#this pushes our director to the breaking point and about five minutes later between songs he starts SCREAMING at percussion between songs

[lexalovesbooks]

Tomorrow/Friday is the anniversary of one of the weirdest days of my life, yippee!

[secretlynestaarcheron]

Nesta Ballerina AU ~ should I write a one shot??

One shot:

Nesta stretched her arms above her head, before plopping them back on the comforter, yawning as she opened her eyes squinting at the beam of light peeking through her tiny window. She rips of the comforter, throwing her legs at the side, a new wave of excitement rushing through her.

She throws on a sweater and slips on her slippers as she pushes open the door of her room and enters the kitchen, living room, office, dance studio combo. Mor was already up, moving around the kitchen, bopping her head to the music that was playing from her phone.

“It’s show day!” Nesta yells.

Mor jumps turning to see Nesta. “It’s show day!” Mor screams back, jumping up and down. They had moved to New York together four years ago, going to school to be professional ballerinas, and then auditioning for company after company until they finally got in. “Celebratory pancakes?”

Nesta smiles as she slides onto one of the bar stools as Mor slides a plate in front of her. “Any news about the boyfriend?” Mor asks, stuffing a fork full of pancake into her mouth.

Nesta frowns, reaching forward to grab the jar of syrup, squeezing a little bit on top. She shrugs, “It’s not a big deal, he called me last night,” Nesta says, pushing her food around, “He couldn’t get off work, some important meeting tonight. He’s going to try and come next week.”

Mor bites her lip, reaching over to squeeze her hand, before pulling back and going back to her pancakes. “Issa okay, it’ll be so busy today, you won’t even miss him,” she replies. “I think almond milk lattes from Beans and then we head to the theater early and check everything out.”

Nesta nods, she was going to need all the coffee she can get, their director Amara wanted to do a few more run throughs of the show to touch up any mistakes before the first showing. Nesta’s ankles already ached from yesterday's rehearsal.

“So Rhysand and Azriel are both coming,” Mor responds, looking down at her phone. “Feyre is coming straight after work. I think she’s bringing her loser boyfriend, Tamlin or whatever. Elain and Lucien found a babysitter so they are coming. I haven’t heard from Amren.”

Nesta rolls her eyes. “I called her yesterday, she's coming. She just wanted to pull on your strings.”

There’s a knock on the door and Mor twirls as she moves towards it, Nesta pulling her phone out from her pocket to see a text from Cassian. Good luck tonight, beat all those other bunheads. She smiles, he meant well but as a professional hockey player he didn’t really get the whole non-competing thing.

“I think these are for you,” Mor sing-songs. Nesta quickly hits send on her message back and looks up at Mor who was holding a boutique of flowers. Nesta jumps out of her seat and grabs the flowers, looking for the card. Cassian.

She smiles, “Take a pic of me? I’ll send it to him,” she responds.

Mor grabs Nesta’s phone and snaps a picture. “Okay, now hurry up,” Mor replies, “I don’t want to be late.”

Nesta rolls her eyes as her friend pushes her into her room. “You don’t want to be late to get to the theater early?” she deadpans. Mor gives her a look before slamming the door. Nesta chuckles, sending the picture to Cassian. I’d rather have you but the flowers were a nice touch.

She hits send before putting on her leotard, slipping on a skirt and sweater, she slides on some boots before heading back out into the living room. “Look at this sweet video Elain sent me on snapchat,” Mor says, handing me the phone, it was Nesta niece in a tutu dancing around the living room. “I can’t believe it’s real, I feel like someone needs to pitch me and I’ll wake back up in small town Prythian, Rhode Island in Night Court Dance Studio.”

“Stars, remember how many times Feyre would get yelled at by Morta Queen?” Nesta asks as she grabs her dance bag and wallet and they make their way out of their crabby little apartment and down the narrow hall towards the exit. “She was so uncoordinated.”

Mor laughs as they move down the stairs and onto the busy street, squeezing through the people towards the coffee shop between their apartment and the theater. “And how Morta Queen used to bring her cat to rehearsals, she always wondered why our tights would always be ripped up,” Mor laughs as they clumsily fall into the door of the shop.

“Nesta! Mor! How nervous are you?” the barista behind the counter asks. “I can’t wait to see you guys perform, got my tickets for two weekends from now.”

Mor smiles and goes on a rant about how excited and nervous she is while Nesta can’t help but feel incredibly lucky to be surrounded by so many people that loved and supported her. She looks down at her phone, Cassian hadn’t responded to her last message but he was probably in his meeting.

She was hoping to call him before the show but as Mor thrusts a coffee in her hand and pulls the other out the door she knows that's a long shot. The halls are already bustling with chatter as they move towards their dressing room. Tutus and leotards littering the hall, the halls foggy from hairspray.

“I told you we would be late to be early,” Mor says, giving Nesta a pointed look as they move into the dressing room. Two girls are already inside breaking in their pointe shoes. One of them looks up and smiles, “Amara is already on a rampage, I’d get into practice gear quick,” she warns.

Nesta downs her coffee before grabbing her pointe shoes from her bag and following Mor out onto the stage.

A long draining couple of hours later, Mor and Nesta make their way back into the dressing room falling onto the couch. “No....energy,” Mor groans, her face pushed against a pillow. “My blisters have blisters.”

“Tell me about it,” Nesta says, falling into one of the makeup chairs and rubbing her feet. “Amara said we have ten minutes to get dressed and then be in hair and makeup so I am-,”

“Going to go call the boyfriend?” Mor ques, pushing herself into a sitting position, giving Nesta a taunting smile. “I’ll grab you a snack and bring it to you when we meet up for hair and makeup.”

Nesta grabs her phone and touches her chest. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate you?” Nesta exclaims as she leaves the dressing room, shoving through the line of girls in puffy tutus until she's in the back alley. She hits his contact and then puts the phone to her ear.

She bites her nail as she listens to it ring. His voice booming through the speakers seconds later: You’ve reached Cassian Monte, you know what to do.

She pauses, wanting to hang up and pretend she never called. It was a pretty new relationship, they went to high school together but never spoke until two years ago when they met at some fancy dinner her school threw. She had absolutely hated him at first as he kept popping into her life.

She finally let him take her out on a date the last time he was in town five months ago. “Hey Cas, um, I am about to go on soon so I thought I’d give you a call-,” she pauses biting her lip. “I hope your meeting went well today.”

There's a pause and she feels like she should say no but she just hangs up. Blowing at a strain of hair that slipped out from her pony-tail. She still had a whole army of people coming to support her. Besides he had sent her flowers this morning, it’s not his fault that he had meetings.

She looks down at her phone as if he was about to call her but when she’s only met with a black screen she swallows and pushes her way back into the building, walking down the crowded halls and into her dressing room where she changed into her costume before finding Mor at a vanity.

“Hey lovebird,” Mor says, as she leaned forward in the mirror to apply mascara. “You didn’t talk long.”

Nesta gave her a tight smile, as she took the seat next to her, two crew members immediately moving to begin working on her hair. “Yeah, well, I have an opening night to get ready for!” she exclaims.

Mor smiles, handing Nesta a stack of cards, “Well wishes from the friends and family,” Mor says, turning away from her to begin speaking to the hairdresser as Nesta fingered through different cards from her friends and family.

I am super excited for you both but did you really have to seat me right next to the love of my life and her douche boyfriend Tamlin? Stars, someone needs to punch him. -Rhys

You both have been working so hard for this, I am so excited for both of you Nesta eyes squint as the handwriting becomes more scribbled and tinier. Sorry. Elain started crying. It’s Lucien. She wants me to write that she is proud of both of you and that you are both role models for Lucy. -Elain and Lucien

“Curtain is up in ten minutes, everyone!” a producer yells, clapping her hands, Mor turns to smile at Nesta.

“This is it,” Mor comments.

The show is a blur of motion and music, Nesta can’t express what she’s feeling when she steps forward to take her final bow. She is speechless when she exits the theater and her friends and family surround her, Elain pulling her into a tearful hug while Feyre gives her a boutique of flowers.

She turns to see a tall man that she had never seen before that Rhysand was causally glaring at. “You must be the boyfriend, Tamlin, we are grabbing drinks after-,” Nesta says. Feyre who stood next to him shakes her head, her eyes wide as if trying to give Nesta a message.

“Drinks?” Tamlin asks, turning to Feyre who immediately stops shaking her head and laughs. “No, uh remember I mentioned having a thing in the morning, so I can’t stay out late.”

Tamlin nods, “I’ll grab us a taxi,” he muses as he moves towards the street.

“You were beautiful, Nes. Mom would have been proud,” Feyre says, pulling Nesta into a hug. “If I ever say I am going on a date with him ever again please knock some sense into me.”

“Feyre, ready?” Tamlin calls.

She rolls her eyes as she moved towards the taxi. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Feyre yells at them before Tamlin shuts the door and sits in the passenger seat.

“Ick, who sits in the front of a taxi?” Rhysand complains.

Mor bumps his shoulder. “She wouldn’t go on all these terrible dates if you just admitted how you felt already,” she exclaims.

“I have, it’s her turn,” Rhysand retorts.

Nesta rolls her eyes at their stubborness before turning to Elain and Lucien. “One drink? The bar I am thinking is just around the corner,” Nesta says, pulling at her sisters hands as if to guide her.

Elain chuckles turning to look at Lucien who shrugs. “We did tell the babysitter we would be out late,” she says and Nesta let’s out a cheer as she wraps an arm around her sisters shoulder and guides them down the street.

A few of there cast mates were already there celebrating. Elain and Lucien only staying for one drink, while the rest kept going strong.

Nesta catches Mor staring down at her phone before smiling. “Wanna head back soon?” Mor calls over the music.

Nesta nods feeling the exhaustion set in. They didn’t have a show tomorrow but they did have rehearsals and then a show Sunday. She probably should stay out too late.

Mor disappears before coming back minutes later a mischievous smile on her face. “I actually got asked to go home with that pretty blue eyed brunette over there, do you mind?” Mor asks.

Nesta follows Mor finger, it was one of girls on the makeup crew. She wasn’t Mors usual type. “You deserve your happy ending, go for it,” Nesta says. “Text me or call me anytime, okay?”

Mor nods pulling her into a hug. “Text me when you make it home, I might have a package waiting on the doorstep mind bringing it in for me?”

Nesta rolls her eyes but nods, mor was always treating herself to an online shopping spree. She moves through the crowd of sweaty people rubbing arms and onto the almost empty street.

They lived three doors down so it was a quick walk to their apartment. Nesta looks on the doorstep for a package but doesn’t see anything as she slides in the key and twists the knob.

She pauses in the doorway when she flicks on the light and there was a stack of her favorite snacks and a new romcom dvd sitting on the counter, as well as the blankets from both their rooms spread out on the furniture to create a fort.

She raises an eyebrow as she shuts the door, moving deeper into the apartment. Someone in the fort mutters a curse before popping out and giving her a sheepish smile. “You weren’t supposed to be back yet,” Cassian says as he awkwardly gets out of the fort and stands up.

He scratches the back of his neck nervously as he looks at her and she realizes she hasn’t said anything. “I am sorry, is this overstepping? I guess I wouldn’t be too thrilled to have a guy-,”

“No, it’s-,” she pauses as she looks at the fort and she’s the laptop screen beaming through the opening. She drops her bag in the ground and moves quickly to him. She throws her arms around his neck and he tightens his around her waist, picking her up in one smooth motion. “I am just shocked that you're here. No one has done something like this before.”

He smiles as they pull away, she slides down so her feet touch the ground but he’s still holding tightly to her waist. “If you’re tired I get it, you did so well tonight. God, Nes, you looked stunning up there,” he whispers against her temple.

She looks up at him. “You were there? You saw my performance?” She asks with excitement dripping from her voice. She hated being out of the know but Cassian was glad he was able to surprise her.

“My flight was delayed, I almost didn’t make it. That’s why I didn’t answer when you called. I was still up in the air,” Cassian says. “I had to rush to the theater. I was standing all the way in the back, but I could still see you crush it.”

She laughs, pulling away from him and looking up at him seriously. “I missed you, a lot,” she says honestly.

“I missed you too,” he replies, pulling her back into his chest and stroking her hair. When she finally pulls away to shower and change she half expects him not to be there. That her dehydrated exhausted mind created a false reality but she opens her door he’s curled up in the fort waiting for her with a big bowl of popcorn.

Before she crawls in to join him, she looks over as her phone lights up with a new message from Mor. Did you like my package? Nesta smiles sending back a quick response and then crawling in the fort and curling up beside Cassian.

[paradigmsofbrittaperry]

I just looked at your Spotify, first for the Jeffbritta then for your immaculate music taste ........ but sweetheart. GODDESS. What the hell mental illness made you listen to the Russian National Anthem that many times

FSHDKDLD god okay this one’s A Story, and there’s a much more concise way to tell it, but I’ve never been a concise person. jump under the read more if you dare.

sooooo it all started in a Wal-Mart parking lot after going to a high school football game with some of my friends. we had gone in to get a box of cupcakes and somehow emerged with a jar of pickles, a bag of peanut M&M’s, and a bag of Twix bars. as we were walking out of the Wal-Mart with our spoils, a bunch of guys our age ran by us and pushed us out of the way, screaming and running all the way to the edge of the parking lot. they were followed by Wal-Mart security, and we figured out the next day that they were members of our school’s lacrosse team and they were running because they had stolen goods from this Wal-Mart. so my friends and I start walking away from the exit like “oh boy, that was wild” only to be stopped by a woman who asked us if we wanted one of heaven’s brownies. we did not, so we swiftly moved along, clutching our pickles and candy a little bit tighter. 

there were six of us, so we’d taken two cars (and really, we’d come in groups of three anyway and met up on accident), but decided to go back to one person’s car to eat before splitting up and going our separate ways. so four of us found a way to squeeze into the backseat of this not-very-large vehicle and cracked open the pickles. the driver was in control of the music, and at first, he put on a few songs from Hamilton because I guess he was just that late to the trend. I was minding my own business, eating a Twix bar and vibing while being crushed between two of my friends when suddenly, everything changed.

there was a swell of orchestral music. we all looked at the driver in complete and utter confusion as the singers came in, singing in a language we did not know. he looks away, and the rest of us begin to laugh, as we’re very lucid at this point because it’s almost 11:30pm and this wasn’t our first adventure of the night (the first involved sneaking past the other school’s administration to get to the home side bleachers by cutting across the football field itself, we’re such rebels ik). 

eventually, someone (probably me tbh) manages to ask;

“what is this?”

the driver keeps looking down, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

“it’s the Russian National Anthem.”

“the WHAT?”

“the Russian National Anthem.”

he went on to explain that his older brother has a playlist of meme songs that he shared with everyone, and for some entirely unknown reason, this was on the list, and he’d taken a liking to it. whatever, we thought. in all honesty? it kinda slaps. maybe a little more than Hamilton does.

fast forward to about a week later. one of my friends from that group has been my friend since childhood, and lives about five minutes away from me. as such, she would often drive me home after band practice if it was a day when my dad wasn’t helping out with practice.

she usually gave me the aux, trusting me to queue a few things on Spotify for our 20 minute drive. at that point, it was typically lots of Hayley Kiyoko, lots of P!atd, and a fair amount of girl in red, because we were both gay and didn’t develop a music taste until very recently. there was also a specific Sam Smith song that we always listened to (How Do You Sleep) because of a specific incident from that year of band that honestly, I may go into at a later date.

that night, I look at the Spotify search bar and think “wouldn’t it be funny if I threw the Russian National Anthem in there? just to mess with her and call back to the night of that football game? man, that was a fun night. let’s do it.”

so I queue said anthem to come on after How Do You Sleep.

we poorly sing along with Sam Smith, laughing and joking all the way. the song starts to fade out, we settle down. we’re both waiting for the next song to come on. I’m barely holding it together, trying so hard not to blow my cover and laugh that tears are streaming down my face. 

the drum roll. the sweeping instrumentals.

now, I feel like I’ve already provided a gratuitous amount of context, but you must know that this particular band season had been absolute shit. our beloved band director had gotten a job at another school, and we had been left behind to lead a band under the direction of a much more incompetent one. we were stressed all the time, younger kids were turning their backs on us in a desperate attempt to defend this guy since they had to live with him for longer, we’d been losing friends and struggling and breaking down on a daily basis for probably somewhere around two months at that point. every inside joke and moment of levity and scrap of joy was clung to like a life raft, because we were watching the thing we’d loved for three whole years be destroyed right before our eyes. on top of that, we were being blamed for the destruction despite only being 17 years old, only able to cause so much change.

the singers come in. my friend realizes what I’ve done. she starts laughing. I let myself laugh out loud now, head banging and bopping along with the song. tears are streaming down her face now, too, they keep streaming down mine. we can’t find the line between tears of sorrow and tears of overwhelming joy. is there one? or are both emotions one in the same? 

so then, like with How Do You Sleep, it became a tradition to play it on every car ride home from band practice. I’d slip it somewhere into the queue while driving or she’d set it before getting into the car so that she could surprise me. it became our thing, that no matter what had happened that day or who had yelled at us or what ridiculous responsibilities we’d had to take on, we had something to look forward to and rely on. we had the motherfucking Russian National Anthem. 

I bet you didn’t expect there to be a moral to this story, but oh boy, is there ever one. you have find joy wherever you can. even if it’s stupid. even if it doesn’t make sense or you don’t understand why it makes you so happy. even if it’s playing a national anthem that, quite frankly, shouldn’t go as hard as it does.

[1000roughdrafts]

Family Secrets: Chapter Fifteen

Calm Before the Storm

Summary: Scoping out the hospital with your new gang, Allanah, Dean and Sam, you finally meet the young girl from your visions, and the man who’s possibly to blame for her state. 

Warnings: language, violence against OC, 

W/C: 3.3k

Masterlist/schedule

Your fingers sting where you’d been chewing at them. A bandage softens the pulsing of your thumb where you’d bitten a little too hard and drew blood. Still, even through the pain, you continue to absentmindedly chew on your fingers and their nails as you walk through the door of the hospital. 

A rush of memories hits you. Everything looks the same; the hallway, the lights, the numbers on the doors, the people. Allanah and Sam walk in front of you, Dean by your side. When you glance over at him, his eyes are wide as he scans the are. “You okay, Dean?” 

“Huh?” he looks over at you, coming out of his trance. “Yeah,” he clears his throat. “As good as I can be after finding out about an alternate dimension where five of my-” he shakes his head, “our children live.” 

You nod sympathetically, “yeah, I’m with you there,” you snort. 

Continuing down the hallway as you follow Allanah, she moves her head from left to right, peering down the hallways and looking at the numbers on the doors. She stops at one, and turns around to face you. 

“This is it, isn’t it?” You point at the door, your heart pounding in your chest, “this is where Luna is, right?” 

Wren - June 6, 2068 Ira, Region 1

Only when I am looking for lights do I realize how abnormally dark this region is. My vision is skewed with the use of only one eye, the other swollen shut. I wrestle with my legs, sometimes having to force them by my hands just to step along this bridge. My hand alternates between picking up my leg and holding my broken, leaking nose in place.

I hear sirens off in the distance, which is not unusual for this region, along with the incessant screaming from all neighborhoods; the song of Ira. Women, children, and men are everyday and every night pleading and begging for their lives. Half of this region are just here to serve as victims to the other half, and me? I remain somewhere in between. Hero by day, villain by night. Though, it depends on who you ask whether I'm the good guy or the bad guy.

I like to think I'm a guy just trying to survive, just like everyone else. I like to go with the flow of things, wherever the wind seems to take me. However, sometimes that leads me into very dark situations like walking along the bridge in the dead of the night after a fight with some dealers, resulting in a bloody nose, black eye, probably a broken foot and an empty stomach.

I'm not a user, but sometimes when necessity strikes I will pose as one. Undercover means that there's always a chance of getting caught. Unfortunately for my broken body, I'd been caught. I was lucky enough to escape, but not before they 'taught me a lesson'. Fuck those guys.

Soon, I will be home. I envision myself peeling my shoes from my bloodied socks, wincing at the pain but sighing at the release of pressure. I watch myself fall onto the semi-carpeted floor of my living room and remaining there forever... or until the power goes out, or perhaps until the eviction notice comes by, whichever happens first. I really don’t give a damn anymore.

The closer I get to the brink of this bridge, the louder and increasingly heart wrenching the screams become. My heart pounds vigorously in my chest. I'd cover my ears if I could, but my hands are treating my legs like the wheels of a wheelchair to keep me going. I am vehemently disgusted and angered by the lack of funds and concern for this region. We're region number one, yet last of all five. How could it get to this point? How could I be the only one fighting for a better living state for Ira?

This isn't a case of just one or two bad neighborhoods like in the other regions. Oh, no. This is a blatant disregard for the livelihood of the folks who live here. Ira might as well be a prison for the 'rejects' of the other four regions. How could they get away with such a wickedness?

This is a region where any street you find yourself on, you'll be a witness to, at best, a bloody robbery, or passed out users, and at worst, a death unfolding right before your eyes. This is not shocking to the folks who live here, and lest you wish death upon yourself, you just don't intervene... to live, you look the other way.

I have to push these thoughts away. There's not much I can do at the moment, this anger is a waste of energy. Reaching my door, I struggle with my keys. I force myself through, taking only one step in before I'm grabbed from all sides and a mesh bag is thrown over my head.

"Hey!" I scream. The fabric is too thick, my voice is muffled and the air is thinning. "What the fuck!"

There's at least four of them. I feel four hands on my arms, the crunching of ones' steps along my floor, and the smacking lips of one standing somewhere in front of me. A heat spreads through my body when I feel the dull, harsh point of a gun barrel against the back of my head, "shut the fuck up!" one barks.

I stiffen my body, growing angry all over again, "how the fuck did you get in here?"

"We'll be ones to ask questions," one says with a kick to my stomach. I buckle over, a gloved hand covers my screams and I'm held up by their hands.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Another blow to my stomach with the blunt force of a thick knee ejects blood from my mouth. "I said we'll be asking the questions." I'm ripped back into the gun as it presses deeper into the back of my neck, "keep your damn mouth shut, don't fight back, and listen to our rules if you want to live."

I spit the remaining blood from my mouth and onto my carpet, might not get my deposit back but I couldn't lend a thought to that now. I'm sure kidnapped-and-beaten-to-a-bloody-freakin'-pulp is covered somewhere in my renters agreement, this is Ira after all.

"Ah, tell me where we're going at least," I growl in the most intimidating voice I can muster up with my swollen throat.

"Teraw," the man behind me says in a gravelly voice before forcing me out of my door and shoving me down the path and into a car.

-

Allanah peers her head into the room after a knock and steps inside. The three of you follow behind her. It’s just like you’d seen it however many months ago, Luna in a hospital bed with a tube in her throat, the doctor stands with a chart in his hand, a woman is crying beside her and there’s a man in a business suit. 

He turns to face the four of you, pointing a finger, “you’re not supposed to be here,” he screams. “What the Hell are you doing?” 

The doctor catches him by the arm and turns around to face you, “these are some friends of mine, Mr. Grant. Please, just relax.” You look at Allanah with wide eyes, her softly staring out of the window. Mr. Grant huffs, shoving the doctors arm off of him while brushing out his suit. The doctor softens his voice and focuses on the woman, “please, Mrs. Grant, take your husband outside to relax a little, will you?” 

The woman nods, her face scrunched up as tears fall into the tissue she pads her face with. Reluctantly, Mr. Grant wraps his arm around her and they glide out of the room. You take a few steps closer to the bed, placing your hand on Luna’s. 

You feel Dean by your side, but don’t dare to look at him. He places his hand on top of yours and an influx of memories come rushing in. You force your eyes shut to block away the tears. 

“I’m going to need some alone time with her, Dan,” Allanah whispers. “She’ll be up and at ‘em before you know it,” she says in a melancholic, yet chipper voice. 

Dan, you assume, lowers his voice, “whatever you do, make it look normal.” He sighs, “and we’ll talk later about you showing up here out of nowhere,” he says sternly before smiling his goodbyes. 

Allanah coasts to the other side of Luna’s bed, placing her hand over Luna’s forehead and running it gently down to her chin. She stops, looking up at Sam, who stands off in the corner. He takes a few steps towards the bed and Allanah continues to run her hand down Luna’s body. Starting with her collarbone, and working down each arm, she runs her hands down her sides and each leg, confusion written all over her face. 

“What’s happening?” Sam asks. 

Allanah brings her hands up to inspect them, “nothing,” she says somberly. “Nothing is happening at all. My powers,” she pauses, shaking her head. “They don’t work here,” she says, turning to face the three of you. 

Aiden - June 6, 2068

Feri - Region 2

Depression is perilous and conniving. One minute I'm feeling fine and the next I want to strap myself to a chair just to fight the urge to throw myself from the bridge. It's that little voice in the back of my mind that's constantly telling me how worthless I am, telling me that no matter what I do - it's never going to be good enough.

It tells me to be silent. It encourages me not to whisper a single word to anyone because they won't believe me, nor will they care. So I've kept it locked up in the pit of my stomach as it weighs me down. I'm tired even when I sleep. I'm not hungry, even when I haven't eaten for a day or more. I can't breathe, and I can never catch my breath. 

It's constantly gripping onto every fiber in my body, yanking me towards the ground. I'm lying on the floor, staring into nothing. On the surface everything is fine, peachy. On the inside, there's a violent storm of death threats and negative thoughts that I can't seem to escape. I'm living in my own personal Hell, flames and all.

"Aidan!" my co-actor, Richard shouts. "Aidan, come on! Jack said cut like six times, now. Get up," he irritably grunts.

"Sorry," I clear my throat, the lab coat swooping at my feet as I stand. Walking off set and over to the director I ask for a short break to clear my mind. 

My hands shake as I bring the cigarette to my mouth and I can't fathom why. Perhaps it's because I haven't eaten in a while, can't remember. Perhaps I'm just cracking under the pressure. This is no money-making field, this acting thing.

"Hey, Aidan," Richard is calmer now, startling me as he steps to my side with a cigar in his hands. I turn to face the concrete wall and the buildings beyond it. "Is everything all right with you?"

"Why do you ask?" I breathe in a long, relaxing drag of the cigarette.

He casually shrugs, "we lost you for a while back there. Were you zoning out, or what?"

"We got the scene though, right? That was the last take?" I fake enthusiasm that's riddled with anxiety, it seems to pass effectively on my apathetic co-actor.

He pats my back, "we kicked ass, man! That was the best take yet! There using it for the film."

"Good," I sigh out a mixture of pent up stress and cigarette smoke. "I think I'd go a little insane if I had to do that all over again."

"Why?" he snickers. "Working a character that loses his whole family hit a little too close to home for you?"

I glare at him. How could a person sound so genuine and yet sarcastic at the same time? Well, I should know by now. That's Richard.

I throw my cigarette onto the ground, pushing him against the wall with my fists on his shoulders. "Not cool, man. You of all people should know that." I drop him, smoothing out the creases on his suit that I'd caused. I should know by now that I had only given him what he wanted by reacting.

He adjusts himself, putting his hands in the air defensively. "All right, you're right. My bad, man. Sorry," he says with a roll of his eyes.

I glare at him while stamping out the remaining embers with my foot. Heading inside I hear my name, "ah! Aidan, glorious job back there! Listen, Mr. Grant called," he nearly shakes in excitement. "He wants us to shoot the hospital scenes in his district's hospital. What do you say we head to Teraw today?"

- 

There’s a faint knock at the door, and soon after Dan enters the room with Luna’s parents behind him. Mr. Grant pushes past his wife and Dan to stand by Luna’s side. 

Mr. Grant turns to face Dan, “Doctor, I’ll have you escort them out immediately, or else I’ll call someone to do me the favor,” he growls. 

Leaving the room, there’s a small rumble as you walk down the hallway. Your eyes shoot up at Dean, leaning on him for stability. “You feel that?” you ask, glancing over at Allanah and Sam. 

Allanah’s eye is caught by the flickering of the lights and sway of the floor. 

“There! Go, now!” she screams, pointing down the hallway of nurses and wandering patients as they run about, filing it up with their screams. She presses her palms into your sides, flipping you around to face in the other direction, and pushes you to start running. Dean and Sam stay close behind as you sprint down the shifting hallway. 

“What about Luna?” you cry out. 

“Dan will take care of her, we have to move! Now, go!” She points at a door, “there’s tables in that room, go!” 

Sam pushes you into Dean and the three of you into the room, all of you running to sit under a table. A large cabinet wobbles before falling in front of the door, blocking you in. 

Somewhere in the hospital a siren is blaring, and the shaking gets more violent than before. Uncovering your ears, you lift yourself up to peer out of one of the windows. You jaw drops and a gasp escapes you as you see the water from underneath the bridge clashing against the side of the hospital, destroying houses and smaller buildings in its wake. 

The rumbling continues as pieces fall from the hospital. Patients are screaming and doctors can be heard calling after them, trying to herd everyone to safety. 

Allanah shuffles over to you in a crouch, “we need to find the children,” she shouts, just barely to be heard over the ear splitting alarm. 

You peak your head from under the table and look between the brothers as they scan the room for a way out. Pulling yourself from your squat you stand next to Allanah, “how?” you point over at the cabinet in front of the door, “we’re blocked in!” 

Allanah matches your gaze at the door, then looks out of the window at the raging ocean waters as they crash against the side of the building. Walking over to the door, she extends her palms out at the fallen cabinets. She exerts all of her energy into what you assume is an attempt to move it. Turning back to you and the brothers, her face falls flat. 

“I guess I really don’t have any powers here,” she says, looking down into her shaking hands. “That son of a-” 

“Okay, okay,” you say, taking a few steps towards her, “looks like you’ve been around Dean a little too long,” you chuckle. “Look, it’s fine. There are four of us here, I’m sure we could muster up the strength to get the door clear.” You glance over at them, and shake your head once, “come on, guys.” 

Sam readily strolls to the cabinet, while Dean mopes over. With eight hands gripping onto it, you count to three and all pull together, blowing raspberries at the weight and scrunching up your faces. It takes a few tries, and balancing it on your knees to get it out of the way, but crashes against the floor with a loud bang, rattling the other cabinets in the room. 

You push your way out of the door and into the now empty halls. The screaming has faded out and the only sound comes from a television on the corner of the wall in one of the waiting rooms. You gravitate towards it, taking heavy steps. 

“This is an official evacuation notice from Teraw authorities and weather administrators. It is heavily advised that all residents get to safety in the wake of the sudden, and unpredictable, Hurricane Vampurica,” the monotone voice repeats over a multi-color strip before giving out a collection of resources to call and a way to help others. 

“Vampurica?” Dean grunts. You turn around to see him standing behind you, Allanah and Sam close behind. “Do they even-” he sighs. “Know what? It doesn’t even matter,” he groans, turning around and storming down the hallway. 

You focus on the doors, searching for the one Luna had been in. Ignoring everyone else, you run for it and open the door to find an empty bed. Sheets and blankets in a pile on the floor, and the chair is tipped over. 

“Where would he have taken her?” you ask Allanah as she approaches your side. 

“I’m not sure,” she lulls. 

A sharp pain in your temple sends you to the ground, grunting and calling out as the pain runs down your neck and into your back. 

Dean drops to your side, “Y/N! What’s going on?” he shouts, running his hands along your arm and pulling you over onto your back. You hold your hands up to your head, putting pressure on your temples to soften the pain. “Y/N-” he shouts before groaning out in pain. 

Sam and Allanah are at your sides as you and Dean writhe in pain. The last thing you see before your eyes shut is Sam nervously looking you over, fear written on his face. 

- 

Before you is a large, three story house and to your side is Dean, standing dazed and looking you over with wide eyes. 

“Great,” he scowls. “What could possibly go wrong?” 

“It’s okay, Dean,” you whine in frustration. “We’re not actually here. I doubt anyone could even see us,” you say, taking a few steps towards the brick pathway that leads to the door. 

Dean grabs onto your arm, twisting you around to face him. He points at the house, “if that guy is in there, he’ll see us. He did last time, remember?” 

“No, I don’t think he did. Don’t you remember what he said to us when we showed up with Sam and Allanah? It was the same thing as then, so I guess we just traveled there at the same time...” you trail off, not exactly believing yourself so you know you can’t expect him to. 

“Why didn’t we see us, then?” he says. “If we were there in that moment, we should have been able to see us, too, right?” 

“Let’s just be extra careful in there, then. Pretend like we’re in our bodies and anyone can see us.” He doesn’t move his face, nor says anything. “Please, Dean. I need to know if she’s okay! I have this- this need to save them, protect them. Don’t you?” you impatiently yell. Without saying a word, he relaxes slightly. With an open palm he gestures to the house. You crouch as you walk towards it, scanning the building for an open window. 

Next Chapter

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[dbhilluminate]

DBHI: Equilibrium, ch. 13 - “Periapsis” (pt. 3)

Characters: Noah / “Erwin Yvonne”, Gabriel / “Vincent Sharp”, Director Thomas Falken, Priya Davies, Diego Serrano Word Count: 2,813

A drunk and jealous Noah makes an attempt to recapture Gabriel’s attention, but everything goes to hell in a hand basket when the Inquisition shows up to interrupt his heartfelt serenade.

***For a glossary of world-building terms relating to this series and chapter, click here.

(Chapter Art by ozaya, Co-authored by @grayorca15​)

• Chapter Index • Characters • Glossary •

——

December 23rd, 2041 - 10:35 PM

Noah’s fingertips traced over the lapels of his jacket and absently brushed across the sigil pin as he ascended the short flight of stairs at the front of the room. It was fortunate he had made sure to bring spending change besides the few thousand waiting to be deposited into the Zion Founders’ coffers, courtesy of Javier. Between the valet, the bartender and the musicians, he would be out a couple hundred regardless of how this foolish stunt went; but if the outcome turned out in his favor, the reward would be worth any price. Noah made his approach with perfect timing as the last chords of Silent Night faded out. The interruption wasn’t half as jarring as it could have been, but the pianist still stumbled over her last few keystrokes when she noticed the newcomer climb up onto the stage. Both her airbrushed eyebrows shot up to her hairline in alarm, and eyes went wide next to the spinning yellow LED on her temple. The rest of her human colleagues spared them both a collectively bemused stare, lowered their bows, and politely kept their disbelief in check a few precious seconds as Noah smirked and held up a card flush of folded fifty dollar bills. “Evening, all. Lovely job so far, but do you mind if we change things up a tad for oh, say, five minutes?”

“S-sir, you- t-this isn’t part of the program,” the cellist needlessly pointed out, as he turned to the conductor to make his request. Even with his reluctant agreement, their hesitation in accepting a little extra Christmas tip didn’t prove strong enough to keep their hands at their strings. “There’s more where it came from if you’ll humor me for one measly request,” Noah promised as he put on the most innocent face he knew. “It’s nothing that isn’t already on the roster, anyway. Last Christmas is a true classic by now, isn’t it?” Already the band’s delay in proceeding to the next song was drawing a few curious stares from the crowd. Drinks were put down, feet shuffled closer. The conversations droning on just beyond the stage’s edge stalled, interrupted with mutters of ‘who is that’, ‘why did they stop’ and ‘it’s not last call for donations for another thirty minutes’. None of which sounded particularly hostile, so- so far, so good. The pianist -an AX400 wearing a long green gown, with bronze eyes and matching shoulder-length hair parted and pinned in place by a holly-leaf hair clip- was the only one who side-eyed him with open suspicion. She didn’t lift her hands from the keys as he offered a bill for inspection. Instead of asking aloud, she pinged a question over the commlink.

You’re a friend of Mr. Sharp? What gave it away? ‘Yvonne’ teased back. He made a quick show of folding the bill up into a neatly-rolled stick before brushing her hair back to stash it behind her ear (since her hands were presently occupied), and made quick work of scanning the information gleaned from brief contact. Trust me, Miss O’Rourke, this is on the level- I’ve only a few words to say beforehand, no harm, no foul. Vince will understand. I’m just helping him break in a sense of humor. Best gift he could get this holiday, don’t you think? The wink did the trick. ‘Sally’ scoffed and failed to hide half a smirk at his reasoning, reached over and swiped a few pages ahead in the holographic sheet music. The gesture was entirely for show, but a visual confirmation she was game for the idea was more fun than a simple ‘sure, why not?’ He patted her shoulder in thanks. “Much obliged. Rest of you, skip ahead. This’ll only take a minute.” With a loose gestured wave to indicate her colleagues should do the same, Noah wheeled the mic stand out of his way and plucked the mic off the cradle. The device whined almost forlornly at being removed from its nest, and Noah cringed at the high pitched whine as it projected throughout the room. “Test-testing,” he dribbled with a few taps to the head of the device, “One, two- oh, for- is this thing on? Where’s the-“ After a few fumbled attempts, his fingers found the slider switch and dialed it up to full volume. The dual set of speakers situated at either end of the stage boomed, followed by a few scratchy puffs of static. “There it is- signal is good, yeah? Okay!”

This was worse than worse. Ill-timed didn’t even begin to cover it. Not even a minute prior, Director Falken had passed on some disturbing news that had left every Agent on the premises reeling. If Noah couldn’t already tell which of the staff members around the room were part of the undercover team, the sudden halt in their planned routes and turning of heads all around at each other gave them away. Gabriel made eye-contact with at least three of those Agents before he looked back at a man fast approaching the bar from behind the east side of the stage while Noah made his introductory greeting.

“Hello, folks. Good evening. Everyone hearing this okay? Yes? Can I get a few nods? Oh, come on, don’t look so confused. We’re all friends here, right?” If they weren’t, they soon would be. Nothing livened a party up like an impromptu bit of karaoke. Even politicians could agree interruptions were welcome if they were amusing enough and, more importantly, harmless; although, not everyone was on board with the change of pace. Gabe’s boss was every bit the grizzled mood-killing type he looked, he needn’t even identify himself- it was painfully apparent in the way he shouldered his way through the crowd with a shoulder-check type swagger that sent bystanders shuffling aside or knocked over like bowling pins. Like a scratched-up fuzzy bowling ball. Noah couldn’t help but grin with a few barely-contained chuckles as he drew the comparison in his head. Almost as if he‘d heard him, Director Falken tossed Noah a stern ‘I’ll deal with you later’ glare as he passed, and made a beeline for Gabe at the bar, who looked like he was about ready to implode. The burly Android’s face had flushed red right to the tips of his ears. His alias hadn’t even been called out by name, but the inference was clear enough- who else was possibly to blame for taking their eyes him for a minute too long? Despite their clear disdain for the situation, Noah grinned and shrugged with an exaggerated hike of one shoulder. “Well, I should rephrase,” he corrected with a small gesture to the grumpy Director, and redirected his amplified words to the rest of the room. “We aren’t friends yet, are we? Hello there! Name’s Erwin Yvonne, nice to meet you, everyone.”

If there was one thing he had going for him that none of the other undercover agents did, it was that even half-drunk and less than on top of his game, he still knew how to command a room. All the stage lacked was an overhead spotlight to really help sell it. “Our dear Vincent was going to get around to introducing us sometime next week, at the rate he moves, but I doubt you all planned on camping out here that long, right? Sleepover in the auditorium isn’t how I’d want to spend the holidays, either. That’d get expensive pretty quick, if I’m doing the math right.” More bemused murmurs and a few uneasy chuckles met his introduction not quite halfway, none of which resulted from ‘Vinnie and company’, who were too wrapped up in whatever it was he hadn’t bothered to tell him about to offer so much as an annoyed glance.

Still leaving me out of the loop...? I see how it is, he huffed indignantly back at his would-be partner. Don’t worry, I’ll keep them distracted for you. Noah, this is really not the time, Gabriel tried to warn with a silent shake of his head, as Serrano greeted their new guest. Falken met his kindness with a curt nod, then turned his attention to the disguised Gabriel, leaned in, grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear. Sharp’s jaw flexed as he grit his teeth and nodded in understanding, then turned back to his mark and passed along the information. A moment later, Falken escorted Serrano and his men out a door to the left of the room- an odd play indeed, but he didn’t make much of it in his current state. Instead, Noah rolled his eyes, shifted his weight onto one foot, and draped his free hand over the empty microphone stand to tilt it away from himself. He was far from being in a falling-down-drunk state, but having something to lean on just in case wasn’t completely unadvisable. There were more tasteless crutches to rely on.

With a frustrated shrug and a sigh, he brought the mic up again. The last ramble hadn’t been all that funny anyway, better to dismiss the joke as a flop and keep going, regardless of the new secrets Gabe wasn’t sharing. “Anyway, my point is- all this finery, good drinks and food and better company, and he couldn’t even be bothered to find us some lyrical accompaniment? Does he find the classics so torturous?” Please, Gabe insisted in a worried tone that went right over the inebriated Android’s head. Come down from there, we need to get you out of here. Yvonne only scoffed in response and wagged a finger back at him as he pushed his way through the crowd toward the stage. “Tsk tsk, I see now why you even put my name on the list at all, Vinnie dearest. If that’s how it’s gonna be, I hope you don’t mind the first pick on my list. I think we can all agree it’s an old favorite, with or without context.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the violinists tightening a loose string; a few random chord plucks from behind him indicated the quartet had finished tuning for the next number. All drew their bows across the necks of their instruments and cast him a mute look of uncertainty that received a thumbs up in return, just in time for Vincent to grab at his ankle and shake him to get his attention. “Erwin… you’re drunk, don’t do anything you’ll regret-“ “No, no, don’t try and stop me now, this is happening,” Yvonne insisted with a shake of his leg as he pulled it away, tossed his hair aside, and took a couple of steps back from him. “Sally, boys- whenever you’re ready. ”  

Whatever their doubts, confidence counted for something, and Yvonne wasn’t a guy to shy away from challenges, much less those of his own making. The conductor tapped his baton against the edge of the music stand a few times, then gestured with a large sweeping wave- the band started right up as if they had practiced the song a hundred times before. Gabriel attempted to shoot him one final warning as the instrumental introduction finished its first round without lyrics, but Noah met it with a snarky brow pop and set his gaze on the man’s deep brown eyes so there was no mistaking what this was about.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special.

The stage didn’t offer much front lawn space to strut around on. Even if it did, the song was more catchy than a number to dance to. Substituting the keyboard with a concert piano hadn’t turned out terrible, thankfully, and the cello plucked to mimic the percussive beat complimented the higher-pitched violinists. By the second repeat of the first chorus, he could see the crowd was sold. A few faces lit up in new interest, the nervous chatter died down. One man, phone held to his ear, ended whatever call he was on to turn the video camera on him. Most important, though, was that the flustered look he’d been dying to see again had resurfaced on Gabe’s face, even if it was tainted with latent anxiety.

Once bitten, and twice shy, I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye. Tell me, baby, do you recognize me? Well, it’s been a year so- it doesn’t surprise me.

It wasn’t as though there was a real crowd to play to, but past the first few verses, Gabriel’s transfixed gaze and reddening cheeks were all the motivation he needed to dial the performance up to eleven. Noah found himself so lost in relating the lyrics to his current problem, a few extra words slipped in seamlessly without having to put much thought at all into keeping the tempo.

Merry Christmas! I wrapped it up and sent it With a note saying, "I love you," I meant it Now, I know what a fool I've been, oh- But if you kissed me now, I know you'd fool me again!

One hand reached to claw at the layers over his chest as his eyelids fluttered, and Vincent took a backward stagger away from the stage as ‘Yvonne’ repeated the chorus twice more. He didn’t have time to deal with this frivolousness at the moment, not with (what was most likely) the Inquisition on the Mellon’s doorstep, set to raid the fundraiser any moment. The strength returned to his eyes as the morbid pre-constructions of Noah’s death reminded him of his objective. He had to get him off that stage, lest he became a target. Vincent reached for Yvonne’s leg again as he moved a little too close to the stage’s edge, then reached up to pull him down to his level, demanding he get-down-from-there; rather than convincing him to oblige, however, it backfired. The gesture nearly yanked him off balance, but Noah took a knee instead to smoothly cover the stumble and delivered the next chorus directly at him. If he had been trying to keep this from turning into a real embarrassment, nothing would be worse to him than having a song dedicated to him.

A crowded room, friends with tired eyes, I'm hi-ding from you, and your soul of ice. My god, I thought you were someone to rely on. Me? Heh, I guess I was a shoulder to cry on. A face on a lover with a fire in his heart. A man undercover, but you tore - me - apart. Oh, hoo. Now-

LISTEN TO ME! Gabe growled angrily, finally letting the snarl show through his cover, as the band played on and Yvonne fell behind. I’m serious, something is very wrong. All of our other teams on site have gone silent- three of the four missed their quarterly check-ins, and Falken found the fourth dead in the nest a few minutes ago-

The gravity in his words sunk like lead in his gut as a gunshot echoed through the auditorium from the entrance of the ballroom and silenced the band, replaced with a wave of simultaneous screams. Two more shots fired off and injured a couple of guests as a small group of ten to fifteen armed androids, dressed to the teeth in riot gear, fanned out through the hall and trained their automatic weapons on guests trying to escape. Noah -instead of dropping to the floor like any sensible person had by that point- crossed the stage a few steps to look around the tree, just in time to get a front-row seat as the body of one of the guards who had let him in was flung down the stairs like a carelessly delivered package. A lump rose in his throat as the corpse landed beside one-armed thug, who spared it only a kick further into the room, and all thought of singing died off. He couldn’t look away, not even to glimpse the face of the Android who had entered the room dressed in a skintight black dress, the train of which slithered down the steps behind them like the tail of a viper. But the voice was familiar- cool and calm, flowing like a river of milk and honey. It was a voice he only remembered from Purgatory’s recovered audio logs. Priya Davies -better known by the general public as the Horseman, Pestilence- raised one gently folded hand to silence the startled gasps that swept the room.

“Good, evening, ladies and gentlemen. My, don’t you all just look pretty as a picture…”

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (13/45)

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 SEASON OPENER! Things. Are. Happening. In case anyone was wondering, I listened to a lot of “Time” by Cute Is What We Aim For while writing this chapter because not only does it fit, but I have not listened to new music since, approximately, 2008. As always, I can’t thank you guys enough for every single word of response to this story. It blows my mind. My endless gratitude to @laurnorder, @distant-rose & @beautiful-swan - who has a NEW EDIT FOR THIS CHAPTER, AGH.  Also living the good life on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

It was raining.

Of course.

“Ok,” Emma said sharply, stopping short in front of Merida as she nearly collided with her back. “Go over the itinerary one more time.” Merida glanced down at the clipboard in her hand and nodded once and Emma got the very distinct impression she was being placated – she didn’t care.

This was it.

Opening night, season opener, first start of a run at the Cup and five weeks of planning coming to some sort of head on the block in front of the Garden. She could already hear the crowd outside – even in her office on the 25th floor – and they’d started lining up hours ago, a sea of blue and white and noise and some of them had even brought signs.

She saw at least one Jones’ing for Jones sign and nearly tripped over her own feet, trying to get her phone out fast enough to take a picture and send it to Killian.

He didn’t answer and she hadn’t really been expecting him to, his own ridiculous pre-game schedule as firmly cemented in her mind as the one Merida was holding. It was walkthroughs and PT and a final run with med to make sure his collarbone wouldn’t actually shatter if he got hit and then food and blue carpet arrivals and, well, puck drop.

And it was raining.

“Are the tents finished, yet?” Emma asked, not giving Merida a chance to actually read the itinerary. “Ah, fuck, sorry, Mer. Ok. Itinerary first and then talk to me about the tents.” “The tents are fine. The whole carpet is covered and even most of the fans and the rest of them don’t really care because they’re they’ve been standing out there for hours and no one has rioted yet. There’s no lightning yet either, so that seems like a plus.” “That was out of order.” “Ah, well, you’re super worried about the tents.” Merida cocked one eyebrow and Emma did her best to actually act surprised at being completely called out by her assistant in the middle of the hallway. She wasn’t.

In the last five weeks, Merida had fallen into her role perfectly, some sort of RADAR-type extension of Emma who seemed to be able to read her mind nearly as much as Mary Margaret could.

“Itinerary,” Emma said, tapping on the clipboard and ignoring the feel of her vibrating phone in her back pocket.

“You’ve got about twenty minutes to get hot chocolate before the band finishes setting up, under the tents by the way, and then we’ve got to get down there. We’ve swapped out the busses because they don’t have roofs and God help us all if one of the guys gets sick because of this because Arthur will absolutely lose his mind.” “The cars are set then? They’re eating a couple of blocks away.” Merida nodded, not asking how Emma knew where the New York Rangers were going to eat before their season opener. She probably figured it was just professional courtesy, a backup plan for the backup plan and not because Killian had told her the night before, in between PT and film, half a donut in one hand as he held it away from her to brush his lips across her cheek.

She hadn’t thought about how his other hand had squeezed her hip before he walked away for the rest of the night and she’d muttered something that sounded a bit like romance under her breath, making him shoot her a grin over his shoulder from the other end of the hallway.

Of course not.

“The cars are set,” Merida promised. “They’ll be here in half an hour.” “Do we know if Scarlet is wearing a suit?” Merida lowered her eyebrows, not prepared for questions about an NHL defenseman’s wardrobe and Emma sighed. “Never mind,” she said quickly, brushing her hand through the air. “Ok, so they’re here in a half an hour. We walk them down the carpet, they sign some autographs, pose for pictures, Arthur gives his speech, the fans go wild, they win some prizes, we film them cheering and losing their minds for the site and then game on.” “Game on,” Merida repeated, nodding once. “See, boss, you didn’t need to go over it again. You’ve planned for everything.”

She had. Twice. And then a third time, just to make sure, a small pile of half-finished to-do-lists and crumpled up notes taking up residence in the corner of Mary Margaret’s coffee table.

She’d planned for all of it – except for that moment outside the restaurant and telling Killian the almost truth about Neal, realizing belatedly that she hadn’t even told him his name, and she thought about that just as much as she’d thought about the night’s itinerary and how he kept touching her hip like it was some sort of thing.

She hadn’t planned for that, but the words had fallen out of her easily, coming quickly and simply as soon as she found him staring at his phone, already certain what was going through his mind.

And maybe she just wanted him to believe in her as much as she wanted to believe in him – an exercise in trust that might have been wholly one-sided because, in the last five weeks, Emma had come to realize Killian Jones kept touching her hip like it was some sort of thing because it absolutely was.

They’d been dating without actually going on a date and maybe, at some point, Emma should do something about that.

She wanted in a way she couldn’t ever remember wanting and it was terrifying and exciting and just a bit exhilarating and he’d worked his way into her life like he’d always belonged there. God, she wore his actual jersey and the look on his face when he realized it was worth the forty-five minute battle with Kristoff.

They were in the deep end before Emma realized they’d even gotten in the pool.

She was totally going to ask him out.

Or possibly jump him post-game.

She hadn’t entirely decided yet.

Her phone buzzed again and Emma reached into her pocket, nodding towards Merida and mouthing hot chocolate before her assistant was nothing more than a blur of red curls darting towards the break room on the other end of the floor.  

“Hey,” Emma said as soon as she saw Mary Margaret’s face on her phone screen. “You guys here?” “And under the tents. This is...incredible, Emma. Honestly. The fans are going nuts and the team’s not even here yet.” “You can’t feel the rain under the tents?” Mary Margaret laughed and even Emma had to admit it was a particularly dumb question, but this was the biggest event she’d ever planned and it was opening night and she still had to get changed at some point. “No, Emma,” Mary Margaret promised. “The tents are doing their job. And it’s not even really raining that hard anymore. It’s, like, almost warm out.” “It’s not, but I appreciate the effort to make it seem like I’m not losing my mind.” “You’re not.” “I’ll be down in like fifteen minutes or so, ok? I’ve still got to change and Mer’s supposed to bring hot chocolate.” “We’ve got hot chocolate.” “What? How’d you sneak that in?” “David might have gone all NYPD on security and there was badge flashing and a lot of ridiculous faces and he pretended like he had some ounce of control in any of this and they let us in with hot chocolate.” Emma’s shoulders sagged a bit under the metaphorical weight of friendship or something equally sentimental and she shook her head slowly, barely even noticing as Merida pushed a cup into her hands. “You guys are something else, you know that?” “Ah, well, we did adopt you as our own so we figured we’d go full stage-parents on the season opener.” “That’s fair.” Mary Margaret laughed softly and David was yelling something that sounded suspiciously like the goal song in the background before transitioning into a LET’S GO RANGERS chant that had Emma rolling her eyes. “Jeez, he’s really going all in, isn’t it?” “He’s wearing head to toe blue,” Mary Margaret mumbled.

“Boss,” Merida cut in, phone pressed to her ear. “There’s a kid downstairs? He’s at the team entrance? Claims he knows you and you’ve got him a seat in the box later?”

“Oh shit,” Emma muttered and Mary Margaret clicked her tongue on the other end of the phone. “I forgot about Henry.” “Who’s Henry?” Mary Margaret and Merida asked at the same time.

“GD kid,” Emma said, not sure who she was answering. She glanced up at Merida who was furiously scanning the itinerary in her hand as if Henry’s name would suddenly appear in front of her. It wouldn’t.

“Mer,” she continued, ignoring Mary Margaret’s continued questions. “Go down and tell security he’s cool and, uh, Reese’s, can he come sit with you guys for a couple of minutes? I’ve got to get changed and is the band done setting up?” “They’re playing,” Mary Margaret answered. “And as long as this kid doesn’t mind David screaming like he’s also a kid then, I don’t see why not.” “Well the kid is eleven, so it’ll almost match up.” David grumbled in the background – somehow able to hear Emma’s insult between his chanting and cheering. “It’ll be perfect then,” Mary Margaret said.

“Ok,” Emma mumbled, talking more to herself than Mary Margaret. Merida was still standing there, waiting for further instructions. “He’ll sit with Reese’s,” she said. “They’re...where are you guys sitting?”

Emma got an answer and sent Merida down to the team exit and it was going to be fine.  There was a schedule and a plan and the tents wouldn’t collapse at any point, mostly because Emma had asked the people putting the tents up that very same question no less than half a dozen times that afternoon.

Her phone buzzed again and Emma grabbed it from the top of her desk – resorting to changing into the absurdly blue dress she was wearing that night in her office because she hadn’t really seen much of the outside world at all that day – glancing down expecting to see an update from Mary Margaret.

It was not an update from Mary Margaret.

He was smiling in the picture, that one piece of hair falling across his forehead doing absolutely ridiculous things to the state of Emma’s heartbeat and she felt her breath catch almost audibly in her throat as she sank onto the edge of her desk.

And it was absolutely rushed because the edges of his face were just a bit blurred, like he’d tugged his phone down quickly to make sure that the linemates he was sharing a car with didn’t see him taking a picture and sending it to his...had they decided on girlfriend? Boyfriend and girlfriend?

Was that was happening? They’d definitely landed collectively on dating.

There was a message underneath – and there was something to be said for how good Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, managed to look even in a slightly blurry photo because it took Emma, at least, a full minute to notice the text underneath.

Good luck, Swan.

Game on.

She made it to the stands and the blue carpet in, almost, fifteen minutes flat, struggling to run while also trying to make sure her heels didn’t pop out of her shoes. It was packed and Mary Margaret was right – the tents were fine.

The band was playing and the fans were cheering and she saw another Killian Jones sign a few feet in front of her as Emma’s eyes scanned the crowd to try and find Mary Margaret.

“Em,” David shouted, waving his hand for good measure and she nodded towards him, pushing up the staircase towards their designated spot in the bleachers.

“Hey,” she sighed when she got there, a bit out of breath as she leaned against the railing. “You guys good here? Henry, you good?” He nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide and Emma wasn’t convinced he had blinked since Merida had saved him from Garden security.

“He’s almost as good at cheering as I am,” David said, resting his arm around Henry’s shoulders easily. “Almost.” “He’s better,” Mary Margaret added softly and Emma felt the smile on her face immediately. “You ok? You look all...flushed.” Emma widened her eyes meaningfully, hoping that whole being able to communicate telepathically thing would work in the bleachers on 33rd Street. It did. Mary Margaret’s mouth formed an almost perfect ‘o’ and Emma hadn’t really told her the complete truth about the last two weeks and the text messages and the ridiculous amount of kissing, but it didn’t seem to matter because she knew anyway.

Maybe Emma was only capable of talking about relationships on the floor of expensive bridal boutiques on the Lower East Side.

That was depressing. And probably true.

The crowd roared to life when the first car pulled up at the end of the block and Emma’s head snapped around when the band started playing the goal music, breath catching in her throat all over again.

They were chanting.

The entire crowd, all of them decked out in blue and some of them with face paint and those few Jones signs she’d spotted – all of them screaming and cheering and chanting his last name as soon as Killian stepped out of the car.

And Emma couldn’t get enough oxygen into her lungs, throat tightening and mouth going dry and she knew this was coming, knew he was popular and the goddamn captain of the team, but she hadn’t really planned to tell him about Neal or land collectively on dating two nights before and the terror hit her with all the force of a wave, threatening to knock her over despite the fact that she was still leaning on the railing.

She didn’t run, mostly because she couldn’t move.

It wasn’t fair – he looked too good. She was mad about how good he looked, tie matching the blue in his eyes and the blue in the jersey he’d wear eventually and they’d all chant his name again, as soon as he stepped onto the ice.

Emma tried to take another deep breath, far too aware of Mary Margaret’s concerned glance darting her direction every few seconds, and it, finally, worked, nerves settling just a bit when she closed her eyes lightly.

There were more cars and more screaming and they’d started chanting for Jefferson now, an impossible rally-call that didn’t really make much sense considering the number of syllables in his name. Emma tugged her hair over her shoulder and she hadn’t actually opened her eyes yet, mind drifting back to the reasons she had told him about Neal and, maybe, why she hadn’t run away yet – she didn’t want to.

She glanced back down at the carpet – only a few feet away from she was still standing – and she couldn’t imagine how he managed to walk in a straight line when there were so many fans and flashing lights and Mulan practically had her camera in his face, yelling to look that direction.

He probably didn’t have his phone, Emma reasoned, but she’d never actually texted him back before and, well, there was a chance.

Nice suit.

Killian glanced down almost as soon as she’d sent the message, tugging one hand out of his pocket and his eyebrows dropped low when he glanced at the screen. He couldn’t actually text back, but his head moved on a swivel, trying to figure out where she was and something in the back of Emma’s mind sounded at that, the quick rush she got from the way his eyes narrowed as he tried to find her.

She knew the moment he did – the smile on his face quelling any desire to run away – and Henry was jumping up and down as soon as Killian moved towards the stairs. He was in front of them half a moment later, nodding towards Emma and smiling at Henry.

“You ready for the game, kid?” Killian asked, leaning towards Henry and Emma nearly gasped when his hand brushed across the side of her dress.

“Absolutely,” Henry yelled, still bobbing on the balls of his feet. “The Islanders are garbage anyway. You guys are totally going to roll.”

Killian hummed in approval, leaning forward to tug on the ‘C’ in the corner of Henry’s jersey. “Didn’t we get you a new jersey?” Henry was still wearing the Cup Finals one he’d worn to practice. “Swan, didn’t we get the kid new merch?” Emma shrugged. “Looks like he’s got a favorite. And you’re not supposed to be up here. Technically.” “Spoilsport.” “My event, my rules. Come on, Jones, back on the carpet.” He leaned away, smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth and he absolutely knew Emma had resorted to last names to try and maintain some semblance of control. She was bordering dangerously close to jumping him territory.

“Of course, Swan,” he muttered, saluting with two fingers and that stupid smirk plastered on his face. “See ya, Henry.” “Bye,” Henry yelled and no one noticed Killian’s hand when it lingered on Emma’s back before he half-sprinted back down the steps.

It went fine.

No, Emma thought as she continued to pace in the back of the suite, a plate of half-eaten food held loosely in her hand. It was better than fine.

It had gone perfectly – a picture of efficiency and tents that didn’t fall down and Henry told everyone who would listen about how Killian had come talk to them. Will had even worn a suit. The fans cheered and Arthur's speech wasn’t nearly as awful as it had been two nights before, hitting all the high points without actually including any swear words that would do irreparable damage to the children in the crowd.

They’d stuck to the itinerary and everything went perfectly, but it took Emma the first two periods to make sure everything had wrapped up as perfectly as it had run and she had tents to get down now and the irony of that was close to absurd.

She, finally, got back into the arena a few minutes before the third period started, pacing back and forth and dragging her fork across the plate of the Garden-provided food as the game went on in the background.

They were winning – she knew that, at least, with the amount of yelling coming from David and Henry’s general direction, shouting and jumping every few minutes.

Emma’s feet were actually starting to hurt from the pacing, anxious energy settling in the pit of her stomach and she’d never been a particularly nervous fan, but she’d never been dating the captain of the New York Rangers either.

And Mary Margaret totally knew.

She sank into the chair next to Mary Margaret, who visibly winced when Will crashed into the boards, bringing an Islanders forward with him. “How’s it going?” Emma asked, realizing she was still holding a plate of half-eaten food.

“The game or, like, me as a human?” “Either or.” “Both are going ok, but they really do hit each other a lot, don’t they?” “That’s just Will,” Emma said, sitting up a bit straighter when an Islanders jersey worked into the Rangers’ zone and ripped off a shot that hit, loudly, off the crossbar. “Jeez,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Arthur’s going to kill them if that’s how they’ve been playing all game. Is that how they’ve been playing all game?” David shook his head, not looking away when the referee dropped the puck in the faceoff circle, a new line on the ice that included Phillip the Rookie. They lost the faceoff. Emma, David and  Henry groaned simultaneously. “Although,” David continued, glancing at Emma over his shoulder. “They’re kind of playing like crap now.” Emma groaned again, watching another line change and Arthur was going to put a hole through the floor behind the bench, barking out orders and pacing even more than she had been just a few minutes before.

She, finally, put her plate down, opting instead to tap her fingers nervously along the front of her chin as she leaned forward and watched the game play out.

They really were playing like crap now.

The Islanders had five scoring chances and Will got two minutes for tripping – in the offensive zone, making Arthur throw something that looked like it had, at one point, been a white board before he snapped it in half against the glass behind the bench.

Henry sighed when the Islanders tied the game, on the power play no less, a shot that flew just above Jefferson’s outstretched glove and into the right corner of the net with the first line on the ice.

“God dammit,” Emma muttered, kicking at the floor before remembering that there was a plate of half-eaten food there. “They’ll get it back,” Henry promised and Emma couldn’t quite bring herself to argue with him, pressed up against the glass of the suite, determination in his voice.

She sank back into her chair – fourth line on the ice now and Arthur was still screaming – and Mary Margaret was staring at her intently, the desire to talk almost painfully obvious on her face. “Alright,” Emma sighed. “Go ahead.” “What?” Mary Margaret asked. “Ask me whatever you’re waiting to ask me.” “It’s more of a statement than a question.” “Either or.”

“Killian took his phone out before he came up to talk to Henry.” “You’re right,” Emma said slowly, not entirely sure where this was going.

“You had your phone out too.” Emma waited for the rest of the statement and the inevitable questions and they never came – Mary Margaret was going to make her actually say it. “You sure David’s the detective and not you? You’d be great on a crime scene.” “Oh, shut up,” Mary Margaret laughed, smacking lightly at Emma’s arm. “I”m just saying.” “That’s true. You did say.” “And?” “And what, Reese’s? You’re just making statements.” “With a purpose though.” “And that is?” “To get you to talk. Or consider talking. Or maybe explaining why you’ve been walking around on some sort of metaphorical cloud for the last few weeks.” “A metaphorical cloud?” “Well, I mean, you couldn’t be walking on an actual cloud,” Mary Margaret said.

Emma almost told her – she was half a breath away from it, a bit desperate to explain to Mary Margaret that she might have actually been happy and on her way to something resembling trust.

She didn’t.

Because, somewhere deep in the very center of Emma Swan’s being, she was still a bit of a coward and, technically, they hadn’t even really gone on a date yet.

Mary Margaret sighed softly when she realized Emma wasn’t going to actually say anything, disappointment flashing across her face as she tugged on her engagement ring. Emma didn’t roll her eyes at that – that seemed like a victory.

“I thought we talked about the set-up ideas, Reese’s,” Emma said, ducking her head so she was back in Mary Margaret’s eyeline. David and Henry were still oblivious to the conversation, pounding on the glass now as the game stayed tied and the minutes kept ticking down and Arthur’s very angry face continued to flash on the jumbotron screen hanging above center ice.

“This isn’t, technically, a set-up,” Mary Margaret argued. “Just...a statement. Two statements. Not even questions.”

“Yuh huh.” “You went to the restaurant two nights ago, didn’t you? Rubes said you wore his jersey.” “True. Also that was a question.” “And?” “And what, Reese’s?” “And you never actually gave me any sort of update after you went to get your phone, which was totally code and we both knew it was code and, come on, Emma.”

Mary Margaret huffed slightly, sliding down into her seat and Emma couldn’t mask the laugh at the look on her face, disgruntled and frustrated and she hadn’t actually asked any questions – and Emma felt worse for not saying anything.

They’d decided.

Or, well, Emma had decided and Killian had agreed and they were whatever other word for under the radar that still meant under the radar, despite the fact that his hand had lingered on her back when he came into the bleachers.

And Emma was Emma and she still hadn’t explained everything and trusting Killian Jones with everything was a distinct work in progress.

She didn’t tell Mary Margaret.

“We’re just friends, Reese’s,” Emma said, the lying falling off her tongue as easily as anything she’d ever said in her life. “Honestly.” “You texted him though.” “Yup.” “To talk to Henry?” “Sure.” Mary Margaret rolled her eyes – and her whole head for good measure – and Emma did her best to keep her face even, images of that stupid suit and the smirk on his face and his hand on her back.

It didn’t really work.

Emma knew it didn’t work as soon as Mary Margaret quirked her lips, nodding slowly and impassively and it felt a bit like being in school and getting pacified by a teacher and that was exactly what was happening.

Mary Margaret totally didn’t believe her.

Henry yelped, jumping up and hitting the window in front of him quickly, the heel of his palm making the panes practically shake, and even David was shouting too, calling for Emma at the same time he was screaming to skate into the zone.

Emma leapt out of her seat – just barely avoiding the food she still hadn’t moved off the floor – and she was next to Henry half a breath later, just quick enough to see Killian all but sprinting up the ice, the puck just out of reach of his outstretched stick.

He was fast. Ridiculously fast. A blue blur half a step ahead of the closest defender and Emma was only dimly aware of Henry’s cheers next to her, her own hands pressed up flat against the window, shoulders moving quickly as she tried to catch her breath.

A breakaway.

He’d promised her a breakaway.

David kept yelling to skate faster and Emma mumbled something under her breath that might have been how could he and the Islanders goalie started inching out of the crease, stick swiping across the ice in front of him.

Killian didn’t slow down.

“They changed the lines,” Henry muttered, tilting his head in confusion at the other winger on the ice.

“Phillip the Rookie,” Emma said, nodding towards the other streak of blue on the ice. “That’s Phillip the Rookie.” “He’s fast.”

Emma hummed in agreement and she was positive a single play had never moved so quickly and so slowly all at the same time. “Take the shot,” David yelled, banging on the window as if that would somehow make Killian shoot quicker.

“Nah,” Henry objected. “Watch he’s going to dump it off.” He did, stopping suddenly and flipping his stick back behind him, puck landing just in front of Phillip and Emma barely had a chance to properly gape at Henry before the light behind the net went off and the cheer erupted from the entire crowd.

Emma jumped, both arms thrown in the air as Henry yelled and even Mary Margaret stood up, smile on her face a soon as David wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

They won.

She got Henry back downtown – a rep from the house grumbling slightly about having to come to the Garden on a Friday night – and she made sure to hug him an extra second longer before watching him get in the cab, followed shortly by Mary Margaret and David.

There was still a community to relate to and Instagrams to update and celebratory tweets and video sent out to season-tickets of the game-winning goal and highlights of Phillip the Rookie earning first star in his very first NHL season game.

Emma was fairly certain he’d never stop smiling.

And it was nearly two hours after the end of the game by the time Emma realized it was two hours after the end of the game, exhaustion settling on her shoulders suddenly and without her complete permission, right there in the hallway.

Emma took a deep breath, twisting her neck and it had been a day – exhausting and exhilarating and they’d won . Maybe she was the one who wouldn’t ever stop smiling. “Hey, Emma,” a voice said, catching her short as she snapped her head up quickly.

Phillip the Rookie was still smiling.

“Hey,” she said. “Congratulations! That was an awesome shot.” “Ah, well, it was a good pass.” “Make sure they buy you coffee and donuts before film tomorrow afternoon. Seems only fair.” Phillip the Rookie opened his mouth, probably to mutter something about he didn’t mind buying coffee and donuts if he had to because he was a rookie and he was still smiling, but he snapped his jaw shut at the sound of shoes behind him.

He was still wearing his suit – or wearing the suit again – and Emma traced her tongue over the back of her teeth, far too aware of the continued presence of Phillip the Rookie in the middle of the hallway.

“If anyone’s getting coffee and donuts delivered to them for film tomorrow, I think it should be me,” Killian said, smirk back on his face and eyebrows doing something ridiculous as he rocked back on his heels, staring at Emma. “After all, it was a hell of a pass.” “That’s totally true, Cap,” Phillip said quickly and Emma didn’t even try to hide her eye roll.

“You’re already on the team, Phillip,” she mumbled. “You don’t need to coax his ego anymore. It was a good pass though.” “A compliment, Swan?” “A fact.” Killian moved his eyebrows again, not turning his gaze away from Emma. Phillip the Rookie was, blissfully, ignorant. “A bunch of the guys are heading back uptown to get some food, if you’re interested Cap,” he said, sounding a bit like he was a freshman in high school trying to impress the senior. “We could split a cab.” Emma tilted her head, shrugging quickly and Killian, finally, looked at Phillip. “Ah, that’s ok, Rook,” he said. “I think I’m just going to head home. Something about being old and needing to sleep after the opener.” “Yeah, yeah, of course,” Phillip said, glancing back at Emma. “You need a ride?” “Uh...no,” Emma answered. She was the worst liar in the world. “I’ve still got some post stuff to do after the event.” “It went really well. I mean, I’ve never been to an opener before, but it was pretty cool and the fans were super psyched. The tents were great too. Who knew you could get bright blue tents like that.” “Thanks, Phillip.” He nodded enthusiastically, glancing at Killian once more before he muttered a quick see ya tomorrow,  leaving them very alone in the middle of the hallway in the bowels of Madison Square Garden.  

“It was a nice pass,” Emma said, voice sounding impressively loud in the otherwise abandoned hallway.

“It wasn’t quite a breakaway,” Killian countered. He took a step towards her, in Emma’s space in half a second and she hadn’t even taken a full breath before she exhaled loudly, the feel of his fingers on her hip making the oxygen rush out of her completely. She rested her hands on the front of his jacket, thumb ghosting over the line of his lapels.

“Ah, well, you’ve got all season to live up to that particular promise.” Killian nodded slowly, eyes tracing down her dress and his hand tightened slightly. “Deal,” he murmured, leaning his head forward and Emma would have sworn she felt each letter in her very core.

“Did you star?” “Didn’t you see?” “I really did have post-event stuff to do.” “You did a fantastic job, Swan. We should have lead with that. Nothing about almost-breakaway goals.” She was blushing – could feel the heat of it in her cheeks and she knew Killian noticed, eyes going wide for half a moment when he pulled back to look at her. “Game-winner though,” Emma argued, tugging on the front of his jacket for extra emphasis. “Now come on, tell me, did you star?” “Third. Phillip the Rookie was the one who actually scored the goal, love.”

She muttered something under her breath and Emma was a bit surprised to find herself in the deep end of defensive so quickly, not even objecting to the endearment. That kept happening more and more often. She maybe, almost, sort of liked it.

“That’s stupid,” Emma mumbled.

“I like this defensive side of you, Swan. You know getting star doesn’t actually mean anything.” “Whatever.” He grinned at her – smirk long gone as soon as they stopped pretending and were by themselves and there was something to that, something big and important and vaguely overwhelming that had been sitting in the back of Emma’s mind, like it was just waiting for the moment when she was, finally, ready to talk about it.

And she wasn’t ready to talk about it then.

Not yet.

She didn’t run, though, didn’t move an inch or let go of the vice-like grip she had on his jacket – she used it as leverage instead, appreciating Killian’s soft oof when she yanked him towards her and kissed him, soundly.

They were in the middle of the hallway, but Emma got the distinct impression if there had been an actual wall or a door nearby, she would have been pushed up against it, Killian pressing forward quickly, hips meeting hers as he moved underneath her to try and lift her up. Her feet weren’t touching the ground anymore, hands moving across skin and the back of his jacket and up into his hair.

He made some sort of noise in the back of his throat, an entirely unfair sound that made the little breath Emma still had in her lungs catch in her throat. She pulled away, chest heaving just a bit and everything felt a bit too tight and a bit too warm and they needed to get out of this goddamn hallway – and maybe find a wall.

“You want to get out of here?” Emma asked, determination sparking through her veins and she might not have been ready to talk about it, but she knew what she wanted. She wanted him.

Killian’s eyes widened again, mouth dropping open in surprise and he still hadn’t put her back on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he supported her weight. “Right now?” he asked, all bravado lost in the question.

Emma felt a distinct rush of power when his voice shook just a bit, the certainty that he wanted right back, settling into the bottom of her stomach, like some sort of soft fire that sent shockwaves through all of her limbs.

That didn’t make sense.

It didn’t matter.

The metaphor didn’t need to make sense – not when he was looking at her like that and she still wasn’t actually standing on her own. “Right now,” Emma repeated.

“Where? Where do you want to go?” She hadn’t been expecting the question and Emma huffed slightly when she realized she couldn’t coyly mutter the words my place like this was some sort of over-the-top romance because she didn’t have a place – just a couch in Mary Margaret’s loft.

He figured that out too.

“We could…” he said slowly, shifting his arms slightly and Emma twisted against him, trying to get her feet back on the floor. “Swan,” Killian hissed, sucking in his breath between his teeth. “You can’t do that, love.” Emma pressed her lips together tightly, laughter threatening to bubble out and she nodded like it was the most serious thing in the entire world. “What were you saying?” “Well, I mean, we could...I have an apartment.” “Yeah?” “Are you questioning my apartment or whether or not we can go there?” “Either or.” “Yes to both,” he said, hands falling back on her hips while he did something absurd with his eyebrows. “If you want.” And there it was – the puck in her zone or the ball in her court or whatever sports metaphor she wanted to use at the moment. He was letting her pick.

He wasn’t going to push.

Emma nodded. “Yeah,” she said and the word didn’t scratch her throat or stutter on her tongue, a certainty she didn’t expect, but appreciated just the same. “Yeah, I do.” They must have set some sort of record leaving the Garden – his hand in hers or hers in his and smiles on their faces and Emma couldn’t stop the laughter if she tried, a mix of excitement and that same nervous energy whenever Killian’s eyes darted towards hers. He walked them out the goddamn front door, slipping into the somehow still-present crowd on 34th Street and threw his arm out over the edge of the sidewalk, a cab screeching to a stop almost as quickly as he’d hailed it.

“Between you and Reese’s, you guys make it look like this is just easy,” Emma muttered, sliding along the seat and only vaguely distracted by Killian’s fingers on the back of her neck.

“It’s fairly easy, Swan.” “Yeah, that’s just because you’re like Mr. New York or something.” “No one has ever called me that in my entire life.” “Not to your face.” “Wasn’t it a compliment?” Emma didn’t answer, just made a face and his laugh might actually be her new favorite sound, even more than that one noise he made when she tugged on his lower lip – she’d never thought something so absurdly sentimental in her entire life.

The driver cleared his throat, moving into traffic as he glanced at them in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

“68th and Amsterdam.”

She didn’t count the minutes in the back seat of the cab or how Killian’s hand kept inching down her side, trailing over her thigh and the bend of her knee. She didn’t start chanting in through your nose and out through your mouth in her head like some sort of breathing-based mantra for the thirteen-minute car ride uptown.

Not like she counted the minutes.

“Here,” the driver announced, pulling up in front of some sort of monstrosity of a building that absolutely had a doorman and a chandelier in the lobby. Emma still wasn’t doing a very good job of breathing.

Killian swiped a card and promised he didn’t need a receipt and they were out the door and halfway onto the sidewalk when the driver realized he’d just had the captain of the New York Rangers in his backseat – Emma vaguely aware of a half-shouted Hey, aren’t you... as soon as Killian slammed the door shut behind them.

“Come on,” he said softly, fingers lacing through hers as he walked towards the door and the doorman and there was an elevator in this building.

“Mr. Jones,” the man said. Oh, he wasn’t a doorman. He was security. Killian lived in a building with security – around the clock security.

He nodded towards the guard and practically punched the button on the wall in front of the elevator, tapping his foot when the doors didn’t spring open immediately. “Impatient, huh?” Emma asked, falling back on jokes and sarcasm in a vain attempt to feel like she was in any type of control of the situation.

“You know this is the first time we’ve ever actually been alone, Swan?”

She did. She knew that – had thought about it for the thirteen minutes it had taken to get uptown, the idea weighing down on her every time she tried, and failed, to take a breath. The doors opened before Emma couldn't respond and she took a step forward, pressing her back against the far wall of the elevator.

She lost her train of thought as soon as she turned back around, Killian’s eyes a shade darker than they usually were – or maybe that was just those romantic tendencies that were rearing their head – but Emma didn’t really care about the reasoning behind it, scientific or otherwise, just that he was looking at her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered in the history of the entire goddamn universe.

He didn’t hesitate when he stepped forward, back in her space and she might have been obsessed with his hair, but he had some sort of thing for holding on to her hips like they were an anatomical life vest, so Emma felt like they were almost on even footing.

And she’d been right about the wall.

Killian must have pressed a button at some point – Emma was almost positive they were moving, but that might have just been her and maybe she was floating or something equally ridiculous because she couldn't really think when he moved his whole body against her, pushing her farther against the wall. Her back hit a railing, the metal digging into the bottom of her spine and she arched forward before she considered the consequences of that, hips hitting against his and it was obvious how much he wanted.

That was, definitely, even footing.

He kissed her hard and it was needy and a bit desperate and Emma gave as good as she got, hips moving up to try and find some friction.

This was the longest elevator ride in the history of the world.

Neither one of them made a move for clothes – far too aware that this was still an elevator and there was still another door in between them and, presumably, a bedroom and a bed and when the elevator dinged to signal their arrival on the, jeez , twenty-second floor, and Emma wasn’t sure if she was groaning from having to walk again or because he’d started using his teeth against the side of her neck.

“We need to move,” she mumbled, straightening just a bit when his fingers found their way underneath the edge of her dress. “We’ll just be stuck in this elevator forever.” “Doesn’t seem quite so bad.” “Killian,” Emma sighed and when she leaned back he was smiling.

He nodded, lacing his fingers back through hers as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching her and directed them down the hall to the only door at the end of the carpet, fumbling in his pocket for a moment when Emma started kissing along his jaw. “If we want to actually get inside, Swan, I’m going to need to eventually open the door.” She hummed against his skin, appreciating the way he sighed at the contact and the goosebumps that had shot up underneath her touch. “Swan,” Killian mumbled and it must have been his turn to sigh.

They were very good at teasing each other.

He finally got the door open and Emma felt herself moving quickly, feet off the floor again and one heel flying off her foot when her back collided with another door. Killian had his hands on either side of her, pinning her against the wood and she couldn’t move her hands quickly enough, tugging on what she was certain was a ridiculously expensive suit jacket and a far too complicated belt and buttons that were probably hand stitched.

They were a mess of limbs and lips and the desperation to get clothes off was just as strong as it had been in the elevator and Emma exhaled softly when she heard the telltale signs of a zipper being tugged – her zipper.

“You found that very quickly,” she muttered, working a soft chuckle out of Killian as he tugged the fabric off her shoulders and down around the curve of her hips.

“You’ll find I can accomplish quite a bit when I’m particularly determined, Swan.” “That so?” He nodded, pushing the fabric farther down until it was just a pool of blue at Emma’s feet. “And what, exactly, Captain, are you hoping to accomplish?” His eyes widened a bit when she called him that – which had been exactly what she’d been trying to accomplish in the first place – and Emma smiled like she’d set up the game-winner in the final minute of regulation.

At least that was until he moved his hand again and his fingers weren’t on her hips anymore, dipping lower until his eyes widened and Emma couldn’t think of anything except him and the feel of him and, right then, she didn’t care if it ended or what would happen when it did, just wanted him everywhere all at once.

She gasped when he moved his hand again and she was half a breath away from knees buckling, gripping the shirt he, somehow, still had on just a bit tighter than necessary. She squeezed her eyes closed before it happened, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder when the entire world felt like it exploded.

“Alright, love?” Killian asked, words soft in her ear. Emma nodded against his shirt, trying to figure out when the Earth shifted on its axis.

“Better,” she promised. She lifted her head up to find him staring at her, a very particular look on his face and she hadn’t ever been looked at like that – a slew of adjectives Emma was certain were firmly entrenched in romantic and sentimental and his thumb traced over her jaw when he smiled at her, the ends of his mouth barely moving. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” Emma muttered, gripping fabric tightly in her fist.

“I was focused on a few other things first.” “Come on, I assume this very fancy apartment in this very fancy building has a bedroom.” “It does.” “Well lead the way, Captain.” His face shifted slightly, smile stuttering just a bit and, eventually, Emma would remember that moment as the moment she knew – she knew him or wanted to know him and wanted to prove something very particular. Killian Jones was a good guy.

Even without the captaincy or the hockey or the third star in the New York Rangers season opener.

Killian Jones was enough.

“Killian,” Emma corrected softly and the smile returned almost immediately. “Come on.” They hadn’t actually been that far from the bedroom, a short hallway off the right of a kitchen that was the opposite of the alcove in Mary Margaret’s loft and Emma gasped again when they walked through the door – windows across the far wall and Lincoln Center two blocks away and everything was bright and she couldn’t hear the sirens that always seemed to exist in New York City. It was quiet.

And everything seemed to reset.

He moved behind her, turning her around until her knees hit up against the mattress and Emma sank onto blankets and pillows, Killian hovering just above her. She tried not to let the nerves creep back in, tried not to blink too much or shift against the, frankly, ridiculous amount of pillows on his bed, but she was Emma and Emma was, at her core, uncertain and untrusting and the Earth had shifted on its axis a few minutes before, but she hadn’t quite caught up completely yet.

She wasn’t a fool – or inexperienced – and she knew there was a whole section of the New York Rangers fandom that wasn’t interested in anything more than Killian’s, admittedly, attractive face and the way he fit in his jersey and there...there must have been moments.

He’d been in New York for years, an entire career as the face of the franchise, and it had only been five weeks.

Open book.

She was an open book.

Killian pulled his hand up her side, eyes lightening a bit as he ducked his head and trailed kisses across her collarbone. “Are you sure, Emma?” he asked softly, the warmth from his hand settling into the space between her ribs.

He’d never called her Emma before and that did it – she was certain.

“Shut up and kiss me,” she said.

“That’s kind of an aggressive approach,” Killian laughed, leaning over her to reach towards a nightstand and responsibility and his hips bucked when Emma’s nails scraped across his thigh. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

He did, eventually, kiss her and it wasn’t quite as desperate as it had been before, wasn’t quite as determined or aggressive as Emma had demanded it be – it was slower, bordering dangerously close to lazy, like he was trying to memorize every shift in her body and the feel of her lips on his and it wasn’t quite as overwhelming as it probably should have been.

Her back arched when Killian moved a particular way, an entire constellation exploding behind her eyes and he made a very specific type of noise that she’d probably think about for, at least, the next week.

She considered leaving.

She did.

She thought about the dress still sitting on the floor just inside Killian’s front door and how easy it would be to get out of the bed and back in her dress and twenty blocks uptown before Mary Margaret or David realized she wasn’t asleep on the couch.

Emma thought about it and then Killian shifted behind her, the arm around her waist tightening just a bit until her back was against his front. “Don’t go, Emma,” he whispered and it was probably good she wasn’t looking at him because she had to bite her lip to make sure her voice didn’t shake when she answered.

“It is kind of late.”

It wasn’t.

“Exactly.”

It wouldn’t have mattered. She wouldn’t have gotten up, no matter what time it was. She had no idea what time it was.

“Ok,” Emma said, shifting again and they fit in a way that shouldn’t have made sense. It did.

She didn’t leave and they didn’t really sleep for what felt like hours, roaming hands and curious touches and they were absolutelymemorizing each other. He called her Emma three more times.

Not like she was counting.

[recommendedlisten]

The extended play didn't come easy in 2019, and that's not at all surprising since the format has a way of giving us years where it seem to leave no shortage of noteworthy listens, where as others require listeners to dig a little deeper to find them. This year was of the latter, but with that comes opportunity for discovery and breakouts, which we found out heavily favored the continued impressiveness in excellent hardcore releases from the scene's DIY undergrounds on both sides of the coast. More established artists used the EP in 2019 as an extension of the work they created in the past year while others continued to evolve their sound in ways which can predict more intriguing ideas to come in the future. At the top of the list is arguably the year's only unanimous rap highlight, which is a strange realization considering it only clocks in around 15 minutes. That said, the 10 Best EPs of 2019 are worth every minute...

10. Bodega - Shiny New Model [What’s Your Rupture?]

Last year introduced us to the wry spun cynicism of Bodega, the Brooklyn post-punk band led one fashionably abrasive Ben Hozie. Their debut EP Endless Scroll saw them take on the spoils of modern consumption and many of the toxic architectures found within our society these days, and it made for a promising jumping off point for the quintet. A year has made for a bit of a shakeup both creatively and personnel-wise for the better with another short-form release in the full-fleshed Shiny New Model EP. Rethinking the wheel of rock and modern art in one collective body, the animated collective of Hozie, lead guitarist Madison Velding-Vandam, stand-up percussionist Tai Lee, bassist Heather Elle and the band’s art director/vocalist/sample master/hi hat quadruple threat Nikki Belfiglio zag away from the dance-worthy wire frame of Endless Scroll EP into terrain that’s more lush and pop-minded. Throughout it all, they remain fixated on the gritty NYC social and culture cues that make Hozie’s think bubbles burst out loud.

9. TØRSÖ - Build and Break [Revelation Records]

TØRSÖ are a band who lay a simple claim to a complicatedly-spelled name in dubbing themselves as “all ages hardcore.“ Their latest EP entitled Build and Break sees them recording the effort with Jack Shirley (Deafheaven, Joyce Manor) and thus, resulting in them kicking a lot of the mud out of their sound to make way for clear-as-cut-glass hardcore hyper-aggression. Much of the songs on this collection of quick-hitting gut checks pit self-doubts and despair against survivalistic instincts. At times, there is nothing but a bleak note left remaining even though there’s no surrender in the energy of TØRSÖ’s defense. The Cali DIY scene fav’s vocalist Mae screaming against a pile-on of guitar rash and d-beat adrenaline is confirmation f that. If anything, she and the band’s will to push-back against all odds will be what sees them claw their way toward the light at the end of the tunnel.

8. Anxious - Never Better [Triple B Records]

Anxious seems to have figured a new chemistry in melodic hardcore that homages the genre’s late ‘90s static as well as particles of punk-pop anthemry and early Aughts screamo. Now that the Boston-based hardcore label Triple B Records has recognized them as one of the warmest fires burning in the scene’s underground by signing them to their roster, it's time to experience their heatsaeeking spread in real time. With their debut EP Never Better, the Connecticut band stands a chance to one day have their name be heralded in the same sentence as Title Fight and Lifetime, as this collection of four songs doesn’t look bak in winding up melodic hardcore with abrasive edges and the occasional huge emo hook amid general mixed up emotions on everyday existence. Anxious seem more than ready to grate themselves against the odds, and Never Better is a promising first impression in that energy.

7. One Step Closer - From Me to You [Triple B Records]

Following their 2017 self-titled EP and a three-song promo last summer, rising Wilkes-Barre scene heroes One Step Closer are another 2019 success story off of the Triple B Records roster. The release of their latest EP From Me to You is a temultuous 17 minutes of six tracks that harkens back to the ‘90s Northeast youth crew scene bands like Have Heart and Verse pushed through the modern lens of boundary pushing in experimental wavering. The band’s collective energy switches between maximum and minimal flows, allowing self-torment and existentialism to consume the air as well as be the cause of One Step Closer’s cycling back into a nervous frenzy. Purists of raw hardcore energy will find satisfaction in the moments where they align themselves with more traditional outlines of the yesteryear as well. If One Step Closer can continue to mining all that they contemplate and feel while corroding the hardcore blueprint into something they can call their own, they're imprint will be permanent.

6. Portrayal of Guilt - Suffering Is a Gift [Closed Casket Activities]

One of the better expressions of pain in various forms as an artistic teaching tool to the listener was channeled through the charred screamo of Portrayal of Guilt on last year’s breakour Let Pain Be Your Guide. From the personal to the political and all facets in between, the Texan hardcore chameleons sense emotion in a way where it’s reflective off the surface of their sound. They are most certainly abrasive and crude to the touch, though even in just a few short moments, the shape of those shards can change from being something melodic to grinding to altogether undefinable in the ever-expanding heavy music universe. That brings us to this year’s Suffering Is a Gift EP. Thematically, the listen is a counterpart to Let Pain Be Your Guide’s lessons in embracing what awful realities life may deal you, and turning them toward your favor. Portrayal of Guilt are truly ascendent in their rallying against the odds, as they gnash metallic clusters between their teeth, and spit out the remnants into a dust cloud atop volcanic peaks. The more weight that bares down on them, it feels like their energy only intensifies.

5. Channel Tres - Black Moses [Godmode Music]

Channel Tres has had quite the year since his breakthrough eponymous EP landed him at the #1 spot of the year among extended listens. His cool-smooth energy that pulls in influences of house lights, R&B futurism and hip-hop bravado instantaneously gave him a recognizably singular sound that’s still going unrivaled a year later, and that the likes of sonic visionaries Vince Staples and Robyn dubbed him the honors of being their opening acts on their recent tours says a lot about where his lane is. With his Black Moses EP, Channel Tres glides into his fame and celebrity with cruise control, and that isn’t a bad thing. The beats here aren’t concerned with sizzling the floor with Tres’ charismatic fire, as this collection of five tracks is intended for when the lights go down and the temperatures drop. Even when Tres is driving in the slower lane, he’s still that stealth energy.

4. Charly Bliss - Supermoon [Barsuk Records]

For those looking to connect the dots between Charly Bliss’ adored debut Guppy and this year’s sophomore follow-up Young Enough, Supermoon offers closure on that while turning the page in the right direction at the same time. The first brick laid in that road was set down well before the latter’s official single “Capacity” arrived in February when the Brooklyn indie pop group dropped “Heaven” last year, a swirling, romantic ode in full-on euphoria that juxtaposed so many of the sour notes on romance heard on the band’s breakout debut Guppy. Subtract the static electricity from the equation, “Heaven” and the rest of these songs can be seen as the moment where vulnerability opened up pathways for the band to sparkle across waves of glittered keys and and choruses gliding around smooth corners. Unlike many post-album cycle EPs comprised of songs from its same sessions, Supermoon is beyond B-side quality with five tracks in A-side form that stand out as their own chapter in the band’s creative growth spurt.

3. Ava Luna - Pigments [Self-released]

Ava Luna eccentric layers play a huge part in the Brooklyn avant-pop group being able to create a remarkably singular sound moving its way in many colors and shapres through the universe. Few other acts showcase the ability to turn a chorus’ corner or find a groovy pocket in the discovered placs they do, and it’s that strive for new discovery within their collective energy’s that makes their music an allure. Not even a year removed from the space age smooth moves of their great third LP Moon 2, those eccentricities again resurface in perhaps the band’s most intentional offering yet in the short form format Pigments. The four-song EP reflects a change in the air through compositions of warm woven acoustic arpeggios, dub percussion in rippled water effects, and keys warped inside the solar system. Felicia Douglass and -- in what would be her final bow with the group -- Becca Kauffman are at their coolest wrapped within the ultraviolet beats, and the conversational guests stepping in and out of view only add more fascination to Ava Luna’s colorful cosmic scene.

2. Guerilla Toss - What Would the Odd Do? [NNA Tapes]

Undefinable and unpredictable are succinct descriptors of Guerilla Toss’ work, as the New York-by-way-of-Boston collective has grown a reputation organically in the underground the hard-earned way through by refining a singular sound with an intense, complimentary colorful live show that affirms why we stay alive. Through the obscurities of ther motions, Guerilla Toss has dealt with some shit too, just like any of us does in plain sight. With their What Would the Odd Do? EP, they don’t mask their personal demons in their music any longer. If anything, those demons give a different kind of life to their sound, bearing over it with existential-driven themes of isolation, dread, and joy in tandem, born out of frontperson Kassie Carlson’s own experience with overcoming addiction and health issues. She expels internal chaos through radiant disco-punk beams formed by the branches of drummer Peter Negroponte, guitarist Arian Shafiee, bassist Stephe Cooper and keyboardist Sam Lisabeth. Each and every sense spilling over the canvas, Guerilla Toss in their latest form are what true sanity sounds like.

1. Earl Sweatshirt - Feet of Clay [Tan Cressida / Warner Records]

In a year where hip-hop and rap either took the year off or mostly failed to deliver, it’s the game’s reluctant star and anti-hero Earl Sweatshirt who saves the the day in just about 15 minutes of gristled, Frankensteined sound collages and prose mosaics covered in his straight-to-the-bone flow a year after delivering a grief-stricken art-rap album for the ages with last year’s Some Rap Songs. Feet of Clay is also an effort primarily helmed by Thebe Kgositsile as well with occasional studio appearances by The Alchemist and ovrkast, giving the short run a harder-earned rawness to it than its predecessor, which found the space to experiment beyond the usual darker headspace in free jazz lumination and hypnotic interludes. Though the background noise is often grainy or downright inacessible, Sweatshirt’s words in rhyme rise above the ruins. Confusion could be what permeats these moth-pocked holes through the soundboard, with Sweatshirt still finding himself in a different phase of loss’ throes. There’s not so much any resolve to these quandries, and with that is Feet of Clay’s statement of intent: He’s given us a look inside his head. It’s no more brighter, yet we see the wreckage clearly.

[indominusregina]

Birthday Night

Warnings: none

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader, Bucky x Natasha

Summary: Reader invites Steve to come visit her over summer break for a night of music and fireworks. 

Words: 1591

Notes: It’s Steve Rogers’ birthday, and I wanted to write a little something for our Star Spangled Man with a Plan. Again, this drabble is loosely connected to the others I have floating around (Stormy Day and Bored). I’d love to hear feedback about any of these!

Tags: @childoftimeandmagic (I didn’t tag anyone else, as there didn’t seem to be much interest in “Bored,” but it’s looking like this is becoming a drabble series, so if you’d like to be tagged in future installments, let me know!)

“Steve! Bucky! Over here!” You yelled as you waved your arm, drawing their attention to the blanket you and Nat occupied in front of the stage. With a grin, both boys made their way through the crowd and plopped unceremoniously onto the blanket. “Obviously my directions worked.” You smiled as Steve nodded.

 “Sorry we’re so late. We had some trouble leaving.” Steve apologized, and you were about to respond when Bucky interrupted.

 “Yeah, Sarah didn’t want to let him leave without opening his presents and taking some pictures.” Bucky rolled his eyes, and you frowned.

 “Your presents?” Steve flushed as Bucky jumped in to answer.

 “Yeah, it’s this punk’s birthday today. I thought you knew.” Bucky raised an eyebrow at Steve as you shook your head.

 “I had no clue. Nat, did you know?” You turned to Natasha, but she shrugged and shook her head.

 “It’s not a big deal or anything.” Steve mumbled, not meeting Bucky’s inquiring stare.

 “Of course it is, Steve! I wouldn’t have said anything about you coming here if I’d known! You should be with your family on your birthday…” You trailed off, frowning again.

 “I’d rather be here.” Steve said, prompting your own cheeks to redden. There was a moment of awkward silence as what Steve had said sunk in, but before he could elaborate, the band director on stage began to speak.

 “Happy Fourth of July, everyone!” There was a smattering of applause and cheering from the crowd that died away quickly. “Tonight, we’ve got a real treat for you. The local high school jazz band will perform, followed by the county orchestra, and at dark, there will of course be fireworks.” More cheering, louder this time. Bucky whistled and you giggled, shaking your head. “Now, I could talk until I’m blue in the face up here, but let’s get straight into it! We’ll start off with the Star Spangled Banner, so if you’d all rise and take off your hats…” The rustling of people pushing off the ground could be heard all around the park as everyone stood up and people removed their hats. Moments later, the jazz band started playing, and you could hear Steve singing along lowly.

 Once the anthem finished, another burst of applause could be heard, followed by the groans of people easing all the way back down to the ground. The band started back up into an upbeat tune that had you bopping along in your seat with a smile on your face. A song or two later, Bucky got up and dragged Natasha with him to the open area in front of the stage, swinging her around in magnificent twirls and moves that looked incredibly complicated. You whooped and laughed along with several others in the crowd, and a few other people got up and joined them dancing.

 Steve took the opportunity to nudge your side and he leaned over to put his mouth close to your ear so you could hear him over the band. “Sorry about him. When he heard that you’d invited me to this..” He gestured around you before continuing. “..he sort of invited himself along.” You nodded, placing a hand on his arm to show him that he was forgiven. When Bucky got an idea in his mind, there was no convincing him to do anything else. “Then he forced me to ask you if Natasha was coming too. I’m pretty sure he just wanted to use it as an excuse to dance with her.” Steve tilted his chin towards the duo just as Bucky pulled Natasha in close and you laughed.

 “That certainly sounds like him.” You breathed an internal sigh of relief at his answer. You’d invited Steve, hoping that it would encourage either one of you to make a move, and when he’d asked if Natasha was coming, you’d been crestfallen. You looked over at him, his blue eyes shining with something you couldn’t quite place. Unconsciously, you leaned closer, his stare drawing you in.

 “Would you, um, would you like to dance?” His voice cut through the haze that surrounded you and you blinked a few times to clear it away before nodding.

 “I’d love to.” You smiled and he stood, offering a hand to help you up. You took it and he didn’t let go, leading you to the area in front of the stage that was filled with people dancing along to the music in any way they could.

 Steve kept you at a stiff arm’s length away and his movements were jerky as he led you through several steps. “Sorry!” He blurted out an apology as he stumbled over his feet, throwing you off a little.

 You squeezed his hand and his head finally turned towards you. You took a deep breath, nodding at him so he’d do the same, then released it slowly. “Relax.” You smiled as some of the tension drained from his shoulders. “It doesn’t have to be perfect or showy like Bucky over there.” You jerked your head towards Bucky as he spun Natasha around in a flashy movement. Steve seemed grateful as he pulled you a little closer with movements a little looser. By the end of the song, he relaxed enough to push you out in a spin, then pull you in close just in time for the last note to play. If you hadn’t been pressed up against him, you might have missed the breath he let out and the soft ‘thank you’ he uttered before letting go of you. It took some immense resolve, but you stepped away from him and tipped your head toward the blanket. He seemed relieved to not have to try and dance again and he guided you back to your spot. 

 Before you could sit down, something caught your eye and you turned to Steve. “I’ll be right back, you stay here.” You hurried off through the crowd as Steve frowned. Had his dancing been so bad that it scared you off? His mind churned through several possibilities in the five minutes you were gone, but his face brightened as you returned with three plates in hand. “Fried dough! I thought we could share.” You grinned, passing him two of the plates so you could sit down.

 “Not that I mind, but why are there three?” Steve asked and you smirked.

 “Do you honestly expect Bucky and Natasha to leave ours alone?” Steve chuckled.

 “No, I guess not.” As if they were proving your point, Nat and Bucky made their way back to you, both a little out of breath but wearing matching mile-wide smiles.

 “Ooh! Fried dough!” Natasha exclaimed, diving for a plate as soon as she saw the treat on the blanket. You and Steve laughed as Bucky’s eyes widened and he hurried the last few steps to take the other unattended plate. The four of you chatted as the band finished and the orchestra started getting ready. Conversation flowed easily as you all caught each other up on the adventures you’d been having over the summer break. You didn’t realize just how much you’d missed being in one place with all of them, and it felt good to just be in the company of each other.

 About halfway through the orchestra’s set, you started to nudge everyone off the blanket so you could move to a better viewing spot for the fireworks. “Come on, we should really get our spot on the hill now, or there won’t be any left.” You shooed everyone off in between songs and gathered the blanket up quickly, trying your best to move through the crowd before the next song started. When you approached the hillside, you noticed a decent spot about halfway down that should make it easy to enjoy the fireworks. You all resumed conversation, the orchestra now a pleasant background music to watch the sun set by. As it started getting darker, more people started to fill in the area around you and the chatter of the families around you drowned out the end of the orchestra.

 It wasn’t until the sun had fully set that you realized you’d forgotten a sweatshirt, and you pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around yourself.

 “Are you cold?” Natasha smirked at you and you stuck your tongue out at her.

 “Not all of us can be thick-blooded like you, okay?” You pulled your legs in a little tighter as she laughed.

 “Here.” Steve pulled his arms out of his jacket and draped it around your shoulders.

 “Oh, thanks.” You looked down, pulling the jacket a little tighter around you. “But what about you?”

 “Human furnace.” He grinned as he used a nickname you’d given him in the middle of winter. Natasha and Bucky laughed before turning to talk with each other.

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” You lowered your voice so your question didn’t disturb Nat and Bucky’s conversation.

 “Well, if you’re that concerned, you could just sit closer.” Steve fought valiantly against the rising redness in his cheeks as you bit your lip before scooting over to his side. He placed an arm behind you, planting his palm firmly on the ground, and as the first firework blasted into the sky, you leaned into him, using that arm as a brace. Steve smiled, watching as different colours lit up your face and decided in that moment that this was exactly how he wanted to spend the rest of his birthdays, even if he lived to be 100.

[lleodavis]

2018 Nanny Goat Race Report

This is a race I did not expect to PR at.  I have been training for Ironman Canada, now only 2 months away.  I did a half ironman at the beginning of the month and felt more than ready for that.  If anything I should have been doing 4 to 5 hour hilly bike rides at this point, not focusing on how far I can run.  Yet, I had done this race three times previously and knew the only expectation would be what I set for myself.  But before I get into how I surprised myself into my first sub 12 hour 50 miler, let’s first explain what exactly is a Nanny Goat 12 hour / 24 hour / 100 miler.  

 Nanny Goat is part of the Old Goat Race series of trail racing.  The races are very low key with all manner of skill level present.  This particular race is a great one for first time ultra runners.  You need to bring no crew, you have access to a porta potty every ½ mile and your gear every mile, plus you’re never alone for very long because the course is a 1 mile loop.  The course is a mix of hard packed dirt, soft dirt, grass, and just a little bit of asphalt. You can sign up for 12 hours or 24 hours and go for however many laps you want.  Some folks walk the entire thing and some run nonstop.  People camp out under the trees, in RVs on the ranch, or in one of the stalls in the barn, which is something that the course runs through.  For me, this is a real treat.  Yes, laps can be boring.  The monotony isn’t just mental, but physical, and some say that because of the flatness of the course (only 50’ per mile) that it is harder on the body than a hilly ultra (which allows for a variety of different muscles and tempos).  No, this is a treat because you get to see your friends on the course and your friends who come to support you.  They make the race worth doing.  

 The weather for Saturday was projected to be a high of 72 and overcast.  If ever there was a day for a PR, this would be it.  Not that I set out to run 50 miles, not in the bit. Honestly, I just wanted to go out and get around 50K and see what I felt like doing after that.  We all lined up in the “goat pen” for instructions before the race.  I noticed a couple wearing horse masks holding a bottle of fireball and asked if I could take a shot.  They said sure, so I did.  It would not be the last shot or drink I would have that day during the course. In what seemed like just a few minutes later the gate was opened and we all filed out to start the race.  I had it in my head that I would run 4 laps and walk 1 at least until noon.  Those first 4 hours went real quick.  I talked to a few different folks, mostly about triathlons (some were wearing gear, others tattoos) and my good friend Diana.  When I got to mile 20 I stopped to change shorts, socks and to stick roll. I was really, really glad that I stopped early to take care of some minor issues that could have turned worse. There’s a saying that if you don’t manage small things early they will become big things later in the race.  The compression shorts that I had changed into solved the issue of chafing (despite the lube before the race) and the clean socks made me realize how pervasive the dust from the course is.  No matter what I do at this race I ALWAYS get blisters. I’ve gone 26 hours without changing socks or shoes, I’ve done races with a dozen water crossings, and I’ve done races in really hot weather where I don’t worry about my feet.  Nanny Goat is not one of those courses.  After just 20 miles when I took off my shoes and socks I wasn’t surprised to see my feet were covered in dirt .  I could already see where I was forming blisters, so I cleaned my feet with wet wipes, dried them, and applied as much lube (something like Desitin for the parents reading) to my toes and put a fresh pair of toed socks back on.  

 By now there were more than muffins, chips, pretzels, and potatoes out.  They had veggie burgers, cheese burgers, tri tip steak, PB &J, and cheese quesadillas to pick from.  I grabbed small bites of each from that point forward.  Every time it was time for another walk lap I would grab what I could take with me and finish it while moving.  I also forced myself to keep drinking pickle juice (even though I hate, hate, hate dill pickles) and plenty of other fluids.  Occasionally I’d grab a small amount of Sprite or ginger ale. Overall, I felt like I was constantly snacking or drinking, if only a little bit here and there.  I remember my first Nanny Goat in 2014 how hard it became to eat after mile 40.  I felt that I successfully fueled throughout this race not knowing how this method would work, which is much different from a normal trail race where aid stations can be 5 to 10 miles apart depending on the distance.  Many people think running that far is all about cardio, but there is so much more to running ultras than just who is most efficient at converting oxygen into energy.  As I mentioned previously, managing the little things is far more important sometimes.

 Another key aspect of my strategy was to not over do my effort.  I wore my heart rate monitor and I consistently managed my intensity to stay in zone 3.  My average heart rate for the day was 135 bpm and my max HR was 156 bpm.  I spent 90% of the day in zone 3 or lower.  Now, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do this if it weren’t for the 1 mile walk breaks after ever 4th mile. Watching my heart rate proved more important than pace; however, I noticed that I had consistently been doing between and 11 and 12 minute pace per mile.  I noticed as the day wore on, more and more folks started taking longer and longer walk breaks, whereas I felt strong.  

 Somewhere past 1400 hours (6 hours of race time) my friend Freddy and his friend Amie showed up, which was nice because Diana and I had no one in our stall this year because so many of our friends had were off doing other races.  Freddy brought with him various costumes which he would randomly change into at times.  He would walk or run a lap or two with Diana or I, toss me a beer when I got thirsty, or they would just clap at times, which was enough.  My other “crew” came from the folks who were charged with controlling the parking lot entrance at the halfway point.  They had a dry erase board and wrote up encouraging and silly things to make us laugh.  After a while it became my own challenge to try to think of responses for them.  For example, early on they had a sign that said, “sit down and I will tell you a story.”  So I responded, “Is that the time your life got turned around, flipped upside down, and you had to go live in Bel Air?”  A few runners with me laughed at that.  Once they had a sign up that said, “Sing us a song” so I sang to the “I’m too sexy for my shirt” at which point they all laugh and cheered. As I got to mile 35 I told them I only had 15 laps left and almost every time after that they would ask what lap I was on and cheer and offer encouragement.  Honestly, they were the best supporters out there being complete strangers and all.  

 Around mile 40 I was surprised that I was still keeping to my 4 to 1 ratio of run/walk intervals. Usually at this point the heat, my feet, or my stomach had pushed me to walk much more.  Considering that I had done very little ultra training I was shocked that I was able to power through this much running after more than 8 hours of being on my feet.  Yet, I could feel my feet and legs taking a pounding.  I stopped to again take care of my feet and roll (massage) my quads, calves, and IT band.  The blisters that were starting to form at mile 20 were full blown at this point, yet they weren’t so bad that I couldn’t continue.  I went through the same routine again.  However, this time when I got up to start running again I was very sluggish to get going.  I ran to mile 44 even though I had planned to start lowering that ratio.  The idea of walking my final lap didn’t appeal to me. I caught up with my friend Diana and suddenly adopted her strategy of mixing up the run/walk segments for the next 5 miles.  Comparatively speaking, Diana’s legs seemed fresher, her power walk full of purpose, and I realized I could let her take the lead and get me to my goal.  It was suddenly as if a weight had been lifted because I no longer had to drive myself forward; instead just follow.  Not much time later and I realized I had the goal of sub 12 hours in the bag.  My legs didn’t feel any better, but I realized that I was close to my limits of endurance for the day.  50 miles (or more) is a distance I’ve done three times previously, and yet stopping while I still had gas in the tank (and not pushing to 62 miles) seemed like a really smart idea.  Overtraining is something I have dealt with too often.  Thus, at 11 hours and 45 minutes I informed the Race Director and the timing folks that I was done, despite being signed up for 24 hours.  

 I have to say it felt really good achieving this distance in this time.  There are a few races out there where in order to get a finisher’s medal (not a participation medal!) you have to do it in less than 12 hours. Then again, many 50 milers go up to 15 hours depending on the difficulty, but for me this was a goal that has eluded me since the first time I tried it for one reason or another.  As usual, the credit cannot go to me alone. My friends and really all the folks out there supporting very much helped.  Sometimes it was a simple, “you’re doing great” or a high five. Other times it was listening to my bad jokes and cracking a smile.  I’m sure I’ll be back next year.  This time with a 100K on my mind.