fantastic, crazy, probably not helping them in any way for the AP exam A1 class; to talk to Ben, Zack, Erick, Veronica, the people who make my day the best it can be; to just talk to Becca about whatever’s going on and stay a part of her life as she transitions away to motherhood; to laugh with Kenzie during 4th lunch on a 3rd block day, hell, I’d even take good ol’ Colin Gray and his nuttiness; to talk to Ishan, to be irritated by Preetham, to laugh with Taylor and Haley; to mess around with Eliza and Ashley, to roll my eyes at something stupid and ignorant that Caitlin said; to figuring out where to go for planning during 6th and instead find my way to Ben’s classroom; to see Naomi, Sydney and a few others in 7th; to be pestered by Maddie Garber and PEER; to good ol’ 8th block study hall, where I was super frustrated they took away my coveted office slot, but that I actually looked forward to because of the great conversations that Eric, Rebecca and I would have, along with those crazy, apathetic seniors; to have an afterschool chat with Madelaine and Rohin and whoever else they brought along, where we’d talk about anything, but most Gibson and whatever quirk he had expressed today. I’d love to do all of those things again and more. I know that staying in and protecting myself will increase my chances of getting to do some of those things again, but as my stupid brain keeps telling me, “it won’t be the same and you know it”. I don’t know what the future will hold for anyone right now. More than anything that I listed before though, I just want us all to get through this illness. I don’t want myself, or anybody else to die. I want us to beat this thing. I know that we’re going to have a new normal and that things haven’t even started to get hard yet, but I just want to get back to worrying about whether I had worn too many dresses this week, or if my hair looked funny, or if I’m a terrible AP teacher. And right now that’s all I can do; hope. 

[jafreitag]

The Death of the Auteur

Amanda Petrusich is a rockstar. Figuratively. She’s not a musician. She’s a writer.

Her wiki says that she’s “an American music journalist and the author of three books” – 2007’s Pink Moon (a 33 1/3 series dissection of Nick Drake’s ’72 classic), 2008’s It Still Moves: Lost Songs, Lost Highways, and the Search for the Next American Music (a sorta travelogue in search of what matters about roots-y bands), and 2014’s Do Not Sell At Any Price: The Wild, Obsessive Hunt for the World’s Rarest 78rpm Records (descriptive title). She’s a Guggenheim Fellow, a former staffer at Pitchfork, and a current staffer at The New Yorker. She’s a member of a rock scribes guild that includes Robert Christgau, Michael Azerrad, Anthony DeCurtis, Greg Kot, Jim DeRogatis, and the ghost of Lester Bangs. (All dudes.) Along with her contemporaries and cohorts Jesse Jarnow, Sasha Frere-Jones, Hua Hsu, and a very few others in that field, she’s good at her job. Fwiw, she’s the best.

What makes her the best? She understands that, pace comedian Martin Mull, “writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” So she straps on her tap shoes and just goes. Her stuff is always well-phrased, sure, but also well-structured. Her pieces typically feature something professional, and big – historical perspective, like she’s researched and listened. They also typically feature something personal, and small – individual perspective, like she’s lived and breathed a life informed and enriched by music. A jab here, a digression there, and then a deeper digression here and there. Grace, above all, everywhere. She makes me want to write – to write better, smarter, tauter and looser at the same time. She probably had/has good editors, but the craft and art is hers.

This post isn’t entirely about Amanda Petrusich. It’s also about Roland Barthes. I’ll get there, promise. (I’m assuming the tl;dr crowd checked out way before now. If you’re still with me, cinch up and hunker down.)

Last week, LN banned Ryan Adams for his indefensible treatment of women. I liked alot of Adams’ songs (tbh, who didn’t dig “New York, New York” post-9/11?), as well as his prolific output (another new album, I guess I’ll check that out). The things that kept me from loving him were his work-like approach to songwriting, and his generally douche-y look and demeanor.

The Pitchfork review of his 2008 record (with his occasional band, The Cardinals), Cardinology called it “melodically sound, remarkably insular and largely unaffecting.” That gets to my former point re: songwriting. I feel like there’s another review of another album on Pitchfork that riffs on how Adams’ music is simply finger exercises in mopey, alt-country. There’s nothing of him in his songs, just distant musings on relationship tropes that use rural, everyperson scenery, as well as vaguely twangy delivery and dated Nashville/Muscle Shoals instrumentation/arrangements, to provide cred. I scoured P4k (wow, they hate and love him in almost equal measure), but couldn’t find what I remembered. Trust me that that review exists. Or don’t, and just buy what I’m trying to say. Dude is “good” at his job. And it’s just a job. To borrow from P4k again – its take on 2005’s Jacksonville City Nights: “Nearly a dozen albums in, counting Whiskeytown, Ryan Adams’ shtick is that it’s all shtick.”

And then it wasn’t. He married and divorced Mandy Moore, decided to devote an entire album to the demise of that relationship – 2017’s Prisoner. Here’s his comment about it to the Japan Times:

“I started writing this record while I was going through a very public divorce, which is a humiliating and just a f—-ing horrible thing to go through no matter who you are. To be me and to go through that the way that I did was destructive on a level that I can’t explain. So a lot of extra work went into keeping my chin up and remembering what I did and what I loved about who I was.”

That hints at my latter point, and feeds the former. “To be me” is the weird part. Like he needs the interviewer knows that he’s a sensitive, press-shy guy, so any details of what that process entailed – the pains, the doubts, the regrets, the gotdam details of who gets the kids/pets and when (full disclo, I’m divorced, too) – was off-limits because of, well, him. But it was all good because of, well, him. He told the JT that he wrote “quite literally 80 songs, probably more” (OMF, that’s such a Trump quote) for Prisoner, discovering that he could “write out the bulls—- so I could get back to myself and say, ‘Cool. This is what is real.’ ”

That record is ok, but there’s nothing real about it. Again, P4k, from it’s review (after quoting some lyrics):

“[L]ines that feel like placeholders for universal truths or even personalized expressions of pain that rarely emerge. While it’s impossible to evaluate the album’s sincerity, inspiration is a more tangible quality, and Adams comes off like an A student uncharacteristically frozen by an essay prompt, filling the margins with the hopes that his reputation can get him out of this jam, this one time.”

Reputation, ok. That definitely goes to the latter point. Adams has a difficult one. The Ringer says, “Adams’s reputation has long preceded him, by design, like a human shield.” Basically, he’s difficult, and revels being so because he thinks he’s some sort of rock genius auteur – the attitude, like the disheveled hair and the frumpy clothes, serves the grander brand. Per Spin, he has used his influence to get websites to remove negative content about him – namely, a 2017 Consequence of Sound profile about Phoebe Bridgers, a singer-songwriter, a member of boy genius (whose s/t ep was my fave record of last year), a co-founder of Better Oblivion Community Center (with Conor Oberst), and, least of all, a former parter of Adams. What was so bad? In the profile, Bridgers observed that Adams “wigs out at people on Twitter all the time,” but added, “Do I ever text him and say, ‘Stop?’ Never. I think I’d wind up on the wrong end of a Twitter rant.” Wow.

Adams has also flexed on critics who have given his music less than glowing reviews. That includes Amanda Petrusich. She has previous with him. For P4k, she savaged his 2003 album, Rock N Roll, which then prompted him to summon her (via people) for an interview. It starts with AP saying that he talks fast, and then Adams hearsaying his “writer” friend informing that the website is “not very cool at all.” Ugh. He tells her that P4k is a “good resource,” which has a nice vibe because it supports indie material. To relate, I guess, he adds, “Today I got the first Pussy Galore record for $50,” (I doubt that), which he had been “looking for for so fucking long”  because he gets “cool records.” But. if I wasn’t him, he’d pass on Jon Spencer and Neil Hagerty, and “be like, ‘Dude, you have to check out this record, Gold, it kicks ass.’ ” (Aside: In the history of the world, there has never been a human being who has gone into a record store to buy Dial M for Motherfucker and settled for Gold, not even Mad Ego’s Ryan Fucking Adams.)

And then AP prods him, and mentions his comment that rock journalism is just exhibitionism. She says that she’s not cool and listens to the Grateful Dead (so do we at LN!!). His response:

“I fucking love the Dead! Jesse Malin got me a coupon for a Steal Your Face tattoo for my birthday. ‘Cause, you know, I want to be badass. [Laughs] There are a lot of things expected and not expected. I mean, back in the day, Jim Morrison fucking going crazy in Florida and maybe or maybe not pulling his penis out, or attacking a police officer– all this unbelievably decadent shit. That was news. Now it’s ‘singer/songwriter can be slightly hotheaded.’ I’m not trying to hurt anybody.”

Or maybe he was. Last week’s ban post linked the New York Times article about Adams’ abuse of women. I don’t need to revisit that, but here’s his preemptive tweet (since deleted, typos are his) before the article was out:

“Happy Vanentines day @nytimes. I know you got lawyers. But do you have the truth on your side. No. I do. And you have run out of friends. My folks are NOT your friends. Run your smear piece. But the legal eagles see you. Rats. I’m f—ing taking you down. Let’s learn I bait.”

Last week, The New Yorker published Amanda Petrusich’s “Ryan Adams and the Perils of the Rock-Genius Myth.” There, she mentions that Adams is now under investigation by the F.B.I. for communications with a then-14 year-old fan, which may have crossed legal lines. (Adams’ attorney denies any wrongdoing by his client. And, as I said in the ban post, the presumption of innocence is constitutionally important.) AP also mentions comments by Bridgers on social media, where she described Adams as stifling, domineering, and frightening. Bridgers thanked her friends, band, and mom for support, then called out Adams’ “network,” none of which, she says, “held him accountable,” but rather “told him, by what they said or what they didn’t, that what he was doing was okay.” AP says:

“What Bridgers is emphasizing—that most people who have been subject to this sort of behavior can just as clearly recall the dude in the room who refused to meet their gaze, who was visibly uncomfortable but nonetheless remained silent—feels more important than ever to remember. It’s not simply the alpha abusers at fault for poisoning the music industry but also the whole odious web of enablers that surrounds them.”

AP continues (and this is a long quote, but it’s so finely rendered, and provides such great insight into her experience as a serious journalist who happens to be female, that you should read the whole damn thing):

“It almost feels silly, in our present era, to point out that sexism is pervasive in the music business, from the major labels on down—it’s now so ingrained in the system as to simply be presumed. Nearly every woman I know who works in music has a bottomless grab bag of stomach-turning stories about being harassed at shows, demeaned during interviews, inappropriately and aggressively propositioned, objectified, insulted, or treated as a joke. For most of us, it goes on until these sorts of incidents become normalized—a job hazard that you don’t think about because you’ve never known another way of working. ‘The concept of male genius insulates against all manner of sin,’ the critic Laura Snapes recently wrote in the Guardian. For men, childish or cruel behavior is often not just excused, but lauded—held as evidence of passion, vision, verve. A man behaving hysterically can be reconfigured as brilliant, whereas a woman doing the same thing will, in all likelihood, be dismissed as a maniac. I think often about a conversation I had with the musician Chan Marshall, who records as Cat Power, in Miami, in 2014. Marshall has been subject to several decades of name-calling for her occasionally erratic behavior, which has included walking offstage mid-show—something dozens of male rock stars have done before her. ‘I’m not crazy,’ I recall her telling me.

When I first started working as a music critic, in my early twenties, the industry was still almost exclusively male. My first real writing job was for the music-reviews site Pitchfork, where at times I was one of just two, maybe three, women on staff. My early editors and colleagues were supportive and encouraging—I was fortunate—but music criticism itself has problematic roots. The practice was largely founded and developed by male writers, who understood hedonism as a display of authenticity (maybe as the only display of authenticity), and its language still hinges around vaguely mystical ideas about art-making as a kind of bloodletting. For decades, that language has been used to protect and enshroud troubled men, and to dismiss and humiliate women working in the same register. I learned the vocabulary of the trade as a young critic, and the process of un-learning it has been slow, deliberate, and difficult.

Part of the problem is that music thrills and bewilders us in a way that can feel at odds with natural laws, so we instinctively codify and exalt its creation. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking and writing about what happens to a person when they hear a song that they love, and what sense, if any, can be made of that strange, glorious melting. When I look at my own record collection, I see a desperate monument to my desire for that feeling—for some fleeting brush with the sublime. There are neurobiological processes to point to, and loads of social and cultural cues that help explain and unpack fandom, but the experience itself is such a hard thing to hold on the page. Never being able to fully explain it in a concise or useful way is a big part of why I first began writing about music, and why the work remains interesting to me. There’s a little bit of God in it.

But mystifying the creative process also allows for the genius myth to expand and endure. When nobody can say for sure why a certain melody is so satisfying, or so evocative, or so pleasurable—and this is criticism’s grandest prerogative, to somehow get close—we inevitably begin to imbue its creator with supernatural strengths. Ergo, people get away with things, for horrifyingly long stretches of time. It seems essential that critics remain vigilant about who is being granted leniency, and for what. But I also wonder if there’s a way for critical discourse to make more room for the receiver—to give more credit to our own consciousness, and the magic it makes of sound. That communion, after all—between player and listener, in which both parties create something extraordinary together—is just as sacred. Perhaps we can start to look for the genius in there instead.”

Yeah. There is a way, and it harkens back to the heady days of late-60s French deconstructionism. In 1967, Roland Barthes published an essay called “The Death of the Author.” I’ve referenced it a bunch through various iterations of this blog. (OM is fake sick of it, but he’s a pomo fiction geek, and a student of lit-crit, so whatever.) The wiki is actually p fly, but I’ll dig into the original text for pith.

Barthes writes that

“the image of literature to be found in contemporary culture is tyrannically centered on the author, his person, his history, his tastes, his passions; … the explanation of the work is always sought in the man who has produced it, as if, through the more or less transparent allegory of fiction, it was always finally the voice of one and the same person, the author, which delivered his ‘confidence.’ “

Man, not woman. Hmph.

Barthes’ essay is about literature, so it’s tricky to extrapolate it for a more performative (less interpretative) art form, like music. It’s also baseline difficult to decipher, and I’m not as smart as I used to be. (As I reread it, I tried to remember why I underlined certain passages when I was a grad student twenty-five years ago, and oof.) Essentially, Barthes wants to kill the Author by ending authority, by establishing that “utterance in its entirety is a void process, which functions perfectly without requiring to be filled by the person of the interlocutors: linguistically, the author is never anything more than the man who writes, just as I is no more than the man who says I: language knows a ‘subject,’ not a ‘person.’ ”

There’s a passage in the essay that suggests a de-personed hand (“his hand, detached from any voice, borne by pure gesture of inscription (and not of expression), traces a field without origin”) that goes a bit too far for me, but the idea is incontrovertible: “[T]he true locus of writing is reading.” And the true locus of songwriting is listening. I could riff on this, but I’ll get back to AP and her query.

The meaning/significance of any song or album belongs to us, not to the person who hummed it, demoed it, recorded it, and released it. If there’s wonder, it’s built into what we already do. And we can choose to direct that – that communion, that magic – toward artists who deserve it. The Auteur is dead. Long live rock.

More soon.

JF

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[anonymousantonym]

The Gargoyle Wall

(pre-)Destiel(ish,) 4.6k, some past homophobia, nothing graphic, Banner reference.

Everyone shivered, looking around them at the heavy trees as they danced in the wind, heavy shadow and lit from below with an eerie red glow. Every one of them anticipating monsters and demons just waiting to leap out at them.

“Oh my God!” Charlie yelped, and clapped her hands together making everyone jump and flinch where they sat around the fire. “Have you heard about the Gargoyle Wall yet?” She gasped out in excitement, breaking the tension effectively after the previous ghost story. Her eyes were gleaming, an anticipatory glint lighting them from within.

Dean leaned forward, shaking his head and grinning at his new friend. He had been the one to suggest ghost stories and he was already listening intently for more local folk tales and lore.

He and his brother, Sam, had only moved to the town a few months previously, shortly after their dad, John Winchester, had died. After a lifetime on the road, with only their dad and occasional visits to his friend, Bobby, they had decided to settle in one place. They had picked the small town, surrounded by pine trees, close to where Bobby lived, the man who they thought of as more of an uncle than family friend.

With their new permanence came friends. Charlie and Benny, Victor, Ellen and Jo, Jody and Donna, Rufus too. Within mere weeks they had found them selves a home, friends, family. Sam and Dean finally felt as if they belonged.

“Well, there’s this local legend,” Charlie began, making eye contact with those remaining around the fire. Ellen and Bobby had moved over to grill burgers on the barbecue, while Benny was grabbing fresh beers. Victor, Jo, Sam and Dean all eyed Charlie with looks ranging from interest to bored scepticism.

“If you go down Miner’s Lane and take the left at the end, rather than the right that takes you though to Over Hang, you end up outside old Mr. Fitz-Herbert’s place.” She paused,a s if to lend her words gravitas, despite having only given directions to someone’s home without reference to anything else. Dean had no clue what she was talking about, having not explored much further that work and his new friend’s houses. Sam was nodding as if aware of the location, though. Dean shrugged and urged her to continue with the story.

“So. Fitz-Herbert’s house is, like, this dilapidated, crumbling mansion, right? The main gates are just off this tiny lane, all enclosed by trees and, well, directly opposite the gates, is the Gargoyle Wall.” Her eyes were lit up as she launched in to her story proper. “The wall is really old, piles of rock just balanced up to make this really high boundary to the woods behind it, roots and branches sticking through in places, but not at that bit, just opposite the gates. No, on that bit, the Wall, are the faces of gargoyles, carved deep, each different and grotesque, covered in lichen and moss.”

She leaned back a little, pulling her face in to darkness. “Their eyes follow you as you walk past, and watch anyone who goes in to Fitz-Herbert’s home.” Charlie folded her arms across her chest, looking satisfied.

“So. What, that’s it?” Dean asked, confused. “Some crazy old dude carved faces in a wall? Hardly a ghost story Charlie.” Kind of creepy, he’d admit, but scary? Not so much.

Charlie leant forward again, her face lit once more by the dying firelight. “Nope! Those face are old, some one them. Really old. People say that before that mansion was built, an old witches cottage stood there. The man who had the house built, knocked down the witches cottage to build his home, but even then, there had been Gargoyles in the wall. That’s why the gate is opposite, so the faces could deter people wanting to hurt the old widower who build the place.”

Dean wrapped his cold hands around the empty beer bottle he was holding, wanting to hear more.

“The story goes that this super rich widower finally moved in, after waiting an age for the house to be built. It kept running in to problems so it took a long time. He was already old when he commissioned it, this big rambling place, so when he finally moved in, he realised he needed help running it. This was about a hundred years ago. He hired a woman from the village, as it was then, to visit weekly and clean and tidy and bring in groceries and things.”

“She always went back home after spending the whole day there with this horrible feeling in her bones, of loneliness and desolation. Every time she was home, it took days before she could feel happy again, relying on being surrounded by family and friends to, almost warm her through again.”

Dean frowned and felt Sam go tense beside him, finally, the story was getting interesting.

“You see, the thing was, apart from her, no one ever went to visit the old man. His wife was dead, he had no children, or at least they never came to call.”

She grinned around her next words. “So, one day, she let her self in and started work as normal, knowing she would bump in to the man at some point, but, that day, she never did.”

“When she realised he was missing she searched the house from top to bottom, all over the grounds, not a thing waas out of place, but there was no sign of the widower. She eventially ran down to the village and called for help.”

“By the time they had raised a search party, it was dark. With torches held high the men, women and children from the village searched everywhere they could, splitting off in to groups, even searching the woods, calling is name- They couldn’t find him.”

“They searched for hours, but eventually they decided to call it a night and they all decided to go home, shrugging their shoulders and wondering where he could have gone, hoping and wishing that it hadn’t been brigands or highwaymen. Now, they had practically brought everyone from the village with them, only the elderly, sick and the youngest and their mother’s left behind. So, the group were paused at the gates, waiting for the older ones to catch up. One of the older kids, though, grew bored and wondered through the gates.”

Dean couldn’t help himself. “And…?”

“Well, the girl was staring straight at the Gargoyle Wall, all colour drained from her face, and pointing. She waas pointing at a new Gargoyle, near the bottom of the wall. It was fresh and clean. Nothing growing on it, the lines still sharp and clear, the anguish on it’s face obvious to see.”

Charlie’s face was a delighted mask at having drawn Dean in to her tale. “From then on, the village avoided the mansion, so only outsiders ever moved in there. No one lasted very long, until Old Fitz-Herbert that is.” She grinned again, a mug smirk lighting her face. “Three of them disappeared, each followed by a new Gargoyle on the wall. But that’s not all!” She raised a finger abruptly to mark her point, making Dean flinch a little. “People form the village went missing too, and strangers passing though, especially strangers. Not many, but enough to note. Each time a new face appeared on the wall, clean and sharp.”

Dean was absorbed. “the last new gargoyle that appeared was about fifty years ago, though.” She said, looking a little sad at the thought. Dean shook his head, pulling his self back from the slightly chilling tale.

“But-” Charlie continued unexpectedly, a new light in her eyes, “there’s this other story, well, it’s the same one, really.” Dean frowned wondering what she was on about.

“So. About thirty years ago, when my mom was, like, twenty-five, another person went missing.” Charlie actually looked a little disturbed as she switched tack to this related story, leaving Dean just as intrigued as he had been moments before.

“So, my mom told me about all this, like, she actually experienced it, knew the guy, sort of, and everything, even witnessed it a bit!”

“There was this man who lived here at the time. No one liked him, hardly knew him. He was practically a ghost. He was really creepy, apparently. Tall, gaunt, dark hair. He never spoke to anyone. He had dark circles under his eyes. Always wore black… I mean, now, there’d be an online community for him to find friends in, if no one here likes him! But… then? He was ousted by the town, even more than he had done to himself. Back then, this place was kind of backward. Being so out of the way, there was practically no communications beyond the town limits. So, when he got blanked by the town’s people, he had literally no one to talk to.”

“So, mom had to walk through that alley every day for a few months, she was babysitting for the Sykes’ in Over Hang. One day she noticed him leaning against the railings looking at the Wall. A few days later, he was there again, hands in his pockets, glaring at the Gargoyles. Another few days, he was there again. Pretty soon, he was there every single day, just staring from across the alley usually, sometimes up close and looking at the faces. He was there for weeks, until, on day- He was gone.”

“It took a few days for anyone to really notice that he wasn’t just missing from the ally, but gone completely. His home was empty, his bed not slept in. When the town caught on what had happened, they rushed to the Wall… But there was no new Gargoyle.”

“There were pretty mixed feelings when they never found one.” Charlie looked upset and sad at that, like Dean, feeling hurt on the man’s behalf that someone a little off, a little different had attracted to much hate.

Dean, though, was fascinated. He felt something pull at him at the thought of the strange character being ignored by a whole town, following where other lonely people had gone before him, but, maybe, never quite making it. He felt a deep gnawing need to go and find the man. He knew, if it weren’t for his brother, steadfastly by his side his entire life, and now his new friends, he could have been in a similar position him self, lonely and unwanted.

“Shit! Charlie been tellin’ her favourite ghost story again?” Benny interrupted in his soft warm voice, making everyone around the fire jump, breaking the tension easily as he handed out beers.

Benny laughed a little before sitting himself next to Charlie. “The old man hates that tale bein’ told,” he said with a grin. “Got investigated back then when that gothy dude went missin’. He’d only just moved in, but had already forked out for CCTV over his gate. God knows why. Good thing though, the cops never found anything. The footage showed the guy showing up day after day, then one time, he leant against them, resting his hand on the stone- and the CCTV cuts out. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “When the video resumed, he was gone. Nothin’ left. Never seen again.” Benny’s voice was quietly gleeful, where Charlie looked a little sickened, mirroring Dean’s own feelings.

He couldn’t get the image of a tall and dark man, intrigued by a wall of carved faces, and being taken by then out of his head.

But, if that were the case, why hadn’t a new Gargoyle appeared?

He shivered and shook himself. Because it’s a story, he told himself, and grinned, tuning in to Benny’s new tale about ancient people falling in love over the flames of a barbecue and grilled ground beef.

-

“No good will come of it, kid.” The mail man said as he passed Dean, where he stood in front of the run down mansion’s gates, looking at the green stained wall, covered in terrified, grotesque faces.

Dean grunted, but continued to stare, drawn in, unable to look away.

It had taken him three days to find the time to walk down to the lane and investigate Charlie’s words himself. He had dreamed about the Wall during the night, eyes watching him in the dark, and found himself thinking of it during the day at work. He couldn’t escape it.

He ran his finger tips over the faces, avoiding touching their bared and wide eye balls, brushing the lines of their noses and lips. He found himself whispering apologies to them, feeling bad that they were stuck there, unable to move, talk, or see anything beyond their stone field of vision.

He spoke to each one, asking them their stories, never receiving a reply, until a bird calling in the wood beyond the wall startled him, making him look up to find the light hanging from the twisted metal bars if Fitz-Herbert’s gate flickering on. Somehow, hours had passed whilst he told each face that it wasn’t truly alone.

He took a step back the moment he thought he saw one move, blinking in the gloom, a little clump of moss falling to the floor, leaving the stone beneath bare and grey.

He shuddered, shivers lancing down his spine.

He gave the wall one final once over, marvelling at each individual face before he turned to go- and stopped dead.

There, right at the base of the wall, there was another face.

It was not like the others. Only revealed at the angle at which he stood, two inches taller or shorter, six to the right or left and he would not have been able to see it. It was still human, unlike the others, all pop-eyes and contorted mouths. It was so faint, the unhealthy light swinging in the breeze the only thing that picked it out. It looked as if it was hiding behind must, or like some statues, with a veil over it’s face. Dean could only just see the nose, the lines of it’s eyebrows, a hint of it’s lip and chin. He thought it looked masculine, but it was hard to tell.

He instantly felt twin sensations of warmth and terrible terrible loneliness.

He dropped to the floor, ignoring the dead leaves and the mud, and sat cross legged in front of the final face, still soft and smooth, and so very sad.

“Hey,” he whispered to it, and reached out and ran his finger along where it’s cheek bone would have been if it wasn’t so indistinct, so hidden. He longed to see it properly. “I’m sorry I left you until last.” He said quietly, feeling warmth emanate from his finger where he touched the face’s brow line. “How come you got in there, huh? How come you’re not like the others?”

He booped it on the nose, it’s only really prominent feature, and found himself smiling broadly at it. “You know, I think you’re the one I needed to find here. The other’d are resigned, aren’t they? You still fighting in there? Can I help you?”

He leant forward, scrunching his belly up to being his eyes as close to the humanoid face as possible. “Would you like me to help you?” He asked it, voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the breeze rustling the pine needles above him.

He looked back up at the wall, and, it may have just been the light and the swaying shadows cast by the low hanging branches of the trees, but he was sure that, just for a moment, each and every eye carved in to that rock wall was looking down at him, fixed on him, staring intently.

“Shit!” He yelped, as hands, strong as cold as stone, grabbed him and pulled him forward. In, in to the rock, through the faces and beyond and in to darkness.

-

Dean opened his eyes and saw whiteness. Or, more accurately, nothingness.

He opened his eyes again and saw a bank of mist sitting, brooding, a mere two foot from him. It was a solid mass, the stretched beyond his ability to see, distorting his vision and making him feel sick. It was terrifying.

He focused on the section in front of him. It was easier, but it didn’t let up in it’s wrongness. He had to leave, but not with out what he had come for. That knowledge was ingrained, a feeling he couldn’t ignore, didn’t want to ignore. But, he couldn’t focus, he didn’t know what he was there for.

He took a moment to lean back against the Wall, it still felt hard as stone, even though his eyes or brain couldn’t comprehend what was actually there any more. He stared to his front, that bank of nothingness, of cold, white, dead mist. He waited for his memory to return.

With a gasp he remembered a face, smooth, sad, soft, hidden and human.

He needed to help him.

Terror began to rise then, coming in short sharp breaths, as he realised where he was, where he wasn’t any longer.

“There’s no point panicking.” A deep and achingly tired voice sounded, It seemed all around him for a moment. The voice was echoing with sadness.

Dean shook himself slightly, the voice had grounded him, brought him back from the brink.

“Wha- There’s really no point asking those questions in there?” He asked the mist, getting to his feet, only a little shaky. He finally turned and faced the Wall against which he had been resting. He couldn’t look at it along it’s length, but directly on, it was stone, just like the wall outside, but smooth and clean. More like vertical crazy paving that the rustic and frightening thing on the other side.

Dean felt a shift, and in his mind assigned a shrug to the voice he had yet to pin point. “I don’t have your answers.” The voice spoke again, and this time, Dean could tell the direction from which it came. He turned back around to face the mist, his eyes skittering off the tunnel between the Wall and the mist, unable to process what his eyes saw. The bank of solid mist scared him, right down to his bones.

He made himself look though, to glare at it until he saw something, a dark smudge marring the whiteness, hidden and hazy, but there nonetheless.

“That’s you isn’t it?” He paced toward it, while a snort came from the smudge. “Depends on your definition of ‘you’ I suppose.” It answered, gravel, thirty cigarettes and a good Scotch whiskey in it’s slightly amused tone.

Dean hummed in agreement and crouched down next to the dark patch, hidden still, just out of sight by the first thin, but impenetrable layer of mist. “I figured I could come save ya.” He told it.

Even though he could not see he, he knew it smiled. “I wouldn’t object.” It- He said. With that voice it shouldn’t be anything but a man. The rough tone sent shivers up Dean’s spine, in a good way, this time.

“How come you’re here? Not a proper Gargoyle?” He asked, curiosity rife in his voice as he wondered about just reaching in to the mist and grabbing the shape. Something in him warned against it though, gut deep fear of the thick-thin white stuff. He knew instinctively that the true Gargoyle’s had moved on, through the mist, were beyond saving.

“I… I’m not completely sure. I was alone. Completely. And, I wanted to join the others- I can’t explain why. But, when I got pulled through, and I tried to cross in to the mist, I realised that I was missing something.” Another shift, another shrug. “But there was nothing to miss. I couldn’t move on. But I couldn’t pull free either. I’ve been here since…” He trailed off.

Dean hummed softly in response, absorbing what he had said. “What’s your name?”

Surprise coloured the air surrounding the dark smudge in the must. “I’m Castiel.” He replied, wonder in his voice.

“Cool.” Dean smiled. “Nice name. It’s great to meet you Cas,” his smile turned in to a grin. “I’m Dean.”

“Hello Dean.” The voice said, earnestness obvious, as was the smile in his voice. “I’m pleased to have met you too.”

“So… Shall I just reach in there and grab you? Or will that make me stuck too?” There was no verbal answer, but he could sense the effort that the blackness within the mist put in, there was movement, pain, exhaustion, interest and desperation.

A face started to be visible, still hazy and veiled, but he could see that the man’s skin was pale, his hair dark. His eyes were just dark splotches in a wide, angular face.

“Hey.” He smiled at the apparition.

A gasp sounded suddenly and a had swung wildly out from nowhere, hitting the barrier or mist, the fingers spread as if to reach out and touch Dean’s face before the movement was arrested. The hand pulled back slightly, and Dean wasn’t sure if it was the mist stopping him or the man second guessing himself.

Something within broke, somehow knowing that it wasn’t the mist. He leant forward slightly, moving to rest his cheek in the man’s slightly shaking palm, the thin barrier between them like fabric, like oil.

A choked off sob sounded from the man as his head ducked down, retreating from view a little, even as his fingers flexed slightly against Dean’s jaw line. Even though Dean couldn’t see the man’s face properly, he saw his jaw move as the word “stunning” was breathed out almost too quietly to hear, reverence in the hushed tone- Until-

A wounded sound escaped the man and the hand cupping Dean’s face disappeared back in to the mist, hidden from Dean completely, along with the man’s veiled face. Something in Dean told him that he man was ashamed, embarrassed, scared and hiding.

Dean frowned, even as the thought came to him that he knew things in this place that he wouldn’t ordinarily. The man’s reaction told him more than he needed. “Dude… Are you- Are you gay?” Is that- Is that the thing? Like- you do know that’s cool right? Now, even here. In this town. Like, I get that in the eighties this place had only just had phone lines put in, but now? Okay, it’s still a cell dead zone, but it’s a pretty cool place to be.” He smiled and rocked on his heels a little, some how knowing, again, that he was right. “No one cares if you’re in to guys. I mean, I’m bi-, One of my best friends’ a lesbian. No one is going to sideline you nowadays because of that. That is why you felt so ostracised before, right?”

He took a breath and leaned in a little, his nose almost touching he white wall, trying to see in to the mist, trying to catch a glimpse of the frightened man stuck half way in to the veil.

“It’s been, like, thirty years or something since you got stuck here, stuff’s changed a bit man.”

There was another bitten off sound and Dean leaned even further in, that cold, oil slick, rough silk touch of the mist wall touching his nose and lips.

His eyes widened as, from that hazy whiteness, reared a shape, indistinct and dark at first, and then, lips. Lips were pressed to his, a pair of hands holding his face, still surrounded by that mist, hiding the man’s features, and- he gave up and leaned in to the kiss. The man needed this, and it felt right to him, too. Even though the mist froze, the man’s lips were hot, demanding and insistent where they were pressed, unmoving and hard against his. He could feel the man’s tears touch his cheek, before they turned to ice on his skin.

He pulled away after a moment, and managed to catch the man’s hand, the mist clinging to Castiel’s fingers like the skin on warm milk. “You gotta come out of there if you wanna take me on a date, okay?” He stared intently at where he thought Castiel’s face was, “I don’t think that the… Inside of a magic wall has much stuff to do… Great for getting to know you, but, you know, Cas, after thirty years, you probably need a shower and like, a change of underwear or something before I agree to go out with you, so…… Ya comin’?”

The hand clenched in his, an another sound started falling from the mist, a choking, hiccoughing. He realised the man was laughing.

“That’s it buddy. Come on huh? I could do with a coffee to be honest with you. And, if I’m late for dinner my brother is gonna have my hide.”

At the thought of his brother, he felt a tug in his gut.

He looked down at his belly, his hand tightening on Castiel’s, still hidden in the white sheath of mist, and remembered that he had promised Sam he would be home for lunch, let alone dinner. His brother would be so worried about him, especially with how he had been acting since hearing Charlie’s tale.

The thought of Charlie, this time, forced another tug in his gut, so hard that he fell backward landing on his ass. He kept his hold on Castiel’s hand, refusing to let him get stuck again.

“Er, Cas? I think it’s time to leave.” He looked up and found that Castiels hand was free of the mist, up to his wrist. Pale skin and his finger nails painted with chipped black nail polish.

“I think you just need to keep doing what you’re doing Dean.” His voice sounded calm and excited all at once, much louder and clearer too, as if the torn mist was slowly letting him through.

So, Dean thought of Benny next, keeping a firm grip of Castiels hand. That resulted in a smaller tug, dragging him back a few inches. Bobby’s gruff voice and stupid baseball cap pulled him all the way back to the Wall, revealing Castiel’s whole arm, bare and pinched looking, up to the sleeve of his t-shirt, his shoulder and the base of his neck. “Tats huh?” He asked, a smile in his voice as he remembered the Christmas just gone, where he, Sam, Bobby and everyone else had been gathered in Bobby’s house, beer and turkey, an open fire, party hats, bad jokes, embarrassing photos, the whole shebang, the room filled with love and companionship from wall to wall.

-

He landed in the pitch black lane, on his back, the smell of wet leaves in his nose, the squelch of mud at his back, his hand, cold and completely empty. “No!” He yelled, scrambling to his feet, terrified that he hadn’t been able to bring Castiel back, hadn’t succeeded in saving the man who should not have had to wait thirty years in the cold white to feel like he belonged.

A groan sounded by his foot and he looked down, seeing a lump, completely hidden by shadow rolling slowly on the ground.

“Cas!” He dropped to his knees again, and pulled the man up, rolling him so that he could see his face in the light of the rocking lamp on the gates, make sure he was real, alive, breathing.

“Jesus fuck!” He breathed out, relief coursing through his when he found a pulse and could confirm, for certain, that Castiel was warm and real in his grip. “Holy Crap!” He announced when his brain caught up with his eyes and he took in Castiel’s face. Castiel’s eyes blinked open slowly, a little unfocused and confused. “It’s you.” He ground out, voice just as rough, as he smiled up at Dean.

“You’re beautiful.” Dean breathed out, before remembering that that wasn’t the kind of thing you said to men you had just pulled form a magic Wall thirty years after they had voluntarily been sucked in to it in the first place.

Castiel grinned, wide, scrunching up his nose a little, blue eyes sparkling, even in the gloom of the night. “You said something about a date?”

“Definitely.” Dean huffed out, amazed, bewildered and intent on kissing the gorgeous man without any barrier whatsoever.

He leaned forward to press his lips gently to Castiel’s and found Castiel’s lips pressing up, up in to his, with a laugh and a smile and fingers entangled in his hair. “Dean.” He whispered reverently.

“Hey.” He whispered back, eyeing the Wall behind Castiel.

The face, the last face, smooth and sad, was gone, replaced by the warm, glowing and beautifully happy one in his arms.

Dean smiled. “Hey.”

[jackfollmanwriter-blog]

The Big Lonely

    “Do you know what a little America is?” Kyle uttered the first words either of us had spoken since we had left San Francisco five hours ago.

    “What?” I asked back in a tone that even I would have to admit was pretty bitchy.

     “A little America. Have you ever heard that term?” He asked again.

I was the kind of tired that even moving my lips felt like a chore. It wasn’t just that I was pissed off at Kyle. I simply wanted to go to sleep and wasn’t interested in hearing one of his history lessons or informative tidbits that he frequently liked to share as if he was providing the footnotes of my life.

   ��No.”

    “A little America is a truck stop along lightly populated freeways that has everything that a trucker might need – restaurant, hotel, bar, store, bathrooms, even like little porno shops. They are like little slices of America out in the middle of nowhere. Hence, the name, little America,” Kyle said this with his eyes still glued to the desolate road in front of us that we were traversing at around 85 miles per-hour.

    “Cool,” I could not have sounded any less enthused.

I could hear Kyle grinding his teeth from behind the wheel when we journeyed back into the cone of silence.

    “You’re pissed off at me,” Kyle unclamped his teeth and spoke at me out of the side of his mouth.

     “I’m not. It’s fine. I’m just tired, and hungry.”

It’s true, I was extremely tired. It was nearly 2 a.m. and I had been up since six in the morning when I got up to get ready for work. However, I was mostly pissed because of a common Kyle behavior that he was exhibiting that I internally referred to as the “Kyle trap.” In this trap, he would do something that would assuredly, and justifiably, get under my skin and then act as if he was completely mystified as to why I was upset so it would seem like I was being the irrational bad guy.

This time, Kyle made us stay in town to watch the Giants’ World Series game at his favorite bar even though he knew that we had to make it to New York by Monday morning and that waiting till the end of the game would make it so we could barely stop along the way to even take a piss if we had to. He didn’t care. It wasn’t him that had to be at his first day of a new job in Manhattan bright and early Monday morning.

     “Well, the good news is that I know there is one of those little America’s coming up here in just a few miles,” Kyle interrupted my self-loathing. “We can stop there and get some food, and some sleep.”

    “That sounds good,” I made sure to perk my voice up an octave or two.

Fuck, I could just not stay mad at him.

After a few more minutes of silence, we were pulling into a parking lot that was the size of a football field bathed in towering streetlights that reminded me of the palm trees that we were leaving behind in California. Stepping out into the frigid winds of the meadow of dark paved asphalt also served a bitter reminder that we were leaving the comfort of reasonably warm October nights behind. A chilling gust swept in and seemed to go right up my shirt like an overzealous high school boy after just a few moments of making out.

I brushed off Kyle not giving a reason for why he parked 30 yards away from the hub of the truck stop and silently followed him up to the thing that looked like a suburban shopping mall that had been stranded in the middle of rocky desert and surrounded by semi trucks. The soundtrack of the trucks’ mechanical hum filled the air like crickets on a summer night. I could feel the hot lights of the trucks upon us as we shuffled through the parking lot and couldn’t help but feel like a wildebeest in some nature documentary clopping up to a watering hole with the eyes of hungry lions lingering off in the distance.

A quick scan of the entire property confirmed what Kyle had said about the little America. The heart of the facility was a conglomerate of a building that advertised a diner, a motel, an Internet café, luxury bathrooms/showers, a convenience store and a bar. Serving as the cherry on top were the buzzing yellow lights of an adult book store with a front entrance that was clouded in the cigarette smoke of a few patrons who appeared to be shooting the shit out front. I quickly began to wonder if I would be the only woman in this entire place and if I should ask Kyle if we should just keep going, but stopped myself.

I followed Kyle into the truck stop diner that someone had made the horrible decision to decide to primarily decorate with sea green, plastic and the stinging, sweaty smell a guy gives off when he is really hung over.  I also expected some beaten down old single mom to greet us and take us over to one of the tables that appeared to be coated with leftover syrup, but the only thing that greeted us was a sickening fart that erupted from the table closest to us.

    “Oh fuck,” Kyle shot out the words before pulling the collar of his shirt up over the lower half of his face. “That’s bad.”

I fired a look over in the direction of the flatulence and saw a well-greased old prospector in a straw cowboy hat that was literally falling apart on his bald head. He slunk back into his chair with a slight grin and started forking at some wet pancakes.

    “Just have a seat. Char’s gone,” a friendly voice called out from the middle of the dining area where a guy with a snow white push broom mustache wearing a Canadian tuxedo coated with dust was nursing a cup of coffee.

    “Thanks,” I said in the most non-bitchy tone that I could summon at the moment and then immediately whispered at Kyle. “Should we just go?”

   “Are you kidding me? This is great.”

I knew Kyle was going to say that. He had that obnoxious hipster crumbling Americana fetish thing where he relished bars full of borderline homeless people, thrift shop t-shirts and the fact that he could pack all of his possessions into his 1994 RAV4, even at the age of 31.

     “But seriously, there is probably going to be like babies in the food, and they don’t even have a waitress.”

Right on cue the odor of musty smokes replaced the lingering stench of hot fart and a nearly-elderly woman with a bun of salty black hair who sounded and looked like she had been smoking a pack a day since she was 12 walked past us with an announcement.

    “Sit anywhere you like. Menus are on the table.”

Kyle led me through the graveyard of vacant tables until he settled on a little two-seater near where the old man with the mustache who had first spoken to us had been before he had vanished like some kind of truck stop ghost in an old CB radio song from the 70s. We took seats across from each other and the immediate presence of Kyle’s smile actually put my at ease in a place that seemingly should have never elicited looks of joy from someone with more than three years left on their lifespan.

    “I gotta take a piss,” Kyle announced and took off towards the entrance.

I numbly scanned the laminated menu with razor sharp corners as soon as Kyle left while being mad at myself for leaving my phone in the car.

The waitress returned as soon as I had mentally made my decision and filled both of the mugs on the table without asking if I wanted any.

    “On the house after midnight,” the waitress jingled.

Much to my surprise, she then plopped down in the chair that Kyle had been sitting in and started playing with her bun.

    “I bet you’re glad to see another woman in this place. I sure am,” the waitress started in.

I let out a nervous chuckle.

    “Yeah, I guess,” I agreed and started furiously spinning the menu in circles on the table.

The waitress started talking again, but I was mostly blocking her out. I was more concerned with why Kyle was taking so long to come back from the bathroom. The fact that he never washed his hands and had a deep fear of shitting in public restrooms usually kept his bathroom breaks as fast as a NASCAR pit stop.

My eyes drifted over to the men’s room door that he had disappeared into. No signs of life.

    “What is bringing you through this way?”

I jumped when I turned to see the waitress staring right at me with eyes that were the same color as the table.

     “Oh, oh, I uh, got a job in New York. We are moving there this weekend, from San Francisco,” I said, a little flush in the face from the embarrassment of being startled.

     “Ooh la la, what are you doing in New York?”

    “Uh, I work for a public relations agency, they transferred me to the main office there.”

The waitress clucked her tongue.

    “I don’t know. So expensive there. A one-room apartment probably costs as much as a mansion here.”

    “Yeah, but San Francisco’s not any better,” I spoke the words while thinking “where the fuck is Kyle?”

    “What does your boyfriend do there?” The waitress asked after staring at my barren left ring finger.

I took a deep breath, assuming it was nearly impossible to not see that I was annoyed about the whole situation at this point.

     “Uh, he is a wedding photographer.”

    “Oh,” the waitress gave a quick laugh before going on. “Is that a real job?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

    “I know what you mean.”

    “I always wanted to go to New York, or San Francisco,” the waitress said and kicked back into her chair in a whimsical manner. “But things didn’t really work out for me.”

I could tell that the waitress was waiting for me to say something like “what happened?” but I didn’t care, I was pretty much only concerned with the men’s room door that remained closed.

    “I was living around here when I was 15 and started working at a diner in town. The owner seemed like a real nice old man. He hired me even though I was young and it was my first job. So when he asked me to come out to his place by the lake one weekend, I did it. Caught the bus all the way over to Tahoe and went to his house. My parents were fine with it. Maybe they just didn’t care, but I went out there.”

I shot a look to the men’s room again. Nothing.

   “And he was nice. For a while. Then it started to get near dark and I started to wonder what we were going to do. He had told me that he was going to drive me back home before dinner because he needed to stop by the diner anyways, but he told me that his plans had changed and we were going to have dinner there instead and he poured some wine. I felt so sophisticated. People don’t remember in the 60s, people didn’t really drink wine. I had never even seen it in-person and I just went with it. I drank a couple of glasses and the next thing you know, I felt the owner’s hand on my leg…

    “Hey.”

I had never been happier to hear Kyle’s voice. He strolled up to the table with the old timer who had greeted us earlier behind him wearing a huge smile.

“Sorry about that, got to chatting with Don here in the bathroom about the area and we lost track of time.”

Kyle shot me a smile just as big as the one that Don was beaming and the waitress hurried to her feet looking rather embarrassed while quietly apologizing.

The rest of our experience in there was fast and easy. We had about 30 seconds of friendly small talk with Don and then he left. The waitress took our order – two pancake plates. Kyle and I talked about the logistics of our drive from there. We ate, paid in cash so we could get the hell out of there as soon as possible, and went out to our car.

Everything would change when we got to the car.

I had never felt the kind of chill that wrapped over me when we walked up to Kyle’s dirty white RAV4 to see every single door wide open.

   “What the fuck?” the words just fell out of my already-open mouth and we sprinted the rest of the way to the car.

Kyle got there first and immediately started spouting assurances.

    “Everything’s here. They didn’t take anything.”

I followed Kyle’s lead of rifling through the inside of the SUV that was jammed packed with his belongings and quickly conceded that he was right until I looked in the cup holder of the center console where my brand new iPhone had been.

   “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I screamed and smashed my hand upon the hard plastic of the center console, effectively tearing up my soft knuckles.

    “They just took your phone?”

    “Yeah, I’m sure they knew that your shit isn’t worth anything,” I fired back. “How the fuck are we even going to get there now without navigation?”

I went on with the thought of Kyle’s navigationless, ancient flip phone searing into my soul. We were going to get fucking lost in America because he thought it was cool to have a phone from 2006 because he didn’t need all of the fancy bells and whistles of a smartphone.

Kyle shook his head and jumped into the driver’s seat and I collapsed into the passenger’s seat like a lumpy bag of bones. I felt his arm reach over across the console and fall limply upon my back and then softly begin to pet.

    “I’m sorry,” Kyle’s voice lifted over the sound of the roaring semi engines that provided the score of the night and my spirit came up off the canvas.

    “It’s okay,” I replied, effectively fighting off tears. “Let’s just get the fuck out of this place.”

   “Sorry we stopped here,” Kyle said and then put the car in gear and headed to the exit.

I hated how dark the roads were around here. It reminded me of driving around where my grandparents lived in Montana, everything was black. We had barely left San Francisco, but I already missed the pale glow of the streetlights.

I would get my light though. We had followed the signs that directed us back to I-80 East from the truck stop and they had led us to a dark intersection and a freeway entrance that was quarantined off with road flares, cones and Marlboro men clad in reflective orange, working in the night.

Kyle rolled down the window and one of the workers strolled over after spewing out a thick jag of chewing tobacco. The worker gave out a verbal greeting that sounded like a mix of the clearing of a throat and someone saying the phrase “hee haw.”

     “What’s going on?” Kyle asked.

The worker leaned against the open driver’s side window, close enough to where I could see the little bits of cement stuck in his short red beard.

   “Road’s closed. Construction,” the worker spat out almost before Kyle could even finish his question.

    “Is there another way we can take? We don’t know our way around here,” Kyle followed up.

The worker just walked away without another word and scratched his ass.

     “Fuckers,” Kyle muttered underneath his breath.

    “What do we do?” I asked.

    “There’s gotta be some kind of.”

Kyle got cut off by the trumpeting roar of a horn from just behind us. I jumped out of my seat and looked in the rear view mirror to see the towering headlights of a big rig bearing down on us.

    “Of fucking course someone is behind us right now in the middle of nowhere,” Kyle screamed as angry as I had ever heard him.

Kyle started to back the car up, but stopped when the big rig pulled around us to the left and quickly stopped once it came abreast.

   “Sorry about that,” a vaguely-familiar voice called down from the open passenger-side window of the robin’s egg blue big rig. “These guys will close this thing down all the time without even telling anybody.”

I peered up at the open window of the big rig to see the grizzled face of Don, whom we had just met at the truck stop.

He went on with a big smile upon his face.

     “Follow me. I know my way around this mess.”

A cracking noise sounded out from Don’s truck and he pulled out in front of us.

Kyle put the car in gear and trailed him.

   “You really think we should follow him?” I asked.

   “I don’t think we really have any other choice.”

    “I’m sure there are signs.”

Kyle just shook his head and followed Don’s truck onto a darkened side road that looked to run perpendicular to the freeway.

   “We could go back to the truck stop and ask someone,” I suggested.

Kyle just shook his head.

Our headlights illuminated the back of Don’s truck as our mini-convoy picked up speed and that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach from the parking lot returned.

XXXXX

We had been following Don’s big rig for miles now and the road had long ago winded away from the freeway, but Kyle didn’t seem the least bit concerned. We could now see nothing but endless road, endless night and the air inside our vehicle was filled with endless silence that I finally had to break.

   “Are you really sure we should keep following him?”

    “Yeah, yeah,” Kyle replied quietly and I turned my attention back to the world of darkness.

Everything was as it had boringly been before my question except for a small change in the rear-view mirror.

Two round beams of light, approaching us swiftly from behind.

   “Kyle…

The headlights behind us were getting closer and closer, now just about 20 yards behind us.

    “I know.”

I was about to speak up some more but my thoughts were dashed by the sounds of squealing breaks that cut through the air and a helpless skidding feeling. I screamed as the back of Don’s semi rushed towards the windshield and closed my eyes with my arms stretched out helplessly in front of me.

We were stopped when I opened my eyes again.

The back of Don’s semi must have been millimeters from the front of our car. What was now revealed to be another semi was behind us, but it was now twisted a bit to the left of us, in the other lane of the road. The second semi’s positions essentially blocked our car from moving anywhere else on the road. The only direction out was towards the endless black that was to my right. I checked to see that my door was locked before turning to my left and screaming.

Kyle was looking over at me, his face obscured behind a sheet of hot red blood that coated his face and spurted out from a fresh wound that gaped upon his forehead.

    “Oh my God. Oh my God, Kyle.”

    “It’s okay. It’s okay. I just hit my head on the steering wheel”

My gaze moved from Kyle to the outside world for a moment when a bright figure entered my vision outside of the driver’s side window.

The figure was an old woman, one that could have been anyone’s grandma packaged in white shorts, a green blouse and a white visor, looking like she belonged on a golf course in Scottsdale as opposed to a desolate desert road somewhere in Nevada.

She walked up to the window and knocked upon the thick glass.

   “You must be Kyle and Melissa,” the grandma said with kind eyes behind glasses, seemingly unaffected by the fact that Kyle looked like Carrie after they dumped the blood on her at prom.

    “How do you know our names?” I shot back and her face scrunched up.

    “Oh, Don told me,” the grandma said then cringed at Kyle. “Ew, that looks bad. We are gonna have to take you to the emergency room.”

    “Why did he stop so suddenly?” I pleaded at the grandma. “Where are you leading us?”

The grandma ignored me and kept looking Kyle up and down.

    “Son, we’re gonna have to get you to the hospital, or you could be in some serious trouble. I’ll radio Don and he will lead the way. Come on now,” the grandma said and walked back over to the long hauler that I couldn’t believe she commanded.

Fighting off my simmering rage for the elderly woman, I grabbed one of the numerous dirty shirts that were strewn about the backseat, and wrapped it around Kyle’s head, right over the gash that was still milking out hot blood.

      “I don’t think we should follow them. We should just find the hospital ourselves, call 411 or something on your phone,” I said.

I didn’t notice that Kyle was already looking at his phone.

    “No service.”

    “Fuck, call 911.”

     “I’m not calling 911. Jesus Christ, we’re not going to get killed by some Grandma. When was the last time you heard of a 70-year old, female, serial killer?”

I sat there in silence, the full weight of how stupid this all seemed hitting home when Kyle spelled it out like that.

Kyle put the car into gear, but something was clearly off with the car. Even I could tell and I didn’t know shit about cars. The whole vehicle seemed to react as if we ran over a boulder every few feet that it rolled.

    “Shit, I think we have a flat tire,” Kyle exhaled with every word and Don emerged from his big rig.

Don shuffled up to the driver’s window with a huge dip of chaw bulging his jaw and started talking before Kyle even got the window all the way rolled down.

     “Fucking a, you got a flat tire. Unless you got a spare, we can either roll that thing up into my hauler, I got room, or, you can just ride with Darla to the spital,” Don said, and that’s not a typo, that’s how he pronounced “hospital.”

    “Do we have a spare tire?” I frantically asked Kyle.

    “We did. I sold it,” Kyle dribbled back.

    “Well y’all wanna hop in with Darla then?” Don asked.

I started gnashing my teeth before I even heard Kyle agree, but it didn’t matter. We had no real other choice. Kyle actually could maybe bleed to death if we didn’t get him some attention soon.

I followed Kyle out of the car and over to the passenger side door of Darla’s rig.

The truck gave out a heavy gasp and then the door swung out mechanically like the door of a school bus revealing Darla sitting there behind the wheel looking like Large Marge.

   “Pretty nifty ain’t it?” Darla said.

Kyle agreed verbally, I just kind of gave a half nod when we stepped up into the rig.

    “You two can hang out in the sleeper cab if you would rather stay together than try and share the front seat up here,” Darla announced.

The two of us piled into the darkness of Darla’s sleeper cab that reminded me a bit of the RV that my best friend’s family used when I would camp with them while growing up. The thing even had the musty, outdoorsy smell that I remembered.

Kyle and I found a seat on a futon-style cushy couch in the back of the thing, far from Darla who was whistling vaguely familiar old show tunes and captaining the rig out onto the road.

It seemed weird, but maybe that familiar smell had soothed my nerves. I suddenly felt a little bit at ease.

I was about to say something to Kyle, but was interrupted when Don’s country drawl crackled over the radio up by Darla’s perch. She reached over and cranked the volume once his gravelly voice came over the waves.

    “You kids are cute. Sitting back there all cuddled up, young and in love. Going from big city to big city.”

Don’s voice let out a deep exhale, creating a lengthy pause.

     “That’s why this is going to be so hard, you see. You’re probably expecting me to start in on some Bible-thumping diatribe or some speech about how you city pricks are ruing our lives, but that’s not why we are doing this. We are doing this, because it’s just what we like to do. It’s an impulse and one that I don’t know where it comes from. That’s all. Over and out.”

Without any hesitation, I sprung up to my feet before Don had even finished and ran towards the cab of the truck where Darla was driving.

In a flash, I was in the light of the cabin, just over Darla’s shoulder, ready to lunge, when I heard Don’s voice crackle back over the radio.

    “I know right now you are probably thinking about, or, already trying to scramble your way out of the rig, but the bad news is that it is already too late. You don’t realize it, but we have a friend back there with you.”

I heard the worst sound I had ever heard in my life burst out from behind me. It was like the sound of a horrifying scream interrupted by the sound of air being let out of a car tire.

I looked back for just a moment to see Kyle wrapped up like a python’s prey by a figure that looked like the color black formed into a human body. I could barely even tell what I was looking at was Kyle. His neck was being snapped back and filleted with a thick knife that shimmered in the hints of light that leaked into the sleeper cab. His blood gushing down onto his plain white t-shirt that had already been turned a Kool-Aide red.

My body didn’t connect with my brain. I just moved in one snap. I dove upon Darla behind the steering wheel, slipping the powerful wheel from her grasp, sending the entire vehicle into a shudder. I didn’t even look to where we were going. I just looked to my hands numbly wrapped around the old woman’s neck and the look of pure terror in her eyes. I could hear the sounds of Don freaking out on the radio as Darla slipped out of the chair and the truck pitched to the left, throwing both of us against the door. I grabbed hold of the cold metal of the door’s handle on my way into the thing and pulled the little lever towards me as hard as I could, flinging the door out into the cold open of the night.

Without even looking what I had opened myself up to, I leapt, instinctually covered my head and felt my body fly upon the air of the night for seconds that felt like hours.

XXXXX

I wasn’t sure if the world had been completely dark for minutes, seconds or hours when I opened my eyes to see a cloud of smoke billowing up against the backdrop of the rising sun that was cresting the desert horizon. My eyes followed the trail of smoke down to the twisted carnage of a burning heap of metal that was broadcasting waves of heat and a sickening acrid smell out into the fresh morning air.

It was hard to make out with how horribly burnt the wreckage was, but it appeared that the two robin’s egg blue semis that belonged to Don and Darla were the twisted metal campfires that were making the world smell what I imagined meth smelled like and casting a shadow of black smoke upon the lonely desert.

My initial instinct was to take off in any direction away from the wreckage, but the extent of the carnage made me pretty sure that our assailants were helpless and/or gone, but just to be safe, I extended up onto my feet, ready for action and felt a rash of crippling pain wash over my body. I fell right back to a crumpled heap, looking like a human version of the burning semi trucks. Battered, bloodied, broken and road rashed all over my entire body, I laid there sobbing, not caring if the charred ghost of Don or Darla crawled over and snuffed me out. The last thing I could remember truly seeing was Kyle’s neck bone being hacked into while drowning in the darkest blood that I had ever seen. I didn’t give a fuck anymore, I just laid there on the yellow median of the road as the sun started to shine on me and break the cold of the morning air.

The sound of boots on the ground rustled me from my near slumber. I opened my eyes to see scuffed, black work boots staring at me as they rested upon the asphalt.

    “Oh my God,” a friendly male voice radiated from above me.

I scratched at my ears and ripped away the clumps of dried blood and the music of the world trickled into my ears with much more clarity.

    “Let’s get you out of here,” the male voice went on.

I looked up to see a non-threatening looking middle-aged man towering over me, looking at me through thick glasses. Pale, balding, pot-bellied, short, wearing a collared shirt and glasses, he looked like a cubicle jockey lost in the desert.

   “Come on,” he said and then lifted me to his feet.

We walked together in a scene that looked like when a trainer helps an injured football player off of the field as we stumbled over to his older sedan.

I felt the weight of the world slink off of me when I sat down in the soft caress of his passenger seat. I could barely stay awake, hearing him start the engine, put the car in gear and start driving down the road. It was simply nearly impossible for me to keep my eyes open.

The last thing I could remember hearing was a familiar sound, familiar enough to where I wanted to open my eyes, but couldn’t. It took me a minute to put my finger upon what exactly the sound was and why it was familiar, but I eventually did and I immediately knew that it was all over for me.

It was the sound of my cell phone ringing.

Originally published by Thought Catalog on www.ThoughtCatalog.com

[michaelpatrickhicks]

Ten Spring Reads To Watch For

Yeah, the shift toward warmer weather and cool evenings sipping beer after some grueling lawncare is great and all, but for me the best part of spring is the blossoming of new books. From the looks of things, there's a boatload of promising intrigue, blood-curdling chills, and action-packed adventures ahead. While it's a sure bet I have plenty of other books in my TBR and review pile, here's the Top 10 spring reads I am most looking forward to.

One Way by S.J. Morden

April 10, 2018 | Orbit

When the small crew of ex cons working on Mars start getting murdered, everyone is a suspect in this terrifying science fiction thriller from bona fide rocket scientist and award winning-author S. J. Morden.

It's the dawn of a new era - and we're ready to colonize Mars. But the company that's been contracted to construct a new Mars base, has made promises they can't fulfill and is desperate enough to cut corners. The first thing to go is the automation . . . the next thing they'll have to deal with is the eight astronauts they'll send to Mars, when there aren't supposed to be any at all.

Frank - father, architect, murderer - is recruited for the mission to Mars with the promise of a better life, along with seven of his most notorious fellow inmates. But as his crew sets to work on the red wasteland of Mars, the accidents mount up, and Frank begins to suspect they might not be accidents at all. As the list of suspect grows shorter, it's up to Frank to uncover the terrible truth before it's too late.

Dr. S. J. Morden trained as a rocket scientist before becoming the author of razor-sharp, award-winning science fiction. Perfect for fans of Andy Weir's The Martian and Richard Morgan, One Way takes off like a rocket, pulling us along on a terrifying, epic ride with only one way out.

They Feed by Jason Parent

April 15, 2018 | Sinister Grin Press

The night uncovers all we wish not to see. A troubled man enters a dusky park before sunset. A young woman follows, hidden in shadow. Both have returned to the park to take back something the past has stolen from them, to make right six long years of suffering, and to find justice or perhaps redemption—or maybe they'll settle for some old-fashioned revenge. But something evil is alive and awake in those woods, creatures that care nothing for human motivations. They’re driven by their own insatiable need: a ravenous, bottomless hunger. The campgrounds are full tonight, and the creatures are starving. Before the night is over, they will feed. An unrelenting tale of terror from Jason Parent, acclaimed author of People of the Sun and What Hides Within.

Breaking the World by Jerry Gordon

April 17, 2018 | Apex Books

Cyrus doesn't believe in David's predictions, and he's not interested in being part of a cult. But after the sudden death of his brother, his parents split up and his mom drags him to Waco, Texas against his will. At least he's not alone. His friends, Marshal and Rachel, have equally sad stories that end with them being dumped at the Branch Davidian Church. Together, they're the trinity of nonbelievers, atheist teens caught between a soon to be infamous cult leader, an erratic FBI, and an epidemic that may confirm the worst of the church's apocalyptic prophecies. With tanks surrounding the Branch Davidians and tear gas in the air, Cyrus and his friends know one thing for certain: They can't count on the adults to save them. In his debut novel, Jerry Gordon takes readers deep inside the longest standoff in law enforcement history for an apocalyptic thriller that challenges the news media's reporting of the event, the wisdom of militarizing domestic law enforcement, and the blurry line between religion and cult.

The Atrocities by Jeremy C. Shipp

April 17, 2018 | Tor.com

Jeremy Shipp brings you THE ATROCITIES, a haunting gothic fantasy of a young ghost's education

When Isabella died, her parents were determined to ensure her education wouldn't suffer.

But Isabella's parents had not informed her new governess of Isabella's... condition, and when Ms Valdez arrives at the estate, having forced herself through a surreal nightmare maze of twisted human-like statues, she discovers that there is no girl to tutor.

Or is there...?

Forsaken (A Unit 51 Novel) by Michael McBride

April 24, 2018 | Pinnacle

IT HAS SURVIVED At a research station in Antarctica, scientists discovered a strange and ancient organism.  They thought they could study it, classify it, control it. They couldn’t.   IT HAS THRIVED Six months ago, a secret paramilitary team called Unit 51 was sent to the station. They thought the creature was dead, the nightmare was over. It wasn’t.   IT HAS EVOLVED In a Mexican temple, archeologists uncover the remains of a half-human hybrid. They believe it is related to the creature in Antarctica, a dark thing of legend that is still alive—and still evolving. They believe it needs a new host to feed, to mutate, to multiply. They’re right. And they’re next. And the human race might just be headed for extinction  . . .

Fury From the Tomb: The Institute for Singular Antiquities Book 1 by S.J. Morden

May 1, 2018 | Angry Robot Books

Mummies, grave-robbing ghouls, hopping vampires, and evil monks  beset a young archaeologist, in this fast-paced Indiana Jones-style adventure Saqqara, Egypt, 1888, and in the booby-trapped tomb of an ancient sorcerer, Rom, a young Egyptologist, makes the discovery of a lifetime: five coffins and an eerie, oversized sarcophagus. But the expedition seems cursed, for after unearthing the mummies, all but Rom die horribly. He faithfully returns to America with his disturbing cargo, continuing by train to Los Angeles, home of his reclusive sponsor. When the train is hijacked by murderous banditos in the Arizona desert, who steal the mummies and flee over the border, Rom – with his benefactor’s rebellious daughter, an orphaned Chinese busboy, and a cold-blooded gunslinger – must ride into Mexico to bring the malevolent mummies back. If only mummies were their biggest problem…

Obscura by Joe Hart

May 8, 2018 | Thomas & Mercer

She’s felt it before... the fear of losing control. And it’s happening again.

In the near future, an aggressive and terrifying new form of dementia is affecting victims of all ages. The cause is unknown, and the symptoms are disturbing. Dr. Gillian Ryan is on the cutting edge of research and desperately determined to find a cure. She’s already lost her husband to the disease, and now her young daughter is slowly succumbing as well. After losing her funding, she is given the unique opportunity to expand her research. She will travel with a NASA team to a space station where the crew has been stricken with symptoms of a similar inexplicable psychosis—memory loss, trances, and violent, uncontrollable impulses.

Crippled by a secret addiction and suffering from creeping paranoia, Gillian finds her journey becoming a nightmare as unexplainable and violent events plague the mission. With her grip weakening on reality, she starts to doubt her own innocence. And she’s beginning to question so much more—like the true nature of the mission, the motivations of the crew, and every deadly new secret space has to offer.

Merging thrilling science-fiction adventure with mind-bending psychological suspense, Wall Street Journal bestselling author Joe Hart explores both the vast mysteries of outer space and the even darker unknown that lies within ourselves.

Hell Divers III: Deliverance by Nicholas Sansbury-Smith

May 15, 2018 | Blackstone Publishing

Left for dead on the nightmarish surface of the planet, Commander Michael Everhart and his team of Hell Divers barely escape with their lives aboard a new airship called Deliverance. After learning that Xavier “X” Rodriguez may still be alive, they mount a rescue mission for the long-lost hero.

In the skies, the Hive is falling apart, but Captain Jordan is more determined than ever to keep humanity in their outdated lifeboat. He will do whatever it takes to keep the ship in the air—even murder. But when he learns the Hell Divers he exiled have found Deliverance, he changes course for a new mission—find the divers, kill them, and make their new ship his own.

In the third installment of the USA Today bestselling Hell Divers series, Michael and his fellow divers fight across the mutated landscape in search of X. But what they find will change everything.

Blood Standard by Laird Barron

May 29, 2018 | G.P. Putnman's Sons

Award-winning author Laird Barron makes his crime fiction debut with a novel set in the underbelly of upstate New York that's as hardboiled and punchy as a swift right hook to the jaw--a classic noir for fans of James Ellroy and John D. Macdonald. Isaiah Coleridge is a mob enforcer in Alaska--he's tough, seen a lot, and dished out more. But when he forcibly ends the moneymaking scheme of a made man, he gets in the kind of trouble that can lead to a bullet behind the ear. Saved by the grace of his boss and exiled to upstate New York, Isaiah begins a new life, a quiet life without gunshots or explosions. Except a teenage girl disappears, and Isaiah isn't one to let that slip by. And delving into the underworld to track this missing girl will get him exactly the kind of notice he was warned to avoid.

The Woman in the Woods by John Connolly

June 12, 2018 | Atria/Emily Bestler Boks

From internationally bestselling author and “creative genius who has few equals in either horror fiction or the mystery genre” (New York Journal of Books) comes a gripping thriller starring Private Investigator Charlie Parker. When the body of a woman—who apparently died in childbirth—is discovered, Parker is hired to track down both her identity and her missing child. In the beautiful Maine woods, a partly preserved body is discovered. Investigators realize that the dead young woman gave birth shortly before her death. But there is no sign of a baby. Private detective Charlie Parker is hired by a lawyer to shadow the police investigation and find the infant but Parker is not the only searcher. Someone else is following the trail left by the woman, someone with an interest in much more than a missing child…someone prepared to leave bodies in his wake. And in a house by the woods, a toy telephone begins to ring and a young boy is about to receive a call from a dead woman.

I'm also planning on digging into several titles that have been lingering in my review pile for quite a while, including the Bram Stoker Award-nominated Kill Creek by Scott Thomas. What's on your reading list for the next couple months ahead?

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (26/45)

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: Happy All-Star break and welcome back to Los Angeles, Emma Swan. I harbor no actual resentment to the city of Los Angeles, but I really don’t like the Kings for winning that one Stanley Cup, so.....As always, you guys are absolutely incredible and I can’t thank you enough for reading all these sports feelz words. Screaming the praises of @laurnorder, @distant-rose & @beautiful-swan forever and ever.  Also living on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

“Are you ok, Hook?” Roland asked, glancing back over his shoulder at Killian. Regina tugged on his hand lightly, muttering something under her breath about how they were on a moving sidewalk and he couldn’t just stop walking like that.

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, but didn’t actually answer Roland, just took a deep breath. Emma felt his shoulders move with the effort of it, his arm slung lazily over her own shoulders and she had a suspicion he was using her to stay standing up.

Roland’s feet moved quickly, barely landing on the sidewalk as he moved to keep up with Regina and Robin and the rest of the New York Rangers All-Star contingent, but he looked back at Killian once more, eyebrows pulled low with a concern that belied his six-year-old self. Although, Emma reasoned, he was wearing a Jones jersey.

Robin had grumbled about that for half the flight.

And it was so goddamn adorable that she’d almost entirely forgotten they were on a flight to Los Angeles and a weekend in the Staples Center and she had five fan events in two days and the odds of seeing Neal were almost astronomically high.

Almost. She almost forgot.

Of course, she was also a bit distracted on the flight by a surprisingly-terrified-by-turbulence Killian Jones. His eyes got wider every time they hit a particularly aggressive stretch of air or wind and he gripped her hand a bit tighter than natural, lips going impressively thin when he tried to take a deep breath in through his nose.

Emma’s eyes darted towards him, still a bit paler than usual and the back of his hair was sticking up unnaturally from all the times he’d run his fingers through it.

She never thought she’d be happy to be back in Los Angeles, but if it got Killian to breathe a bit easier, then, well, maybe Emma was happy to be back in Los Angeles. And maybe she was excited for All-Star weekend and the skills competition and a few days where she didn’t have to worry about insurance waivers or making sure they had enough facilities people to properly zamboni the Garden ice before the game or how she’d have to redo all the posters because goddamn Bobby Flay had cancelled on her two days before.

Fuck Bobby Flay.

The walking sidewalk ended and Roland hopped off it with as much enthusiasm as he could, bobbing on the balls of his feet impatiently when the whole lot of them worked their way towards the front of LAX and cabs and, God, everything in this stupid city was so spaced out.

“Hook?” he asked again, free hand finding its way to the side of Killian’s leg.

Killian grimaced, taking another deep breath and Emma reached her hand up to lace her fingers with his. His arm was still slung over her shoulders, but she was fairly certain she felt him relax as soon as her hand found his.

And maybe that was why she wasn’t particularly upset about spending an entire weekend in LA.

“Yeah, mate,” Killian said.

“Can I ask you a question?” “You just did.”

Robin rolled his eyes and even Ruby looked passably amused, lifting her eyebrows when she finally pulled her eyes away from the phone that hadn’t stopped buzzing since they’d hit the tarmac. Roland huffed slightly, lower lip jutting out and Killian, finally, smiled, eyes lightening a bit as he mussed Roland’s hair.

And that worked a very loud groan out of Regina.

“What is it, mate?” Killian prompted, ignoring Regina’s frustrations completely.

“Well…” Roland started, stumbling over the letters. He turned back to stare at Robin who just nodded encouragingly. “Well,” he said again. “I had an idea for skills.” “Yeah?” Roland nodded, any trace of nervous energy replaced, simply, by energy. “Yeah,” he half shouted before rushing over the rest of his thought. “Imgoingtoweartwojerseys.”

Killian turned towards Emma and she shrugged in response, not quite in-tune with that particular brand of six-year-old enthusiasm. “Try again, Rol,” she said, not able to keep the smile off her face. “Just a little slower.” “Ok,” Roland said, nodding almost exactly like Robin just had. “I wanted to wear Dad’s jersey on the ice for skills because I always wear Dad’s jersey to games, but you’re here too and so Gina got me a special jersey.” “A special jersey?” Killian repeated and the tension was back in his shoulders, arm tightening just a bit around Emma. Or maybe it was just surprise.

It was definitely surprise.

It probably shouldn’t have been.

“It took forever to figure out,” Regina said, one side of her mouth pulled up despite her best attempts to sound frustrated.

“I don’t understand,” Killian muttered. There were cars in front of them and none of them moved. Ruby had stopped texting completely at this point.

“It’s two jerseys in one, Hook,” Roland explained, widening his eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe Killian didn’t just get it. “Yours is the front and there’s a ‘C’ and everything and then Dad’s is the back and it’s got my name on it and it was supposed to be a surprise, but you didn’t like the plane ride and I asked Dad and he said I should tell you.” “Did he?” “Yup.” Robin almost looked smug and the pre-scheduled town car driver actually honked his horn, leaning across the passenger seat to if they were ready to go and none of them moved. Still. Until Killian did, arm falling away from Emma’s shoulders as he took three steps forward and crouched in front of Roland with a very specific type of look on his face.

He smiled, something ghosting over his face that looked a bit like disbelief, and Emma bit the inside of her lip. “Is it ok?” Roland asked, voice a bit quieter than it had been before. “I’m going to wear Dad’s for the game, but for skills…” “Of course, mate,” Killian cut in, hands falling on Roland’s shoulders lightly. “You’ll have the best jersey of any of us.” Roland beamed, nearly knocking Killian back on his heels when he leapt at him, arms flung around his neck and face pressed against the front of another team-branded t-shirt and Emma’s heart did something absolutely absurd.

This weekend was going to be good.

One of the car horns honked again and Regina’s entire face shifted, making Emma take a step back out of instinct when she noticed the woman’s eyes narrow and her shoulders realign as she walked towards the driver. No one honked again and it only took a few minutes to get them into cars and to hotels and respective rooms that, somehow, managed to be scattered across the entire floor.

“How did this even happen?” Emma asked Ruby, hoping, at least, their luggage made it to the right rooms.

“I have no idea,” Ruby answered. She was texting again, phone buzzing in her hand. “It’s the league, you’d think they’d just want us all organized by team, but that would mean we wouldn’t be forced into awkward social situations and I’m half convinced the big whigs up top actually enjoy forcing us to talk.” “Aren’t we all supposed to be a united front this weekend or something?”

“Please,” Ruby scoffed, finally stuffing her phone in her pocket as she pulled out a room key. “The opposite. This weekend is like a chance for us all to prove our worth against other teams. Wait until you see the garbage the Flames try to pass off as a fan meet-up, you’ll never question how good you are at your job again.”

Emma made a contrary noise in the back of her throat, laughing softly as she tried to fish her own room key out of her back pocket. “Remind me of that when we get six people to show up later tonight.” “Please. You’ll get ten. At least.” “You’re a beacon of support.” Ruby stuck the key into the lock of the door in front of her, pressing forward when the telltale click came, but she turned back towards Emma before she actually walked in, ignoring, what sounded like, half a dozen messages.

“You’re really going to be going be ok going back in there?” Ruby asked and she didn’t really need to be any more specific.

“Sure,” Emma answered quickly. Ruby twisted her eyebrows, staring at Emma skeptically. “No, really,” she promised. “I mean, you’re right, we’ll get some fans for the events and there’s a whole group of season tickets slated to be at skills and we’ve got that post-game thing at Tom’s Urban on Sunday. I’ll be so busy I’m sure I’ll barely even have time to think about anything except sticking to the schedule.” “That so?” “I just said it, didn’t I?” “Yeah, doesn’t mean you actually believe it.” Emma pressed her tongue on the inside of her cheek, leaning against a door that absolutely wasn’t hers. “I do,” she said softly, but there was a conviction in her voice surprised even her. It very obviously surprised Ruby.

“You’re happy.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Emma agreed, certain her smile was taking up three quarters of her face.

“Anyone tell you that you two are disgustingly adorable all the time, either? That whole holding your hand whenever we hit turbulence was like something out of a made for TV movie.” “Oh, please,” Emma brushed off, ignoring whatever warning bells were going off in the back of her head that Killian wasn’t actually scared of turbulence. “This is your fault anyway. You and Reese’s came up with the set-up to begin with.” “Nah, this is totally your fault, Em. And his too, I guess. You guys fought the set-up, you just couldn’t fight off each other.” Ruby scrunched her nose, making some kind of vaguely disgusted noise when she realized what she’d just said. “Jeez, now I sound like a made for TV movie. Look what you’re doing to me.” Emma rolled her eyes. She was still smiling. “You, literally, give your girlfriend media leaks so she can alert the rest of her staff. That’s disgusting.”

“Whatever,” Ruby muttered, waving her hands through the air. “Seriously though, Neal hasn’t tried to talk to you? Like at all?”

“Nope,” Emma said and the frustration she’d expected at the inevitably of this conversation didn’t show up the way she thought it would. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she’d never actually told Mary Margaret she’d landed, too wrapped up in Roland Locksley’s continued adorableness and trying not to actually breathe too loudly when Killian’s hand found the inside of her thigh in the back seat of the town car.

“Huh,” Ruby mumbled.

“Were you expecting him to? I mean he didn’t tell me he was taking my job until he showed up in my office with a box of his own stuff. I doubt he’d go out of his way to find out if I’m coming back for All-Star weekend. For all I know he doesn’t even realize I’m working for the Rangers.” “Your name’s on the website,” Ruby pointed out as Emma looked down at her phone.

It wasn’t Mary Margaret. Although she should really text Mary Margaret. Or call Mary Margaret. And apologize. After she remembered how to speak.

Did you know that Los Angeles has the largest system of roadways in the entire country? Nearly 7300 miles.

Don’t remind me. That just makes me think of hours stuck in traffic out here.

There was a lead up to this, Swan. Let me finish the set-up.

That word though.

Swan.

Yeah, yeah, go.

This stupid city has the largest system of roadways in the entire country, but the only one I’m particularly interested in is the hallway between my room and yours.

Oh my God, you did not just text that.

The only way I could say it without actually laughing hysterically was by texting it. C’mon your place or mine? You’re serious.

If you think I’m not going to take advantage of this entire weekend, you’re horribly mistaken. Fifteen minutes.

Emma bit her lip, that pack of butterflies she was certain always seemed to appear whenever he pulled out ridiculous lines or announced he wanted to spend an entire weekend in her hotel room making a return appearance in the pit of her stomach.

“You know,” Ruby said knowingly, smiling as she kicked back against her door. “I argued on behalf of this.” “What do you mean?” “Told Z there was probably no point in getting you your own room.” “Jeez, Rubes. Why didn’t you take out an ad in Page Six too?”

Ruby shrugged. “It’s not like everyone doesn’t know. You think Robin and Regina are staying separate rooms? They’ve got like a suite or something.” “They’re married.” “Yeah and you haven’t taken those laces off your wrist since we came back from Christmas.”

Emma’s eyes widened and she didn’t even have a response, every argument dying on the tip of her tongue because, well, there wasn’t really anything to argue. She hadn’t taken the laces off her wrist since Christmas, had started tugging on them in between her thumb and forefinger whenever something particularly frustrating happened and she was terrified she was about to actually rip them in half when Bobby Flay cancelled on her two days before.

Killian had noticed – of course he had noticed – asking about it just before Emma had fallen asleep, eyes closed and half a dozen pillows under head. It had become a thing, spending game nights in that ridiculously large apartment just a few blocks away from Lincoln Center – slightly out of necessity since the loft was starting to look more and more like a wedding boutique than any actual sort of living space and also slightly out of want and if Mary Margaret had any sort of opinion on it, she’d been mercifully silent on the subject.

Emma told him about Bobby Flay, not even bothering to turn around to look at him and Killian’s arm tightened around her waist, fingers finding their way back to the laces and the back of her wrist. He laughed softly when he realized he’d left a trail of goosebumps in his wake and Emma had felt his smile when his lips found the back of her neck, sparking even more goosebumps.

She’d deal with an infinite number of goosebumps, however, just to make sure she heard that strangled way he muttered Swan under his breath when she shifted against him.

Ruby was still staring at her, arms crossed lightly over her chest as her eyes drifted back towards the laces that were nothing short of obvious in the short-sleeve shirt Emma had on. “Yeah, well,” Emma said, not even bothering to finish the sentence.

“Fuck Neal?” Ruby suggested.

“That works too.” “And no one is selling you out to Page Six. Trust me, you’re not that interesting. You’re just serving as some sort of disgusting new marker for romance on this team. I mean, no big deal or anything. Also make sure you call Mary Margaret because she’s already texting me asking why you haven’t.” Emma sighed, but she nodded, glancing at the number on Ruby’s door. She wasn’t anywhere near her room. “How come you’re all the way down here? I’m at the other end of the hallway.” “Exactly.” “What?” “You think I was going to let them put me next to you during All-Star weekend when your boyfriend is captain of the Metro? Please. I made sure I was nowhere near that. In fact, no one is, so you’re welcome or something.” “How did you manage to do that?” “I don’t even know why you’re surprised by this, Em. I thought we’d just agreed to my ability to do anything. Especially when the league is involved.” Ruby flashed her another smile, that one that made Emma certain she could do anything when the league was involved, and kicked her door open. “You better get to your room anyway. Call M’s before Killian knocks down your door or something equally romantic.”

Emma didn’t have a chance to respond before Ruby’s door was closed and, well, she probably had a point.

Her phone rang before she even had a chance to hit Mary Margaret’s speed dial and Emma couldn’t quite fight off the smile on her face as she made her way down the hallway, room key still held loosely in her hands.

“How come you didn’t tell me about Bobby Flay?” Mary Margaret asked without preamble and Emma blinked once, surprised by this sudden descent into over-protective.

“Did I not?” Emma countered.

“Nope.” “I’m glad he’s not catering our wedding,” David added and Emma rolled her whole head as the door to her hotel room unlocked.

“Oh my God, Reese’s did you put me on speaker phone to ask about Bobby Flay?” Mary Margaret made a noise in the back of her throat and Emma knew the dismissal when she heard it. “You know Ruby told me,” she said. “Because Ruby answers her phone.” “That’s because Ruby is always on her phone.”

“Tell Bobby Flay that we’re going to boycott his restaurant and his show from now on,” David added, voice sounding a little distant, like he was shouting from the other side of the loft. “Is David in a cave?” Emma asked. She sank onto the corner of the bed, kicking her flats off while trying to keep her phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder. “And I highly doubt Bobby Flay will be particularly offended with your boycott. When’s the last time you could afford his restaurant?” “Hey if that team of yours can hold onto its playoff berth and, you know, maybe win the President’s Trophy we can probably afford any restaurant in the city.” “You’re a degenerate,” Emma accused, laughing as she fell back on the mattress. There weren’t nearly as many pillows on this bed and, for probably the first time in her entire life, that felt a bit strange.

“Tell Killian to score more goals.” “That’s not really my job.” “No,” Mary Margaret cut in, “your job is to tell your best friend when you’re having work troubles so that she can make more alcohol-based baked goods.” “You’re both degenerates! Who knew you were hiding such debaucherous personalities underneath those shiny exteriors.” “That’s just rude, Emma.” “And it’s not like I haven’t had other things going on besides Bobby Flay. They’re trying to give away my date and that’s been a whole thing and Aurora’s only just starting to process the waivers for the kid’s from Henry’s house and we’ve got that fan event thing in front of the Staples later tonight. It’s just been a lot and you guys…” “What?” Mary Margaret asked, voice softer than Emma was quite prepared for.

She took a deep breath and shut her eyes, making a face she was aware no one would actually be able to see. “You’ve got all that wedding stuff going on. I mean we’re closing in on final steps and paying things off and I didn’t want to load you down with more things because you don’t need to always be worried about me.” “That’s my job.” “No it isn’t.” “Emma,” Mary Margaret said slowly, the sounds of the creaking couch in the background. “Of course it is. And not just because you’re under some misconstrued belief that you’re actually our kid or something. Because I want it to be.” “Absolutely,” David added. He’d come back into the living room, voice perfectly clear in its affirmation and Emma bit her lip. She still hadn’t opened her eyes.

“But the wedding,” she argued, not entirely certain what she was arguing.

“Is going fine,” Mary Margaret promised quickly. “Better than fine. Your dress should probably get altered soon, but other than that, it’s almost easy. You don’t have to think that there isn’t a place for you in that. There is. Always.” There was a noise on the other end of the phone and Emma knew David had grabbed it off its likely resting place on the coffee table. “And we’re totally not going to invite Bobby Flay to the wedding anymore.” “Was that a part of the plan before?” Emma asked, shaking a bit from the force of her laughter.

“It could have been if he wasn’t an ass about your game.” “Good to know.” “They’re trying to bump you?” Emma shrugged, the top of the hotel-provided comforter scrunching underneath her. “I don’t know. There’s a couple of tours, you know like bands and stuff, that they’re trying to book because it’s a free day and that rarely happens in March. So, I don’t know, they might try and bump me and Mer’s been trying to fight them off and we’ve been ok, but it’s All-Star weekend and no one seems particularly interested in answering my increasingly desperate e-mails.” David and Mary Margaret sighed in unison on the other end of the phone and the other side of the country and the irony of having this conversation while she was back in LA for the first time wasn’t lost on Emma.

“It’ll be fine,” Mary Margaret said, but the promise didn’t ring completely true.

“We’ll see,” Emma said flippantly, determined not to give in to the gnawing idea that this wouldn’t actually work. It had been sitting in the back of her head for the last few weeks. She’d done a good job of ignoring it – helped a bit by Mary Margaret’s eternally optimistic outlook and the laces around her wrist – but it was still there and, eventually, she’d have to deal with.

She just had to get through All-Star weekend first.

Emma rolled her head to the side when she heard the knock on the door, her breath catching audibly in throat loud enough that both David and Mary Margaret asked if she was ok.

“Fine, fine,” Emma said quickly, almost jogging to the door when he knocked again. “Impatient assh…” she muttered under her breath as she swung the door open, but she didn’t get the chance to finish the thought.

Killian moved before she was entirely ready for it, head ducked and eyes bright and Emma’s whole body tightened at the sight of it, even if he was still wearing team-branded. And then he noticed the phone, still pressed against her ear, and he could probably hear Mary Margaret on the other end, practically shouting what’s going on at her.

He closed his eyes lightly and pressed his lips together, tugging them back behind his teeth as he dragged his eyes back up to Emma’s.

She made a face and Killian didn’t blink, just rested both his hands on her hips and waited. “Uh, Reese’s,” Emma sputtered, groaning slightly when she realized just how eager she sounded. “Listen, I, uh, I’ve got to go.” And Emma might have been on the other side of the country, might have been secretly avoiding her two best friends because she’d been worried she was somehow intruding on their wedding plans, but she could still practically see the light bulb go on over Mary Margaret’s head.

“Oh,” she said slowly and knowingly and a few other adverbs Emma would have remembered if Killian’s hand hadn’t found its way under the edge of her shirt already. “Right. Yeah, yeah, right. Go. Go.” “But let us know how tonight goes, ok?” David asked and Mary Margaret’s sigh was nothing short of deafening.

“Let her go, David,” she said. She had her hand on his shoulder – Emma was certain of it. “She’s got stuff to do.” Killian's eyebrows shot up at that, smirk settling on his face and Emma let her head fall forward, landing on the front of his t-shirt. He kissed the top of her hair, hand tightening a fraction of an inch.

“What was that?” David continued. “Wait, wait, Em is there someone in your room?” “I’ve got to go,” Emma repeated, not entirely sure what else to say. Killian had stopped even trying to hide his laughter, the sound ricocheting off the walls of her hotel room and into that back corner of Emma’s brain that had, just a few moments ago, been worried about half a dozen different things.

“Hey, Killian,” David shouted.

“You’re not on speaker phone.” “Whatever.” “I’m hanging up now.” “Bye Killian.” The line clicked and Emma pulled her phone away from her ear, tossing it onto the bed before turning back to Killian to find him staring at her like she was the goddamn sun. “Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled. “Reese’s thought I was dead and she was texting Ruby about it and then there was wedding talk and they want to bump my game…” She hissed in the air she suddenly couldn’t quite breathe, grimacing and squeezing her eyes shut so she couldn’t see the inevitable look on Killian’s face. “Wait, what?” he asked, the thumb of his left hand finding its way underneath her chin until Emma had to lift her head back up.

He didn’t look confused. He looked concerned.

“Apparently three different bands just announced spring tours and they want to open at the Garden and there’s been some talk I might get bumped.” “To?” Emma shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” “No one’s told you?” “It’s All-Star weekend. And it’s not entirely certain yet, but I’m kind of steeling myself for it. I mean they’re going to take a concert over a charity game every single time, no matter how many GD commercials they pump out on local stations every night.” “Fuck that,” Killian muttered and the intensity in his voice took Emma by surprise. He already had his phone out of his back pocket and his thumb was moving so quickly Emma was concerned he was going to inadvertently dislocate it.

“Hey, hey,” she said, tugging the phone out of his hand. Killian made a noise in the back of his throat and her free hand found its way to his cheek, brushing over the stubble on the side of his jaw. “It’s ok. You don’t need to rescue my event. I can take care of it.” “I’m not doubting that, love.” “No?” “Of course not.” He pulled back slightly, staring at her in a way Emma couldn’t quite ever remember being stared at and he smiled before he spoke again. “You can do anything, Swan.”

The hotel room suddenly felt a bit smaller than normal, air just a bit thicker and Emma blinked twice before she trusted herself to say anything. And then she didn’t say anything at all. Because she still wasn’t all that great at emotions, but she had laces around her wrist and Killian kept staring at her in that very particular way.

So she didn’t say anything.

She kissed him instead.

And she appreciated his quick intake of breath almost as much as she appreciated the way his hand tightened again, tracing across skin and moving towards her back like he was trying to make sure every inch of her body hit every inch of his.

Emma pressed up on her toes and her fingers found his hair, pushing into the bottom of it and keeping him pulled against her. He didn’t argue, just made some noise in the back of his throat that seemed to shoot straight to her core.

They were moving – Emma could feel her feet shifting on the carpet, but they weren’t going the direction she assumed they’d move in. Killian’s hands tightened around her back again and her feet weren’t on the carpet anymore, toes skimming over it slightly when he spun her, body colliding against the door.

There was a vaguely sarcastic, slightly teasing comment just half a breath away, – something about having done this door thing before and maybe he wasn’t just obsessed with her hair – but that would have required her to have half a moment and she didn’t, not when Killian’s hands inched dangerously high, pushing her t-shirt away with an enthusiasm that made her breath hitch.

He groaned when she moved, hips pressed up against his and the room moved. Or maybe that was the Earth.

And maybe Emma just loved her boyfriend a ridiculous amount.

No, Emma loved Killian Jones a ridiculous amount.

No matter what.

“I think…” Emma mumbled, shoulders moving quicker than normal when she tried to catch her breath. Killian widened his eyes at her, stunned silent at the idea that she’d actually start talking in the middle of whatever it was they were doing. He made up for it by trailing kisses along her neck and Emma’s head hit back almost painfully against the door.

“You were saying, love,” he said, muttering the words against her skin and there were those goosebumps again.

“You’re distracting.” “That’s kind of the point.” Emma laughed – or at least started to laugh before it became a different noise all together as soon as his teeth grazed over her collarbone. “You can’t do that,” she said, voice hardly sounding like her own. “I’ve got to get dressed up later.” Killian hummed against her and she could feel the ends of his mouth tick up, hands moving towards her legs and the backs of her thighs when he bent down slightly. She moved without instruction or suggestion, calf wrapped around the back of his and his chest moved a bit quicker than normal when Emma fingers twisted around his belt loops.

“We could move,” Killian said.

“You’re the one who started pushing people up against doors and attack-kissing while they were on the phone.” “I did no such thing. In fact, if memory serves, I actually stopped while you were on the phone. You were the one trying to end the conversation, love. Why do you think that was?” He did something ridiculous with his eyebrows, eyes going wide until all Emma could think about was blue and maybe they had some time before whatever schedule she’d already forgotten.

It was a very big hotel, full of NHL players and front office and people who had plenty of things to do that weekend, except, it seemed, the person on the other side of the door and they both made a noise when the first knock came.

“God damnit,” Killian sighed and the second knock came just as quickly as the first. “We need to find an island.” “An island?” “Mmm hmm. Somewhere by ourselves where people won’t demand we get ready for instructional outings at the worst possible times.” “Maybe you'll learn something.” The third knock was joined by a shout from the hallway and Roland Locksley sounded a bit more impatient than Emma had ever heard him. “Emma,” he yelled, sounding like he was throwing his entire body against the door. “We’ve got to go. The car is already back!”

There was laughter behind him – Robin not even trying to disguise the sound of his own voice – and Killian rolled his eyes, taking a step away from Emma and running a hand through his hair. “That’s probably not going to work,” she said, nodding towards that one piece in the back that refused to actually go down.

“Ah, well, Locksley can cope. This was his idea anyway.” Emma nodded, pulling the bottom of her t-shirt down until it almost looked presentable. “It was both your idea, don’t try and pretend like it wasn’t. And don’t try and act like you don’t want to go. It’s a planetarium.” “I think the technical term is observatory.”

Emma rolled her eyes and while she didn’t particularly appreciate being interrupted, she might have been excited as well – agreeing to the idea as soon as Killian and Robin had brought it up at the restaurant two days before, something about making sure Roland did something educational when they were in LA.

And she’d never been to Griffith Observatory, even after living in this stupid city for nearly three years.

She hadn’t mentioned that to Killian. He probably knew.

“I know you’re in there too, Cap,” Robin said, kicking the door for good measure. “C’mon, Gina’s already downstairs trying to placate the driver so he doesn’t leave without us.” Emma sighed, stepping back into her flats as Killian swung the door open. And Robin had a look on his face that practically screamed he knew what had been happening in that very large hotel room just a few minutes before. “Fix your hair,” he said, nodding towards Killian. “Gina will notice otherwise.” He walked away without another word and Emma couldn’t quite hold in her laugh. “An island, Swan,” Killian muttered, tugging her out into the hallway. “We’re going to get an entire goddamn island and no one’ll be able to interrupt.”

It wasn’t bad.

It was, in fact, bordering almost excruciatingly close to downright endearing – Roland tugging the whole group of them through exhibit after exhibit, determined to see the stars and they did, after all, have a schedule to stick to and tickets to a show and Emma bit her lip when Killian’s hand found hers as soon as the lights went out.

He didn’t let go of it when the lights came back on or when Roland stared at them with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, stunned, it seemed by a twenty-minute presentation about the entire universe.

And he didn’t let go of her hand in the car ride back to the Staples Center, Emma’s teeth practically working their way through her entire lip at that point.

“It’ll be fine, Swan,” Killian said softly, squeezing her fingers and his thumb looped through the laces on her wrist.

“I know,” she answered and it wasn’t a lie. It would be fine. She’d planned and had all the right permits and there’d be fans and Killian and Robin would smile and pose. They’d sign autographs and there’d be enough photos to warrant an album and Emma could send it to the season-tickets later that night.

It would be fine.

It was just getting out of the car, however, that was proving to be a bit difficult. And Emma had never considered herself much of a coward before, a determination to prove everyone wrong fueling her for most of her life, but all she wanted in that moment was the island Killian kept talking about, or maybe a few more hours in that observatory with her eye pressed against a telescope and the stars in front of her.

She didn’t want to see the Staples Center ever again.

That didn’t seem to matter. They’d stopped in front of it and the driver was clicking his tongue impatiently in the front seat and Emma still hadn’t moved, lip bleeding now.

“You know it’s illegal to lick a toad in the city of Los Angeles,” Killian said suddenly, turning towards her and ignoring whoever was tapping on the window. It was Ruby – Emma could barely make out red nails through the slightly tinted glass.

“What?” she asked and he smiled at her.

“Yup, super illegal.” “Can something be not super illegal?” Killian shrugged. “I mean I don’t think stealing gum from one of those corner stands in midtown is illegal.” “Yes it is.” “Semantics.”

“Did you steal a lot of gum when you were a kid?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Swan. We lived downtown, getting into midtown would have required public transportation.” “Yuh huh. How often would you say you snuck onto the uptown one?” He moved his eyebrows quickly and his fingers were still wrapped up in hers. “At least once every two weeks, more often when we got older and a bit more determined to break the rules. They only caught us...twice?” “Was that a question?” “Ah, well, either way it wasn’t a lot.” “I don’t know about that. I bet Mr. Vankald knew the entire time. He probably just trusted that you guys would look out for each other.” Something passed over Killian’s face and the smile wasn’t quite as light as it had been a few moments before, something serious hanging onto the end of it that Emma couldn’t quite name. She tried another route instead, twisting in her seat until her knee hit against Killian’s and her free hand worked its way back in his hair. “What time are they getting here?” “Not until tomorrow. Early though, so they can get organized before skills.” Emma hummed in approval and the knocking on the window was banging now – from more than one fist. “I love you,” she said and Killian’s eyebrows shot up his forehead quickly.

She didn’t say the rest of it – that she knew he was trying to distract her with facts about Los Angeles so she wouldn’t worry about the Staples Center or this entire, stupid city or that he wasn’t quite as nervous about the turbulence as, she suspected, he was nervous about being captain of the Metro and being an All-Star in front of his entire family.

Later. She’d tell him all that later. When they bought that island. Or, she hoped, when one of them found their way into each other’s hotel room.

“I love you too, Swan,” Killian said, head falling forward until his hair fell close to his eyes. “More than anything.” And he’d never said that part before.

Emma’s mouth was still hanging open, eyes a bit wider than normal when Ruby gave up on banging completely, swinging the door open and sighing loudly when she saw the sight in the backseat of this town car.

“Jeez,” she muttered. “There’s another human in this car, guys. Sorry, Doc.” “It’s alright, Ms. Lucas. Not the worst thing that’s happened in the backseat of one of my cars.” “Oh my God,” Emma mumbled and even Killian looked a bit scandalized at what had happened in the backseat of Doc’s cars. “Alright, alright, we’re coming. How’s it look out there?”

Emma tried to get a look at the crowd – but she couldn’t see anything over the Kings signs in front of her and the sea of black and silver that had taken over nearly every available space in the entire goddamn square.

“Oh, fuck,” she sighed, tugging on the ends of her hair. “What the hell is this?” “This is why I was trying to get you out of the car,” Ruby said, pushing the door closed as soon as Killian was next to Emma. “He’s….” Ruby didn’t get to finish.

She got interrupted by a voice Emma hoped she wouldn’t hear once during All-Star weekend or ever again if she was being honest. “Goddamnit,” Emma said under her breath and Ruby rolled her eyes.

“Los Angeles is home to the largest boulder ever transported,” Killian muttered in her ear, hand falling on Emma’s back. “Like three hundred tons or something absurd. It’s at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.” “You don’t know its exact measurements?” she laughed, glancing over her shoulder to find him grinning at her. Ruby’s eyes were probably going to get stuck mid-roll.

“Three hundred and forty tons. It took eleven days to move.” “I knew you knew.” Killian nodded, eyes moving above Emma’s head when the voice shouted her name again and he didn’t move his hand. If anything he took a step closer to her, arm brushing up against her shoulder and Neal looked like his eyes were going to fall out of her head.

She shifted her shoulders, shaking her hair off and her fingers ghosted over the laces on her wrist before she could stop herself.

Neal’s eyes got wider.

And Emma didn’t move at all, just licked her lips quickly and stared straight ahead, wondering why she’d been worried about this in the first place.

She, quite simply, didn’t care.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” Neal said, taking a step forward like he was going to hug her before thinking better of it. Although that might have been because of the combined force of Emma, Ruby and Killian’s glare.

“You were hoping I’d be here?” Emma repeated. “At my own event?”

“Wait, what?” Emma waved her hand through the air in front of her – Neal’s gaze distracted for half a moment when he stared at her wrist. “This is mine,” she said, nodding towards the small patch of blue and red in the one corner the Kings hadn’t apparently seized control of. “Or it’s supposed to be. What the hell is going on Neal?”

“Wait, wait, back up. Where are you working now?” Emma took a moment to glance meaningfully at Ruby – I told you and Ruby just shook her head, glaring even more intently at Neal. And it was only then that he seemed to notice the NHL All-Star standing behind Emma, head snapping back when he saw Killian and the placement of his hand. “Killian Jones?” Neal asked, sounding as if he was surprised to see him there.

“So they tell me,” Killian answered quickly.

“Ems, do you work for the Rangers?” She nodded slowly, tongue pressed against her cheek in frustration. “Yup. And you’re fucking up my event, Neal. I’ve got seventeen different permits that promised me exclusive use of the square tonight. What the hell is all of this black and silver?” “Well, it is our arena, Ems.” Emma huffed at the ancient nickname and the look on Neal’s face – that knowing stare that seemed to tell her this is how it is and she’d seen it enough in Vancouver when he told her she worked too hard.

“I’m more than aware whose arena it is,” Emma shot back and the fans had noticed Killian now. They were moving. “Jesus,” she muttered. “Can you guys do something about this?” “Sure,” Ruby answered, turning on the crowd before they’d even made it halfway across the square.

Killian squeezed his hand, fingers moving around the curve of her waist and Neal appeared to have gone into cardiac arrest. “Each spring the Getty Museum hires goats to help manicure its lawns, which seems like cheating, but they do.”

“Thanks,” Emma said softly and Killian nodded once, humming in the back of his throat before leaving a vaguely stunned Neal Cassidy in his wake. “What the hell was that?” Neal asked.

Emma turned towards him – finally getting a good look and she wasn’t entirely certain what she saw. He looked tired, bags under his eyes and a nervous twitch to his hands that she only just realized hadn’t stopped since he walked over to them. He had a tie on, but the sleeves of his shirt were pushed up and there was a pinch in between his eyebrows that looked like he was trying to figure out what to say.

She knew what to say.

And that was a pleasant surprise.

“Get your people out of here, Neal,” Emma hissed. “I’ve got permits and permission and this square is mine for the next two and a half hours. At least.” “Ems,” he said softly, staring at her like he’d never seen her before. He hadn’t. Not like this. It kind of felt like adrenaline or a livewire shooting through every single one of her veins and Emma didn’t say anything else, just crossed her arms over her team-branded t-shirt.

“You’re really in New York now,” Neal continued. He took that step forward again and Emma backed up, instincts taking over immediately. “Obviously,” she said, pointing at the NEW YORK RANGERS emblazoned across her shirt.

“But not PR.” “Again, obviously. Community relations, fan experiences and events.” “You have a card?” “You looking for proof?” “No,” Neal laughed and Emma resisted the urge to punch him. “Just always good to have those kinds of things in case you want to meet up this weekend.” “I don’t.” “Why?” Emma made a face, glancing towards the crowd of Rangers fans she’d wrangled in Los Angeles and she could hear Roland already sparking something that sounded a bit like a We want the Cup cheer. And she wasn’t sure how it happened, but Killian turned when she did and that felt a little instinctual too, eyes meeting over the top of someone who’d camped out for several hours for a photo op.

He smiled at her.

“Huh,” Neal muttered. “Really?” “You’re not asking any actual questions,” Emma sighed, pulling her gaze back to him. “And I really do have an event to run, so unless you have something to say, I’ve got to go run photo ops.”

“Are you two...a thing?” “A thing? What are you twelve?” Neal laughed again and shook his head. “You’re different than you were in Vancouver,” he said. “Different than you were even when everything went down here.” “When you took my job.” “That’s not what happened.” “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

“How long?” Neal asked. Emma rocked back on her heels, holding her hands up in confusion.

“Real questions,” she answered, half shouting the words at him and she could feel Killian’s eyes on her when her voice picked up.

“How long have you and Jones been dating?” Emma groaned loudly, staring up at an improbably blue sky and clouds that were almost too puffy to actually be real. “Oh my God, you’re doing this now? Get your people out of my event!”

“You know there was talk around the league that he’d started something.” “Jesus Christ.” Ruby was staring now too and even Roland had stopped shouting about the Cup. Regina had taken over – voice making its way to Emma’s ears when she tried to reorganize the line, telling Mulan to start taking photos again.

Neal didn’t stop.

He was still talking and Emma was only half listening, the pad of her thumb running up and down her laces.

Oh. That might have been the first time she’d considered the laces hers. That was a change of pace. It was probably because he’d said more than anything in the backseat of a town car.

“It’s true,” Neal pressed, taking another step towards her. “It’s been all over the league, people started talking about it when he hit that slump. You know just after Christmas?” Emma didn’t trust herself to nod. Neal, however, didn’t seem to care. “I guess someone from the Isles saw him leaving the arena with someone and, well, you know the league Ems. It spread from front office to front office.” Emma did know the league, but she’d never heard anything like that – had never been part of some sort of cross-country rumor and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard a rumor about a player’s relationship status when she was in LA or Vancouver.

Something was wrong.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma said. Neal didn’t look convinced. It was probably because she didn’t sound very convincing.

“Have you been with the Rangers all season?” he asked and she recognized the change in approach almost immediately. He was trying to make her comfortable.

“Yeah, since August. Are you going to get your people out of here or not? I know you can’t do anything about the decorations, but we’re supposed to be Rangerstown’ing and that’s difficult when people are screaming about Kings players a few feet away.” Neal shrugged and Emma’s vision nearly went red, eyes narrowed and lip held tight between her teeth. “I can’t, Ems,” he said, not even sounding remotely apologetic. “We’ve been here almost all day. We’ve got players coming.” “I’ve got players here! Already! They’re taking pictures right now.” “I don’t know what you want me to do.” “Of course you don’t,” she sighed, grabbing her phone and maybe there was a restaurant they could go to who wouldn’t mind twenty-five screaming Rangers fans.

“You really don’t have a card? There’s some time before skills tomorrow, maybe we could get coffee or something.” “No,” Emma said, hardly even pausing long enough to let him finish the question.

“You busy?” “No, I don’t want to.”

Neal took a step back at that, staring at her like he’d just been shocked and Emma heard Ruby’s heels coming back towards her. “We should probably get out of here, Em,” Ruby said, sounding a bit resigned to the situation and the general awfulness of the entire Los Angeles Kings organizations. Or, at least, its PR director.

“There’s a pizza place around here,” Emma muttered, staring at the map on her phone. “We could do something with that. New York angle. Get Mulan to take pictures.” “And if they don’t let us in?” “Buy fifteen pies and we’ll sit on the goddamn street.” “Perfect.” Neal made a noise, something that was probably supposed to sound like approval and Emma stuffed her phone back in her pocket. “Bye Neal,” she said, turning on him before he could even open his mouth to answer.

“You alright, love?” Killian asked as she soon as she came up to the crowd.

Emma nodded. “Did you hear the pizza plan?” “Ruby’s already on the phone with them I think.” “Efficient.” “Ah, well, you’re in charge so…” “Those compliments, you’ll have me thinking you believe in me or something.” He beamed at her, arm slung over her shoulder. “Good.”

It all worked.

The pizza was...acceptable and no one would be able to tell that it was bordering a bit closer to the shitty side than it was to the actual edible, New York-style pizza side when they saw it in the gallery Emma hoped Mulan was putting up at that very moment.

She was a bit distracted.

She was back against the door.

“You think it went ok?” Emma muttered, groaning slightly when her head hit against the door as she pulled away to talk.

“Swan,” Killian sighed. “You’re interrupting some of my best work here. And, yes, of course it went better than ok. You planned it.” “And replanned it.” “And replanned it,” he repeated, smiling at her when he brushed her hair back behind her ear. His fingers lingered there for a moment before trailing down the side of her neck and the collar of her t-shirt and Emma had never considered a future where she could ever feel something while wearing team-branded, but she did.

“It was fantastic, Swan,” Killian continued and she made some kind of impossible noise when he nipped against her ear. “And tomorrow will be fantastic and Sunday will be fantastic and then, eventually, you’ll kick whatever stupid pop band wants to book the Garden on your day off the calendar and the game will be fantastic too.” “Don’t forget Casino Night,” Emma added, falling back on laughter and sarcasm so she could keep ignoring whatever was happening to every single inch of her body.

It was a lot.

And Killian was still moving against her neck.

“Of course Casino Night,” he agreed, making her squirm when he laughed against her skin. “Obviously.” He moved again, pulling her away from the door and Emma wasn’t entirely certain how they managed to stay on their feet when they were a mess of limbs and lips and bumping knees, but she eventually felt her legs hit up against the bed. She moved her hands up the front of his t-shirt, forcing herself to look up at him and Emma’s legs bent of their own volition, sinking onto the corner of the bed.

That was good. If she was sitting she couldn’t fall over.

He just smiled at her. Self-confident idiot.

“Where’s Roland?” Emma asked, a bit more breathless than she wanted to be. “With Robin and Regina.” “And Ruby?” “Probably in her room down the hall, determined not to walk in on this.” Emma laughed, smile inching across her face and Killian widened his eyes as he stepped in between her legs, nudging her forward until she was halfway up the bed. “And this is?” Emma prompted.

“Swan.” “It’s a genuine question. I just don’t want to get interrupted again.” “We won’t.” “You sound awfully certain.”

His hand worked its way back up her side, palm flat across her stomach and Emma twisted slightly underneath him. “I am,” Killian said simply, tugging his shirt off over his head and tossing it in the corner where Emma’s flats had landed at some point.

“And enthusiastic.” “That too.” “How are you so certain?” Emma asked, canting her hips up when Killian hovered over her. He made a noise in the back of his throat and she wasn’t certain if it was because of her or the question or the idea of being interrupted again.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “Because I told them not to come down here. That’s why.” “What? Really?” “I mean I didn’t go into detail about what we’d be doing when we weren’t getting interrupted, but I think I managed to get my point across.” Emma blinked once and her mind raced back to the square outside the Staples Center and that rumor and who could have seen them walking out of the Garden together and Killian pulled back again, staring at her with a kind of nervous energy that didn’t belong in a room where he wasn’t wearing a shirt anymore.

“Swan?” he asked. “Are you alright?” “Fine.” “Emma.” “That’s not even playing fair.” “Open book.”

She scrunched her nose and rolled her head back and forth on the vaguely pitiful pillow under her head, whining slightly when Killian rolled back to his side of the bed. “Just...thinking.” “About?” “He said there was a rumor going around the league.” “Who? Your PR guy?” Emma groaned at that and Killian smiled at the face she made, a mix between disgust and frustration that he could even bring himself to call Neal that. “He said there’d been talk about how you were seeing someone for the last couple of months. Someone from the Islanders saw us leaving the Garden or something.” “And?” “And they’re blaming your skid on me.” “I’m out of the skid, Swan,” Killian argued. “The Post called it a ‘goal-scoring streak’ heading into the All-Star break. Goals in the last five games and into the top-five.” “I know your stat line.” “Then you’ll know the PR guy is a liar. It’s fine, love. You weren’t the reason for the skid and you won’t be the reason when I skid again. It’s just the game, that’s how things work. The only thing people will remember is when we win.” “There’s that confidence again.”

“Eh,” he sighed, propping his head up on his hand. Emma reached forward slowly, trailing her finger across the top of his left hand and she could hear his breath hitch when she traced over scars and the spot where that bruise had been a few weeks before. “Not always.” “Like on planes with turbulence?”

“Open book,” Killian repeated, leaning forward so quickly that Emma wasn’t even entirely certain he’d kissed her forehead.

“Why? I mean you made fun of Scarlet to no end for freaking out over the turbulence. What changed?” Killian took a deep breath and stared at a loose strand of string in the comforter underneath them. “Because I haven’t been to this weekend in years, always brushed off noms and came up with a reason not to go and Liam’s never seen me play in one of these games. At least not in person.” “Why’d you decide to come?” “Because you’re here,” he answered immediately and Emma knew her mouth dropped open again. She should probably stop being surprised by these kinds of things. “And you don’t need to be saved or rescued or any of those slightly antiquated ideas, but the idea of you going to LA this weekend alone kind of made me go cross-eyed. So I said I’d go and told Liam and El and they were thrilled and I spent the last month trying to ignore that nagging sense of not good enough in the back of my mind.” Emotions.

They were doing emotions again and Emma didn’t do emotions. She did action. She did replanning events she’d spent the last four weeks organizing. And, at that moment, in the middle of a pillow-less bed in an expansive hotel room in the center of downtown Los Angeles, Emma Swan was going to kiss Killian Jones until he believed he was good enough for everyone – but especially for her.

Because no one had ever wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone.

He made that noise and Emma closed her eyes, trying to burn the moment into her memory and her being and a slew of other overly emotional and sentimental adjectives and she gasped against his mouth when Killian started working against her jeans.

Her knee hit against his again and she should probably stop wearing t-shirts because they always seemed to end up threatening to choke her in moments like these and Emma tried to tug him forward, but there wasn’t anything to grab onto except belt loops.

It ripped in her hand or around her finger and Emma nearly dissolved into a fit of laughter right there in the middle of the bed.

Killian couldn’t even look appropriately scandalized, staring at the belt loop hanging over Emma’s finger with a sense of incredulity that just made her laugh all over again. “Eager, huh,” he mumbled.

“Oh, shut up,” Emma countered, flicking her finger against his bare chest. He winced dramatically, falling back on the bed with a soft thump that would have knocked off at least ten pillows in his bed back home.

Oh.

She called his apartment home. Not out loud or really any more than in passing thought while they were desperately trying to get each other’s clothes off, but it had happened and Emma didn’t move. She kissed him instead.

Or maybe he kissed her.

It didn’t really matter.

They got the clothes off eventually and Emma made some comment about the presumptive nature of his wallet – several different squares of plastic pressed in between bills – and he’d rolled his eyes and countered with uninterrupted, Swan before making sure that she couldn’t actually argue for quite some time.

She was warm and comfortable and the low hum of the air conditioner that they inexplicably had to use in the middle of February because it was LA and weather didn’t make any sense in LA, was practically lulling Emma to sleep in the background.

“Are you ok?” Killian asked softly and Emma’s eyes practically snapped open. She rolled her shoulders, smiling despite herself when he made a low noise in the back of his throat as soon as her skin hit his.

It was difficult to move with an arm draped tightly over her waist and Killian mumbled when the mattress shook as Emma flopped back over to her other side. “Why would you ask that?”

He couldn’t shrug, still laying on his side, but his eyes met hers and Emma realized almost immediately – and then she had to take a deep breath so she didn’t also immediately melt into the mattress.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said and the sincerity in his voice left little room for doubt. “You know that, right?” “Of course I do,” Emma said and there wasn’t a trace of disbelief in the words. She did. She believed him and in him and because of him. And he’d come with her to Los Angeles.

Emma didn’t need a hero, but she might need Killian Jones just a little bit.

“I just….” he started, pressing his lips together to cut himself off and Emma lowered her eyebrows.

“What?” Killian took another deep breath and he blinked before he answered, fingers reaching out until they found the back of her wrist. “I just, well, I’ve waited a very long time for this.” “For?” “Swan,” he laughed, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and he still looked more nervous than Emma could remember seeing him. “I am happy.” “Yeah? Good, that makes two of us.”

“Let me finish.” Emma nodded and tried to remember what oxygen was, blinking furiously when she realized her eyes had actually started to water. “I have waited a very long time for this,” Killian repeated and his voice seemed to work its way into every single inch of her, settling in the pit of her stomach like some flame that was trying to fight against the air conditioner in the corner of this hotel room.

“And I’ve never really been jealous of the rest of them or frustrated with the set-up. I understood why they did it and what they were all trying to do, but, uh, then you walked into the hallway outside the gym and everything changed and I was jealous of everything I didn’t have and everything I wanted and, you should know, Swan, I don’t care about anything anyone is saying in any front office, it’s not going to change anything. I’m not going to mess this up too.”

She didn’t move. She wasn’t entirely certain she was still breathing. And Killian still looked nervous, eyes darting down to that string again.

She was crying.

Emma could feel the tears, telltale signs of emotion and sentiment and how absolutely all in she was as soon as it started rolling down her cheeks.

Killian looked back up when Emma’s tried to move again, ancient hotel mattress creaking under her and he gaped when he realized what was happening. “No, no, Swan, God, don’t cry,” he said quickly, thumb brushing over the top of her cheek.

“You said the hallway,” Emma mumbled. It didn’t even sound like English.

“What?” “The hallway,” she repeated. “You said I walked into the hallway and everything changed. I didn’t meet you in the hallway.”

“Ah, well, I was in the gym when you met Victor.” “I thought that was you! When Ariel made you come over, I remembered…”

Emma snapped her mouth shut, jaw almost cracking with the force of it. Killian shifted again, hand falling back on her hip and the smirk felt a bit like cheating too. “What?” “Nothing.” “Swan.” She groaned, rolling her eyes and the smirk intensified as if that was a thing smirks could actually do. “Your eyes are very blue. There. Whatever. I saw you move and I saw your hair and your blue eyes and I thought it was you when everyone was trying to set us up. It doesn’t matter.”

Killian stared at her, smirk becoming something a bit more genuine the longer he held her gaze. “You changed your outfit,” he said. “Between the hallway and the restaurant. You weren’t wearing that dress in the hallway.” “How could you possibly remember that?” “I wanted to know who you were.” “Why? To make sure no one would mess up your weird team hierarchy?” “No,” Killian said quickly and the smirk was gone and so was the smile and the only thing left was a seriousness that made Emma’s stomach clench. “No, you walked into the hallway and you didn’t look nervous, just kind of frustrated that Ruby was dragging you around making you shake hands with people. And I wanted to know your name.”

“Seems a little stalker-y,” Emma mumbled, but she was absolutely crying again.

“Romantic, love. Definitely romantic. I’m glad you’re here, Swan. I just….” He sighed again and they’d leapt back into sentiment with all the force of jumping out of a plane.

“What?” “You, Emma,” he said and was certain she didn’t mishear the crack in his voice. “It’s you. Everything I was jealous of and everything I wanted and was absolutely certain I couldn’t have, it’s you.” He’d called her Emma again.

Cheater.

She didn’t say anything – didn’t tell him she loved him more than anything or she was fairly positive he was it too, in some sort of crazy, overwhelming way Emma was certain didn’t actually exist for her, or that she’d seen his absurdly blue eyes and everything in the entire world seemed to flip.

She kissed him instead and he kissed her back and they fell asleep twisted together, a pretzel of limbs that wasn’t particularly comfortable, but neither one of them could seem to bring themselves to move.