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pagingevilspawn · 4 years ago

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stick it

What even is this fic? Idk, but i was missing gymnastics, so this is what y’all get. Its super bad, super weird, and not a whole lotta jolex, but whatever.

Also, nobody cares, but the way I'm giving the scores is (most likely) different than what is averaged for Washington. I’ve never competed in Washington so i don’t know how hard their scoring is, but I did compete in one of the hardest regions in the US for gymnasts, so scoring was always a LOT more harsh than it was in other states and areas of states. Even though nobody is gonna pay attention to that I just thought I'd say something lol.

And fun fact- our girl is a (much) better gymnast than i ever was, so… tea 🍵🍵

~*~

Jo watched her husband do their daughter’s hair from the doorway, some kind of a braided bun she didn’t know the name of. She smiled at the sight. It never failed to bring a smile to her face, even though it had become pretty common these past few years. She cradled the bottom of her six month baby bump in the palm of her left hand, her right holding her piping hot tea in a thermos. Once Alex was done putting in all of the excess pins, she watches as he puts a hand over their daughter’s eyes, pulling out the can of hairspray and spraying it into her hair.

The almost nine year old girl lets out a giggle, commenting on how the hairspray smelt funny. Alex pulls out an Amped Up brush, combing back any flyaway hairs that might have escaped the spray. She snaps out of her trance when she hears her phone alarm go off, alerting the other two in the room of her presence.

“Mommy!” her daughter exclaims, running over to her to give her a quick hug, much to the dismay of Alex. He was just thankful that he was already done with her hair. Even after three years of doing hair it still took a long ass time to do buns, especially when his daughter was the perfectionist she was.

“Hey Dyl,” Jo reaches down, returning her daughter’s hug, giving her a tight squeeze before she watches Dylan retreat back to her dad, sitting in front of the mirror once again.

Jo looks at Alex, who’s attention was focused on adding the shiny black scrunchie into the little girl’s hair. “I’m gonna get Aub up.” she whispers to him, watching him nod before she turns and makes her way down the hall, where their three year old daughter was sleeping. It was only five-thirty, so she knew what a hassle it would be. Aubryella was exactly like her parents in that way, a complete night owl. It was always a hassle to get the girl down at night, but even tougher to wake her up in the morning. She flicks on the small night on the girl’s bedside table, the lamp shade casting a soft pink glow around the all pink room.

Much like her name, Aubryella was the definition of a girly-girl. She was all about pink, barbies, fashion, makeup… anything that would be described as girly, the three year old liked. Alex always gave props to Jo for that, since while she was pregnant with their youngest daughter she claimed that the tiny life growing inside of her was going to be an ‘all that and a bag of chips little diva’, so she thought it was only appropriate to give her a name to suit that title. (Good thing her mommy instincts were correct. She knew that if she gave Dylan that name and not Aubryella she would hate it more than life itself.)

She shakes the girl lightly, hoping that it was enough to wake her up, which it ultimately wasn’t. She begins to run a hand through her hair, which ends up failing too. Jo lets out a sigh.

“Aub. Aubrey. Elle. Ella. Ree. Aubryella. Get up sweetie.” she shakes the girl harder, finally stopping when the tiny blonde lets out a loud groan of protest. Yep, definitely a Karev.

“No mommy,” the girl says, her word muffled since her face was buried in her soft pink pillow case, using one hand to sleepily push her moms face away. It was too close to her ear, and she just wanted to sleep.

Jo chuckles, rolling her eyes at her daughter's antics. “It’s state’s day.” she whispers, knowing that that would get Aub’s attention.

As expected, the little girl gets up immediately, rubbing her tired as, not looking as asleep as she probably should, the talk of the upcoming meet more than enough to get her blood rushing. Though Aubryella wasn't a gymnast herself (she had started dance class a year ago and had found her calling then), watching gymnastics was something she loved to do, especially when it was her own sister competing. Not to mention, it was the topic of nearly every dinner for the past month and a half.

The mom watches as the girl hassles out of the bed quickly, picking up her blanket and rushing to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Jo stays behind, making the bed. Normally, Aub would need to do it herself, but since they were on a time limit, she decided it would be best if she did it instead. When the girl gets back in the room Jo picks out her clothes, a dusty rose sweater and black jeans, both wasting no time in putting them on. She runs a comb through her daughter’s long dirty blonde hair, a trait she inherited from her Aunt Amber and Grandma. Aub actually looked more like the two than her own parents to most people, with her dirty blonde hair and blue-green eyes. But anyone who actually looked at the girl could see that she had Jo's nose and Alex’s chin. Not to mention, that crooked grin was all Alex Karev.

Jo picks up her daughter from her spot on the bed, grabbing a jacket that was hung on a hook before heading out of the door and down the hall, stopping when she went down the stairs and entered the living room. She sets the girl down by a chair in the kitchen, going to the cabinets and pulling out the doughnuts and cereal. “Which one?” she asks, holding up each dessert in a different hand.

The girl grins mischievously, making the mom let out a small chuckle before pulling a powdered sugar doughnut out of the box. She didn’t know why she expected anything else.

Aubryella accepts the doughnut gratefully, giving out an absent minded thank you before shoveling the treat in her mouth, getting the white sugar all over her face. Jo doesn’t need to wait long before she hears two sets of footsteps come down the stairs, Dylan dressed with her white and light blue leotard on, black warm ups on over it, Alex in a simple pair of jeans, back t-shirt, and the damn black jacket that he never got rid of, no matter how many protests he got from his wife.

“Ready?” Jo asks, all three of them nodding in response. “Okay, you got your bag, shoes, extra hair ties, water bottle, lucky bear, extra bobby pins, thera band, notebook, phone, mascara, lip gloss, hair brush, wallet, tiger paws, ankle brace, knee brace, and wrist brace?” she questions again, going over the list she had memorized from years of training.

Dylan rolls her eyes impatiently. She didn’t want to be late. She couldn’t be late. It was States for god’s sake! Everyone in the state of Washington (who qualified) would be there. The judges would be scoring harder, and some of the competition was going to be new. She was going to go up against girl’s she hadn’t before. Her goal was to win everything. Maybe it was extreme, but it was true. This season she had done well, really well actually. Her first season as a level seven had started off in the best way. She swept the first competition clean, getting first on vault, floor, and all around, second on bars, and third on beam. As the season went on she just got better, scores getting higher and snatching more golds with each meet. She knew she wasn’t going to be in the Olympics one day, but getting a college scholarship was looking more promising with every first place medal she had stacked around her neck.

“Yeah, now let’s gooooo,” Dylan drags out, grabbing her dad’s hand and pulling him to the door, not even waiting for her mom and sister to follow. The four Karev’s shuffle into the car and drive an hour and fifteen minutes to the convention center where the meet was being held. They pile out of the car and check in, Alex taking a few minutes to add an extra layer of hairspray to Dylan’s hair while Jo puts a light coat of mascara on the girl’s eyelashes and dabs the lip rosy gloss on her lips.

Before the eight year old can run off her coach, her parents kneel down in front of her, her eyes letting them know how scared she was behind her calm facade. “Hey,” Jo grabs a hold of her little girl’s shoulders, making her hazel eyes that were identical to her own stare deeply into hers. “You got this. Go out there and have fun, alright? You know your routines, you won’t mess up. Okay?” she reassures her. Jo pulls her daughter into a hug, “I love you baby.” she whispers into her ear, passing her off to Alex.

Instead of staying on the ground, he picks her up and puts her on his side, much like you would do a small child. Dylan had always been on the smaller side, since neither one of her parents were very tall, but gymnastics had definitely stunted her growth a fair amount. For most people it would be a curse, but as all gymnasts know, it was a blessing.

“We’re right here if you need us. Go kick some ass Dyl, and win that state title. You want that banner right?” he teases. Dylan did want a banner though. At her gym, whoever won a state, regionals, sectionals, or nationals title got a banner hung up from the ceiling. She had one from last year, when she won floor, vault, and the all around as a level six, and even more from the years before that in levels three, four, and five.

But a banner as a level seven? Now that would be a dream come true. Why break the streak now? And not to mention, her group would be the last level seven group to go for the weekend, so if she got a high enough all around score, it could be factored in for the team’s total, which could mean another banner (this one provided by the competition) and trophy, if their total score was in the top three. And believe me, she was determined to win that banner, not for her, but for her team.

Another thing she inherited from her parent’s, their competitiveness.

Dylan gives her parents and sister one last hug and ‘I love you’ before ducking under the chain and meeting her coach and teammates on the floor.

...

“Camera, camera, camera.” Alex mumbles, fishing through Jo’s bag until he pulls out the phone. Dylan was about to go up on bars, and he was designated photographer, since his wife couldn’t film for the life of her. The one time she tried, she ended up shooting the ceiling instead of Dylan’s floor routine. Their daughter was not very happy about that.

He presses the start button just as the girl salutes, flashing the judges a smile before she begins. She rolls her neck and then adjusts her grips, stepping onto the mounting block and taking a deep breath before swinging her arms and launching into a kip, drowning out all of the excess noise in the background.

“Legs, legs, legs.” Jo mumbles to herself. It was Dylan’s biggest deduction, having her legs separated.

Straight legs, pointed feet. Kip cast handstand, hit the 180 degree mark, hold it, clear hip, hit 180 again, hollow body, her feet don't hit the ground, cast up to a squat on, she catches sight of the high bar before jumping to it, keeping her legs together as she goes into another kip, casting up into handstand, holding it at 180 for a second without an arch before hollowing back and beginning her giants, hollow body, tap, feet up, over, and again, see the toes in front, release, layout flyaway. Stick.

Dylan beams as she salutes the judge again, going over to her coach and giving her a large hug, finally hearing the cheering coming from her family. A series of whoops and whistles come from her mom and dad, while her little sister claps her hands and gives her a wide smile.

She waits a minute and a half for her score to flash up on the screen, a 9.725. The cheering from her section gets louder, and her teammates engulf her in hugs. It was a hell of a way to start off the meet.

…

Alex pulls out the camera again when Dylan salutes the beam judge, trying to mask her nervousness behind a smile. Alex and Jo both knew how she felt about the beam. She hated it with every fiber of her being, no matter how good she was at it. She glances over at her family, who all give her encouraging smiles. It was just enough to give her the confidence she needed.

He watches as she places her hands on the beam, going from a support to a press handstand for her mount. She stands, doing a few different moves and poses before swinging her arms up by her ears.

“C’mon Dyl.” he whispers to himself. His daughter didn't mind cheering on any other events, but beam was a different story. She was always worried whenever she was on the apparatus, so whenever a sudden noise came through, she struggled. It was something she was working on, but it was going to take time.

She lifts up her left leg, beginning her connection, a back walkover to a back handspring step-out. The girl circles her arms behind her immediately to prevent any balance checks. Jo and Alex both let out audible sighs of relief, knowing that if there was one thing that could go wrong in the routine, it would be that. From the looks of it, Dylan seemed relieved too. Her movements were less tense, she completed her jumps with perfect form, a split jump to a sissone. Her leap hit 180, and her full turn was controlled. All that was left now was her dismount. All three Karev’s sat on the edge of their seats, the baby in Jo’s belly kicking non stop, letting her know that it was in on the action as well.

Dylan kicks her leg into the air, toes pointed, knees locked. Cartwheel step-in, back tuck. Stick. She lets out a breath, turning to the judges and saluting, flashing them a smile, giving her coaches a hug before darting to her family, who had moved closer for the event.

“You did so good.” Jo says, pulling her into a hug over the plastics chains that separated them, Alex doing the same after.

“What score do you think I got Bree?” Dylan asks her little sister, who lets out an adorable giggle before holding out her hands.

“Ten!” she says, making her family laugh. One could dream.

The score flashed up on the screen then, 9.775.

Well, this was going to be a damn good meet.

…

The camera was locked on Dylan as she made her way to her spot on the floor, striking her beginning pose before her music blared through the speakers. She dances around the floor, gliding with an ease neither of her parents had ever experienced themselves. It was a wonder really, how both of their daughter’s were good dancers while they couldn't move for shit.

Her first pass was her hardest, a roundoff back handspring back layout. The family holds their breath as the girl sets high, finishing the rotation with ease, dancing around more before her leap pass, a switch leap to a straddle jump. She dances more, making eye contact with the judges as she moves. Floor was where she had the most confidence, being able to express herself through her music and choreography, that’s why it was always her favorite.

“C’mon Dyl!”

“You got this Dylan,”

“Yay Tissy!”

The family cheered before her second pass, a front handspring front pike, which she had a small step on, but nothing that would make a large difference in her score. She did some floor work, showing off her flexibility in her back with a series of rolls, standing up and doing a full turn. She makes her way to the corner, Jo and Alex watching the scene intently, Alex having Aubryella perched on his knee. This last pass sealed the deal. She runs, hurdles into a front pike, and connects to a front tuck. Stick.

A smile breaks out on the little girl’s face. She moves her limbs in unison to her ending pose, hitting it just as the beat dropped. A series of cheers come from everyone around her. Her family, teammates, coaches. She doesn’t need to wait long for her score to flash up on the screen. A 9.675.

…

Dylan’s last event was vault, her personal best. She had already done her warmups, and now she was just waiting for the judge to hold up the green flag. She adjusts her tiger paws after she salutes, just as Alex starts the recording. She sprints down the runway, hurdling into a roundoff, and pushing back into a back handspring. Her vault was a yurchenko drill. She keeps her form, legs together, knees locked, toes pointed. She finishes, salutes, then goes again. The three in the stands cheer. It was the last event. Her all around score depended on these vaults.

When she does her finishing salute a second time, she knows that it was even better than the last. She looks over to her family and gives them a smile, wanting nothing more than to run over to them, but she knows she can’t, they were too far away.

Her score takes a while to come up on the screen, which could either be a bad or good thing. The Karev’s hold their breath in anticipation, Jo stroking her baby bump with one hand, while holding Alex’s with the other. Even Aubryella was on the edge of her seat, well, more like the edge of her dad’s lap. Her hair was no longer down, but in a braided bun similar to her sisters, since she insisted that she wanted to look just like her. Alex was thankful Jo had packed extra hair ties in not just Dylan’s bag, but also her purse.

A series of loud cheers come from this section as they see their daughter’s score. A 9.800, a personal best.

…

“And now, your vault state champion in the eight to nine year old category with a score of 9.800 is… Dylan Karev!” The announcer cheers as the little brunette makes her way up to the first place podium, an abundance of applause coming from the crowd. A gold medal is placed around her neck by an assistant, who she thanks with a megawatt smile.

“These are your 2029 vault state champions, gymnasts salute.” the announcer says, causing all the girls to raise their arms to the position, all the families in the crowd taking photos of their daughters. Jo, Alex, and Aubryella cheer the loudest, more than proud of Dylan.

As awards went on, more categories were called.

“Your bar's state champion in the eight to nine year old category with a score of 9.725 is... Dylan Karev!”

“Your beam state champion in the eight to nine year old category with a score of 9.775 is… Dylan Karev!”

“On the floor, in second place with a score of 9.675 is… Dylan Karev!”

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Your 2029, eight to nine year old all around state champion, with a combined score of 38.975 is… Dylan Karev!” The audience erupted into applause, her parents, her teammates, coaches, and even her teammates parent’s cheering for her. She accepts her fifth medal with a wide smile, hopping down from the podium and back into the crowd. She had just won her ultimate goal, an all around title.

After a few of the older groups were called, it was time for the team awards.

“In first place, with a combined total of 115.575 is… Seattle Gymnastics Academy!” Another first place team award. The team accepts the banner and trophy and poses for photos alongside the second and third place team, proudly showing off their trophy by raising it above their heads.

When she gets down and the awards finish, she runs to her parents, crashing into Alex with a gigantic hug. When she finally lets go, she hugs her mom and sister.

“I’m so proud of you Dyl.” her mom says, touching her cheek affectionately. Gymnastics was her daughter's passion, something she lived and breathed for. Seeing that light in her eyes and that grin was something she would never get tired of.

Aubryella hugs her big sister’s legs, “good job Tissy.” The name came from when the tiny blonde was younger and couldn’t say ‘Sissy’, and had stuck to it ever since.

The family of four makes their way out of the convention center, the drive back to their house was peaceful, the limited hours of sleep they got the night before catching up to them. They all crash onto their respective beds, the girls in their rooms and Jo and Alex in their’s.

Alex runs a hand through his wife’s hair, his other tracing circles on her baby bump, feeling the little life inside of her kick like a crazy person.

They stay like that for a while, savoring the quiet. With two kids in the house, it was a major rarity these days. Jo hums, nuzzling into his embrace. “I love you.” she murmurs into his shirt, on the verge of sleep. He reaches down and places a small kiss on the top of her head.

“I love you too.”

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themskteam · 4 years ago

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After Wakanda Short 3: A Formal Introduction

A quick flashback to how Cate and Thor actually met one another, as well as Cate meeting Loki, takes place between Chapter 6 and 7 of A How To in Avenging

~*Short Under the cut*~

Warnings: None AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674357/chapters/71847918 POV: Cate Sweadner (Original Female Character) Takes place between Chapters 6 & 7 of A How to in Avenging

Need a Map Around the blog?

Here you go!

more posts to our writings can be found under Chapters

~*Short Under the cut*~

A Formal Introduction: Cate POV

I took liberties when it came to restricted areas. The worst that ever came of it was a talking to from Coulson about how I need to ‘respect the authority of the regulations blah blah listen to me because I’m a SHIELD agent.’ I usually didn’t listen to him. Besides, if Sarah had been allowed back here, surely so was I.

Making my way through the final set of doors, I marched out into the room where the supposedly evil god was being kept in a fish bowl- Sorry, my bad, highly secure SHIELD containment facility that he definitely won’t get out of later. He noticed me as soon as I came in, but said nothing until I was standing directly in front of the glass.

“Hey-” I began.

“Let me stop you there,” he spat, less than pleased to see me, “Whatever tricks you think you’re going to pull on me, it won’t work. Your people have already sent that other girl to try and get information out of me, and you can ask her for yourself how well that went.”

“Short? Glasses?” I held my hand about a foot above the ground for emphasis.

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, that’s Sarah-”

“And now they send you.” He glared at me, taking a moment to conclude that I wasn’t worth shit to him, before scoffing, “I thought they’d send people a bit more qualified. Honestly, this is more insulting than anything else.”

I shrugged it off, “Heard Rogers kicked your ass. That’s got to be more insulting than anything I could ever do to you.”

No response.

“It’s cool, I don’t like him either. He’s so.... Virtuous, it’s gross,” I grimaced, then straightened my posture to put on my best Steve Rogers impression, “Oh heck! The world is in danger! Good thing my good morals and stellar patriotism will protect us all! God bless the USA!”

He seemed slightly amused, but did his best to cover it up, “No, stop it. You can’t just parade around, making fun of Captain America because you think it’ll make me like you. If you want information so badly, try a little harder.”

I laughed and took a seat in front of him, “I’m not trying to interrogate you, I got bored. I’ve never seen a god up close, and honestly, I’m a little underwhelmed.”

“...You haven’t spoken to Thor?”

“I’ve seen him around, but we've only spoken a little. Nothing I consider a real conversation. I believe he only showed up around the same time as you did,” I muttered, “Anyway, you must be Loki. Nice to finally meet you.”

“You may take that back soon,” he warned, stepping closer to the glass, “You don’t seem-”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a deck of cards, “Solitaire?”

Something about this request must’ve set him off, as he slammed his hand against the wall and shouted, “Enough! Whatever you’re trying to do, enough! I’m not playing whatever ridiculous game you want me to take part in! We are not friends, we are not teammates, you’re just wasting my time!”

I scooted back a little, a bit shocked at his sudden outburst, but it wasn’t as if he could do anything but yell from in there, so I just sighed and began shuffling, “So be it. I’ll play by myself.”

“HEY!” the door behind me slid open, causing Loki to jump away from the wall.

I slowly turned to see Thor running towards me, grabbing my shoulder and yanking me into a standing position. I scowled, swatting his arm off of me, “You made me drop my cards-”

“You cannot be in here!” he insisted, getting in my face, “Who even let you in here?”

“I... Let me in here,” I held up a plastic ID card, “I mean, this isn’t my card, but technically-”

He snatched the card from my hand and inspected the writing on it, “Did you steal Agent Coulson's ID card?”

“I found it on the ground,” I lied, offended that he would even suggest such a heinous act, “I was going to give it back eventually.”

“Doesn’t matter, you need to go,” he went to grab my shoulder again, but I jumped back, nearly tripping into the glass.

“Under whose authority? Last I checked, you didn’t have any status with SHIELD whatsoever!”

“Listen well, I am a god of Asgard, and this matter is none of your business.” I was all out of space to back up, now stuck between the wall and Blondie over here.

“Sounds fake,” I grumbled, knowing full well that it wasn’t, “Let me play my game in peace.”

“Sounds fake?” he scoffed, shaking his head, “No, no, I’m Thor. ...God of Thunder? Surely you’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, well in that case, I’m Cate, God of Leave Me the Hell Alone Please,” I joked, “And I may not be as powerful as you, but at least I don’t look like a Barbie who joined a bodybuilding contest.”

Snickering behind me turned my attention back to Loki, who was fully immersed in our bickering, “Oh, brother, are you just going to take that?”

“I will be the better person, yes,” he huffed, “Now what did you tell her?”

“He didn’t tell me anything important,” I promised, “He just really hurt my feelings!”

“Dammit, Loki!” Thor shoved me aside so he could chew out his brother, “What have you done to this nice woman?”

Nice woman? I’ve done nothing but bitch at him since he came in here. Where the hell did he get that idea?

Loki shot a glance at me, where I was trying not to laugh. Rolling his eyes, he groaned, “She’s being dramatic, all I did was refuse to play some ridiculous card game. How the hell am I supposed to play from in here anyway?”

“Oh, you could’ve just told me where you wanted to put the cards-”

“But then you’d be looking at my hand the whole time.”

"Fuck, my genius plan’s been foiled!”

“That’s enough,” Thor decided, yanking me away and hauling my ass back towards the door, “You don’t need to be talking to him.”

“UUUUGH!” I tugged against him, but it was no use. “Bye, Loki.” I waved obnoxiously as Thor pitched me out the door, “When you get out of there, give Rogers and extra punch for me!”

The door shut, sealing me and Thor outside. He crossed his arms, preparing a lecture. “That’s a horrible thing to say about your teammate.”

“We aren’t technically teammates,” I mumbled, “And I’ll say what I like. Besides, it’s just a joke, relax.”

“Good, well, I’m glad you’re unharmed,” he held out his hand, “Now that we’ve all calmed down and removed Loki from the situation, I’d like to re-do that introduction. I’m Thor Odinson.”

“Cate Sweadner.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Cate.”

“Well of course it is!”

#he did get roasted tho #ouch #Thor Odinson #thor #Catherine Sweadner #Cate Sweadner #cate #a how to in avenging #marvel #Marvel Avengers #loki #Loki Friggason #marvel fanfic series #marvel msk #msk #msk project #shorts #short #chapters

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luckycloud808 · 4 years ago

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weird asks that say a lot from @julietgiulia

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans? Coffee mugs

2. chocolate bars or lollipops? Chocolate

3. bubblegum or cotton candy? Neither

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you? Shy, conscientious, perfectionist

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups? Glasses

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear? All contributors

7. earbuds or headphones? Earbuddies :)

8. movies or tv shows? Movies

9. favourite smell in the summer? Hot soil, flowering plants, fruit and needle trees, post rain, towel after ocean swim, wind through car window driving through forest(ed highway)

10. game you were best at in p.e.? Hockey, soccer, california kickball, high jump and arm hang?

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day? Usually oatmeal or millet with omegas, fruit and oat milk or avocado bagel with black pepper and nutritional yeast

12. name of your favourite playlist? A nice mix for ness

13. lanyard or key ring? Key ring

14. favourite non-chocolate candy? Licorice, candied fennel or anise seeds

15. favourite book you read as a school assignment? Les miserables, The thief lord, The cellist of Sarajevo - off the top

16. most comfortable position to sit in? Slumpy posture, one leg over or under the other, knee tuck or apple sauce

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes? Hiking boots or black sambas

18. ideal weather? Sunny after rain a little windy

19. sleeping position? No pillow usually on my left or on my back or front with one leg bent

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)? Notebook or notes app

21. obsession from childhood? Fairies and making homes

22. role model? Opa

23. strange habits? Not sure what qualifies as strange

24. favourite crystal? Not really into them but maybe jade or quartz

25. first song you remember hearing? I turned out a punk or something by Joe Strummer

26. favourite activity to do in warm weather? Backpacking

27. favourite activity to do in cold weather? Cuddling, snowy adventuring, dancing

28. five songs to describe you? Hazel (bob dylan), Planted a thought (arthur russell), Junie (solange), Corridor of dreams (the cleaners from venus), Even cowgirls get the blues (emmylou harris)

29. best way to bond with you? Quality time, presence, care, spontaneity / silly curiousity

30. places that you find sacred? Oma and Opa’s yard and greenhouse, forest, Veluwe, ocean

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names? Floral dress, nice earrings with sambas and sweatshirt or hiking boots, wool socks and over shirt, with shorts and tank top

32. top five favourite vines? Fresh avocado is the only one that comes to mind

33. most used phrase in your phone? Yay sweet and or That’s funny

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head? Can’t think of any

35. average time you fall asleep? 2am

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing? Probably one of those justgirlythings ones here or Fb I have no idea

37. suitcase or duffel bag? Suitcase

38. lemonade or tea? Tea

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie? Lemon tart

40. weirdest thing to ever happen to you at your school? High school - Maybe bear spray yoe evac? authority figure telling me what I was wearing was inappropriate? psych teacher crying in class? Post sec - Tiktok famous boy makes a tiktok of me knitting in psych class? boy crushing steals my textbook just to get me to go to his car so he can return it to me?

41. last person you texted? Daisy 🌼

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets? BOTH

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket? Hoodie

44. favourite scent for soap? Rose, patchouli, rosemary, lavendar, mint, etc.

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero? Fantasy

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in? Naked

47. favourite type of cheese? Cashew cheese or if I could brie

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be? White nectarine but there are so many to try!

49. what saying or quote do you live by? “She walked with her entire body as if to gain momentum for an event in which her entire body would participate.” - Anaïs Nin (A spy in the house of love)

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have? Probably my kid best friend

51. current stresses? Health issues, unstable income

52. favorite font? Freight rn

53. what is the current state of your hands? Coffee shakes

54. what did you learn from your first job? Hundreds of PLU’s, how to pack groceries, how messy and wasteful people are, that everyone should have to do a customer service job in their lifetime, how really great and awful people are, that I shouldn’t let other people’s stresses make me feel like I should be stressed, that quitting is good sometimes

55. favourite fairy tale? The six swans, Vasalisa the wise, Baba yaga, Bluebeard, Rumpelstiltskin, The red shoes, The velvet ribbon, Goldilocks and the three bears, and many many more

56. favourite tradition? Writing letters and cards, dressing up for halloween, celebrating birthdays

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome? Eating disorder, depression and heartbreak (although these are things I still need to keep being overcome)

58. four talents you’re proud of having? Writing, taking notes, learning about my body, feeling for what resonates

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be? Heyo, how bout that!

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be? Nausicaä of the valley of the wind (hayao miyazaki)

61. favourite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.? Recently found on my Tumblr feed from a book waiting on my shelf: “I want to believe, walking those aimless nights, that I was praying. For what I’m still not sure. But I always felt it was just ahead of me. That if I walked far enough, long enough, I would find it–perhaps even hold it up, like a tongue at the end of its word.” - Ocean Vuong (On earth we’re briefly gorgeous)

62. seven characters you relate to? In no particular order, not long thought out: 1) Sabina (A spy in the house of love), 2) Elio (Call me by your name), 3) Patti (Just kids), 4) Sally (The ruby in the smoke), 5) Camille (Un amour de jeunesse), 6) Dani (Midsommar), 7) Orla (Derry Girls)

63. five songs that would play in your club? I follow rivers - the magician remix (lykke li), JA! (bizzey), Gasolina (daddy yankee), Nice for what (drake), This must be the place - naive melody (talking heads) / love my way (psychedelic furs)

64. favourite website from your childhood? Myscene, Club penguin - those free gaming websites

65. any permanent scars? A few on my face from tables and my dog, one on my knee from flip flops on a boat launch, a few burns here and there that probably aren’t permanent

66. favourite flower(s)? Always changing, echinacea and yellow roses rn

67. good luck charms? Change on the ground, nice earrings, well worn shoes, spotting flowers or animals

68. worst flavour of any food or drink you’ve ever tried? Cream of mushroom

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned? Popped in my head, maybe not the most fun - the flower bud in the centres of apple tree fruiting spurs make the king fruit (the biggest and best apple from each spur) and if you pick the king blossom then all the surrounding blossoms will be bigger and better

70. left or right handed? Right

71. least favourite pattern? Galaxy?

72. worst subject? Economics

73. favourite weird flavour combo? Miso and apple, blueberries and coconut curry, orange juice and beer (I don't know if its really possible to find a “weird” combo maybe it’s more like “not found in my culture”)

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen? 5 if 0 is no pain (I don't think I’ve been above 8.5)

75. when did you lose your first tooth? No idea

76. what’s your favourite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)? Gnocchi or boerenkool

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill? Flowering plants

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store? Station coffee

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo? School id

80. earth tones or jewel tones? Earth

81. fireflies or lightning bugs? I don't think I have much experience with either

82. pc or console? I cannot either way

83. writing or drawing? This is my kryptonite question

84. podcasts or talk radio? Podcasts if I had to choose

84. barbie or polly pocket? Polly pocket

85. fairy tales or mythology? Mythology (stories are linked more)

86. cookies or cupcakes? Cookies

87. your greatest fear? My health issues keep accumulating and getting worse forever

88. your greatest wish? My health issues resolve

89. who would you put before everyone else? Myself, Suzmom or Marleymoon

90. luckiest mistake? Choosing mini school, don't regret it but maybe not the best decision

91. boxes or bags? Bags

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights? Sunlight and rocksalt lamps

93. nicknames? Ness, nessie, nessa, bean, bear, benjamin, kindje, sweet pea

94. favourite season? Late spring or late summer

95. favourite app on your phone? Flo, Spotify, Google maps, notes, weather, find my

96. desktop background? Santa Catalina Island off the coast of Southern California

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized? 7+

98. favourite historical era? I love revolutions and renaissances but all of em have hard times and good times

#questions #mine

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marypsue · 6 years ago

Text

The Family Business

Yes, that title is uninspired and overused.

You're probably going to get the most out of this if you're familiar with the plot of Supernatural's first season.

I’m also on AO3 as MaryPSue!

...

There’s somebody in the kitchen.

Dipper knows as soon as he turns the key in the lock. They aren’t making a lot of noise, but – that was definitely the click of a drawer closing, the quiet pop of the fridge door opening.

“Wh -” Wendy starts, and Dipper turns to her, a finger to his lips for silence. On tiptoe, he creeps down the hall, which seems to have grown miles longer since he’d first heard the sounds. He tries to tell himself it’s just Lee or Nate or Thompson, helping themselves to his food and beer, but his mind keeps spiralling back to the still-locked front door.

He leans against the wall beside the kitchen door for a moment, listening to the quiet clatter inside. Then he spins around the doorframe, ready to pummel whoever – or whatever – dares violate the sanctuary of his student housing.

Dipper’s twin looks up from the marshmallows she’s stuffing into her mouth, and her face breaks into a broad grin. With the marshmallows in her cheeks, it gives her a distinct chipmunk-y aura. “Oh, hey, bro-bro!”

“Mabel?” Dipper asks, in disbelief. The last time he’d seen his sister, it had been through the back window of the taxi taking him away from the little family he had left. Towards a new life, he’d thought. He’d hoped. A fresh start. “No offense, but what are you doing here?”

“Ith that any way to greet your long-lotht twin thithter?” Mabel asks, through the marshmallows, before swallowing. Her smile is as brilliant as ever, though Dipper notices it no longer reaches her eyes.

“Dude, what’s going -” Wendy comes around the corner and stops at the sight of Mabel. Dipper can’t blame her. Between the half-shave and the glitter, Mabel always is an arresting sight, even when she hasn’t somehow breezed through a locked door and made herself at home in somebody else’s kitchen. “Whoa, what’s all this about?”

Mabel’s eyes light up with an unholy glee, looking from Wendy to Dipper and back again, and Dipper groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe it has been a while, but he still knows exactly what’s running through Mabel’s head.

And sure enough, the next words out of Mabel’s mouth confirm it. “Oh. Em. Gee! Dipper! You didn’t tell me you finally got yourself a girlfriend!”

Beside Dipper, Wendy snorts. “Hah. He wishes.”

“We’re roommates, Mabel.”

Mabel raises one eyebrow in that annoying way she has, and smirks.

Wendy gives Mabel an appraising look. “Are you two related? You look a lot alike.”

“We’re twins!” Mabel chirps, bounding forward with a hand outstretched. “Mabel Pines! Nice to meet you!”

“Wendy Corduroy,” Wendy says, giving Mabel’s arm one good pump as she stares at Dipper, who pretends not to notice. “Twins, huh? Weird. Dipper’s never mentioned you.”

Mabel’s sunny smile slips several notches at that, and Dipper glances away as she ratchets it back up. “Well, maybe he was just scared you’d fall in love with me.” She winks, big, in Wendy’s direction, then spins to give Dipper an eyebrow waggle and an exaggerated ‘can you beLIEVE this?’ point in Wendy’s direction.

“Mabel, what are you doing here?” Dipper manages, finally, in the face of his sister’s hamminess. “If Great-Uncle Ford sent you -”

Mabel’s eye twitches, and her smile turns grimace. “A hah. About that.” She bobs her head to one side, eyes flicking in Wendy’s direction. “Grunkle Ford hasn't been home in a couple days.”

“So?” Dipper asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Nope. Nuh uh. He’s not getting dragged back into this craziness. “Have you met Grunkle Ford? He’s probably somewhere with a bottle of something strong and an ‘interesting specimen’ -”

“No,” Mabel interrupts, eyebrows in full Significant Waggle mode. “Grunkle Ford’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a couple days.”

Dipper groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Whoa, significant emphasis there,” Wendy says, looking from Mabel to Dipper to Mabel again. “You know what, this sounds like a family thing. I’m gonna head back to the library.” She taps Dipper’s shoulder lightly as she passes behind him. “Text me when the dust settles.”

Neither Dipper or Mabel speak again until they hear the front door shut behind Wendy.

“I like her. She seems cool,” Mabel says, a little too innocently.

“The coolest,” Dipper sighs. He already knows he’s going to regret this. “So. What’s this about Grunkle Ford?”

…

Mabel’s taste in music hasn’t changed. The 1967 Cadillac de Ville’s stereo system shudders and thumps out the bass beat under “Oops I Did It Again” as they fly down the highway, Mabel singing along at the top of her lungs and drumming on the steering wheel. Dipper rolls his eyes as he stares out the window, smiling despite himself. There are a lot of things about his life with what's left of his family that he doesn’t miss, but – this isn’t one of them.

“So what’s our play?” he asks, and Mabel glances over in his direction before reaching to turn the radio down.

“We follow up on these missing persons Grunkle Ford was looking into, and hopefully, we find him too.” Mabel drums her fingers on the steering wheel, a thoughtful frown drifting across her face as she hangs a right. For the first time, Dipper thinks he’s getting a glimpse of how much this is affecting her. He’s a little surprised. For all that Mabel had followed so closely in their great-uncle’s footsteps that she’d sometimes stepped on his heels since the house fire that killed their parents, she and Ford had never really seemed all that close.

Though maybe Dipper’s just blinded by how much Ford always pushed him to take an interest in Ford’s work. Just because they’re similar in a lot of ways, maybe more than Ford and Mabel are, doesn’t mean Dipper wants the same things Ford does.

But that doesn’t mean he wants to see Ford get hurt, either.

“Sounds pretty simple,” Dipper says, as the flashing lights of patrol cars come into view at the top of the hill.

“Which means it won’t be,” Mabel says, as if reading Dipper’s mind. “But that’s okay. The Mystery Twins are back in action! If we can’t do it, nobody can!” She pauses a moment, then turns to Dipper with a smile dawning across her face. “Ohmigosh! Dipper! There’s two of us again, we can do the Mulder and Scully!”

“Seriously, Mabel?” Dipper sighs, but he can feel himself smiling. “Do you want to be the skeptical partner or the true believer?”

“Um, do you even have to ask?” Mabel says, as they pull up alongside the squad cars piled up around the entrance to the bridge. She parks the Caddy, and hops out, heading straight for the blockade like she belongs there.

Dipper shakes his head, and follows.

The sheriff holds out an arm to stop him as he draws level with the blockade. Dipper looks out over the bridge to see that Mabel’s already wound her way between the patrol cars and out onto the bridge itself, poking around the car sitting diagonally across the road with its nose jammed up against the railing.

“Excuse me,” the sheriff says, and Dipper reaches into his jacket, flashing his fake FBI badge.

“Agent Nimoy, FBI. That’s my partner, Agent Kelly. We’re here about your missing persons.” He stares out at the car that Mabel’s – oh, ew, is she licking it?

The sheriff also looks out at Mabel, and then gives Dipper a stare of clear disbelief.

“Oh, yeah, her methods are unorthodox,” Dipper says. “As is her…look. But she was top of her class at the academy. A real profiler’s profiler.”

The sheriff’s still giving him that look, and Dipper shrugs, squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands behind his back in the way he knows makes him look older and more professional.

“What can you tell me about what happened here?”

…

The ghost is a Woman in White, just like the notes they find in Ford’s abandoned motel room say. And she goes after Dipper, which makes zero sense, since she’s supposed to go after unfaithful men and the last time Dipper had a girlfriend, it meant someone to hang out with on the playground at recess. Doesn’t stop her from turning up in the backseat, driving him to her abandoned house, and trying to rip his heart out of his chest, though.

Which is when Mabel turns up, just in the nick of time, with the kaddish on her lips and a shotgun loaded with rock salt in her hands.

Two living twins and three spectres of unknown religious affiliation, two of whom are underage, hardly qualify as a minyan. But the Woman in White goes quietly in the end anyway, with tears tracking down her cheeks as they warp between human flesh and sunken bone. The ghosts of her children, clutching her hands, one on either side, flash Mabel near-identical sad smiles. Then the last syllables fall from Mabel’s mouth, and they’re gone, blown away like dust on the wind.

…

“Sooo…” Mabel says, in the moment of silence after “No Scrubs” ends and whatever’s next on Mabel’s “Road Trip Mix!!! :D” CD comes on. “We did not find Grunkle Ford.”

Dipper sighs, leaning his elbow on the de Ville’s window and his chin in his hand. “I have to get back, Mabel. I’ve got entrance exams on Monday.”

Mabel lets out a long breath, but doesn’t say anything. The dulcet tones of Aqua’s “Barbie Girl” flood in to fill the silence.

“We did a really good job back there,” she says, quietly. “We work really well together. You and me, we’re like, an unstoppable team! And – we really helped those people -”

“Mabel,” Dipper says, unable to keep the warning edge from his voice.

Mabel bites down on her bottom lip.

“I don’t…have a lot of family left,” she says, like the words are barbed, like it hurts to force them out. “And it feels like I just keep losing people. First Mom and Dad, then you, now Grunkle Ford…” She sighs, the sound at odds with the bubbly pop song.

“Hey.” Dipper looks up, but Mabel’s staring intently out at the road, with a focus she rarely, if ever, turns on anything that isn't a monster hunt or a crafting project. “Mabel, c’mon. You didn’t ‘lose’ me, I’m right here -”

“Oh yeah?” Mabel turns, fixing Dipper with a knowing look that makes his stomach sink straight towards his shoes. “You never return my calls, you wouldn’t meet me when we were in town chasing that sewer alligator -”

“It was finals week, Mabel, I didn’t have time -”

“How come you never told Wendy you had a twin?” Mabel demands, and Dipper’s tongue knots in his mouth.

“I just…” he says, slowly, trying to line up his thoughts in his head. “I wanted college to be something that was…mine. That wasn’t about – the thing that killed our parents, or the supernatural, or what Ford wants from me, or how much better than me you are at all this stuff…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t want to be your twin, it’s just – it was nice not to be compared to you for once.”

Mabel’s silent, for an uncomfortably long time, tapping her fingers thoughtlessly against the steering wheel as “Barbie Girl” ends and P!nk’s “Get The Party Started” comes on.

“Is that why you left?” she asks, so quiet that Dipper almost can’t hear her over the song.

Dipper shrugs one shoulder, turning to look out the window at the fields flying by.

…

It’s dark by the time Mabel drops him off at the house. She waits until Dipper’s out with his duffle bag, then peels away from the curb with a huge, insincere smile and a “See ya round!”. The de Ville’s candy-apple red tailfins and familiar STNLYMBL license plate disappear away down the street, and Dipper has to force himself to look away before the taillights vanish from view.

The house is dark, and quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of the shower running in the bathroom down the hall from his room. Dipper unlocks the door, shuffles inside, and flops facefirst onto the bed without bothering to kick the door shut behind him.

He feels tired, right down to his bones. Like he’s been gone a lifetime tearing around the countryside in the old Caddy with Mabel instead of just a weekend. Like he’s been awake the whole time. Like he had to walk the whole way. His chest is still twinging a little, where the Woman in White had stabbed a clawed, bony hand through it, and Dipper rolls over onto his back, eyes closed, breathing slow, pressing a hand over his breastbone. Mabel was right, most of the spirits they meet are just troubled, but there are some he finds it real hard to say mourning rites for. A mother who killed her own children over her own rage and grief? Definitely one of them.

He can’t remember ever feeling this tired. He’d sworn he’d never let himself get sucked back into this life, and yet here he is, the night before entrance exams, and all he can think about is angry ghosts –

Something cold splashes against his face.

“Oh, fuck,” Dipper mutters, throwing up a hand to protect himself against the splatter of chilly droplets. If they’ve burst another pipe, their damage deposit is already gone, that’s gonna come straight out of pocket, and he has a part-time job in the commissary but Wendy’s always broke –

Dipper opens his eyes, reluctantly, and looks up at the ceiling. Instead of the spreading, bulging brown-edged stain he’d expected to see, though, there’s something up there that sends an electric jolt up his spine and freezes his bones to the marrow, something that jerks him instantly, painfully awake.

The ceiling is bleeding.

There’s a red patch up there, not very large, maybe about the size of a dinner plate. As Dipper watches, another droplet tugs away from the puddle, dangles obscenely for a moment, suspended above him – and then drops.

Dipper twists his face away, and the drop splatters against his cheek. In the sudden hush, it sounds like a gunshot, like the crack of doom.

And then come the flames.

…

Mabel settles her leather jacket a little more carefully around Dipper’s shoulders. He’s broader in the back than she is, so it doesn’t exactly fit, and the diamantes she’s studded it with dig uncomfortably into his neck and his chin, but Dipper doesn’t protest. He’s probably in shock. A blanket would be best, but that would mean going over to that fire truck and admitting to them that he was in the now-blazing house when it went up and explaining the blood on his face and the long-lost twin sister who turned up out of nowhere to pull him out and where Wendy is and he’s so, so tired.

“Did you see -” Mabel starts, again, and Dipper sighs.

“I told you, Mabel, she wasn’t there. It was just – just blood.” He shivers. It’s a warm night, and the heat from the burning house is probably enough to reach them out here, but Dipper can’t feel any of it. He’s just cold.

Mabel nods, fiddles with the collar of her jacket under Dipper’s chin for another moment, then gets up and turns on the police scanner in the Caddy’s dash. They listen to the radio chatter back and forth – a noise complaint on the frat block, an altercation in a McDonalds’ parking lot, a young woman, still missing after a house fire in student housing. It’s been a while since Dipper had to translate police radio codes, but it comes right back. Just like riding a bicycle. It all comes right back.

“Do you think it was -” Mabel starts, and Dipper curls a fist in the lapels of her jacket, tugging it tighter around him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He stares at the house until the fire leaves afterimages, burned on his eyes, until he can’t tell what are real and what are illusory flames. “And Mabel?”

Mabel sits, immediately, on the trunk beside Dipper, looking over at him, hanging on his next words.

“We’re gonna kill that son of a bitch,” Dipper breathes. It feels final – like a commencement speech, or a eulogy, almost. An epitaph for the normal life Dipper Pines almost had.

Mabel doesn’t say anything, but she does shift a little so that their arms press against each other, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her hair tickles Dipper’s nose, but he doesn’t move to brush it out of the way.

They stay like that until the fire has mostly turned to smoke and steam and embers.

one season later

“We’re gonna need some backup.”

…

The junkyard is exactly like Dipper remembers it, a graveyard of cars both classic and contemporary, a few miscellaneous big dogs and the ever-present (and ever-mysterious) goat wandering or napping among the wrecks. The sign over the door of the shabby old garage is still missing a letter, its shadow faded into the peeling paint.

Mabel goes charging in first, ducking as she crosses the threshold. Dipper, following behind her, pauses a moment before the doorway. The shotgun blast goes right over Mabel’s head, blowing out a chunk of the doorframe just by Dipper’s ear, and he can’t help but grin. Clearly, some things haven’t changed.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts, dashing across the kitchen and flinging both arms around their great-uncle’s middle. Stan clearly tries to poker-face at her, but the way he shifts the shotgun to one hand and gives her hair a ruffle with the other is kind of a tell.

“You know the drill, pumpkin. Holy water first, then hugs.”

Mabel huffs out a sigh and rolls her eyes. “Grunkle Stan, we’re Jewish.”

“Yeah, but these demons that been popping up like mushrooms ain’t. Holy water, kiddo.”

Mabel lets out an exaggerated sigh, but she takes the flask Stan digs out of his back pocket and takes a swig, holding out her arms like she’s showing off how much it’s not burning her. She waves the flask in Dipper’s direction next, and Dipper reluctantly steps forward to take it, throwing back a slug.

Stan’s double-take is almost certainly put on for comedic effect, but he does look genuinely surprised to see Dipper. “Well, wouldja look at that. If it isn’t the prodigal son.” He takes the flask of holy water back from Dipper with a suspicious scowl, even though Dipper just passed his test. “Thought you swore you were never coming back here.”

Dipper raises both eyebrows, glances across the kitchen at the fridge. “Did Ford tell you that?”

Stan just gives him a hard look, then turns away. "Look, you know as well as I do that my twin can be a real asshole, but no matter how pissed he was about you walking out, he never woulda badmouthed you to me. Maybe he's not an easy guy to get along with, but he cares about you kids. Even if he's got a funny way of showing it sometimes."

Dipper stifles a laugh. "You can say that again. Or maybe it'd be more accurate to say he doesn't show it at all."

Stan sighs. “Well, it’s good to see you again anyway, kid. Just wish it was under better circumstances.”

...

Mabel fills Stan in on everything that's happened - tracking the yellow-eyed demon to Salvation, the call Grunkle Ford had taken, how they'd split up and how Ford had been abducted - while Dipper flips through the enormous book that Stan had hauled out of his library. Mabel being, well, Mabel, it’s not exactly easy to pay attention to anything other than her storytelling.

Dipper wanders out of the kitchen, heading for the worn armchair by the fireplace. He doesn’t take his nose out of the book. The Key of Solomon, according to Stan. Dipper wishes the only place he'd ever encountered the stupid book was in the Library Sciences course he'd picked up as an option last semester.

Still, no matter the circumstances, it’s very, very cool to get to hold in his hands, to page through spells and seals and -

“Oh, sorry,” a familiar voice says, and then, “Dipper?”

Dipper looks up. “Wendy?”

Wendy grins, broad and bright. “Hey, dude! I’m so glad to see you, I kinda thought you might have been eaten by some kind of monster. Your family is so cool, Dipper. Why didn’t you ever introduce me to any of them?”

“Long story. What - what are you -” Dipper stammers, watching Wendy’s eyes carefully for any flash of black, of yellow.

“Doing here?” Wendy finishes for him. “Your great-uncle showed up at the house just after Robbie went all nuts and tried to pin me to the ceiling, did this whole ‘come with me if you want to live’ bit." She winces before saying, "Hey, if you see Robbie before I do, tell him no hard feelings, all right? I know he was possessed, and I'm sure he understands the axe wounds were inflicted in self-defence."

"My great-uncle? That's weird, Grunkle Stan doesn't do much fieldwork, and I don't know why he would've been -" Dipper starts, and Wendy shakes her head.

"No, not Stan, the other one. He’s...a total nerd, but kind of a badass, too.”

“Wh- Grunkle Ford?” Dipper asks, disbelieving, and Wendy nods.

“Yeah, man. He sent whatever was possessing Robbie packing, dropped me off here, and I’ve just been doing axe practice with Stan and reading up on what kills different monsters since then.” She laughs, a little too bright and too brittle. “Also apparently demons are real. Is that fucked up or what?”

It takes Dipper a second to find his voice.

“Tell me about it,” he says, weakly, at last.

...

The information they get out of Pacifica during the exorcism checks out. They find Ford, unconscious, in the Sunrise Apartments block, and barely make it out, with him and the memory gun, in one piece.

And that's when everything goes wrong.

Dipper's ashamed to admit that he doesn't notice right away. Mabel has to almost hand the memory gun over to Ford before something, some quirk of a smile or edge of a laugh or turn of a phrase, sends him scrambling across the abandoned farmhouse, yelling, "Wait - Mabel, don't -"

"Dipper?" Mabel asks, half-turning to look at him, and that's when Ford - the thing wearing Ford like a rented tuxedo grabs the memory gun from her, wrenching her arm down at an angle Dipper's pretty sure arms aren't meant to bend at. Mabel's scream is horrible, but the smile that slashes across Ford's face is somehow worse.

"Ooh, good catch, kid!" the thing possessing Ford says brightly, turning that smile in Dipper's direction. Its voice is too nasal, too sarcastic to be mistaken for Ford's. "And it only took you, what, two hours? Three? You and your great-uncle sure must be close -"

"Shut up," Dipper grinds out, between gritted teeth.

"How -" Mabel gasps, cradling her injured arm close to her chest. "But you passed the test -"

"What, that stuff with the holy water? Geez, I'm disappointed in you guys! Woulda thought you of all people wouldn't buy into that 'Christianity applies to everybody' baloney!"

"You're literally a demon," Dipper points out, quite reasonably, he thinks.

The thing in Ford's body rolls its yellow, slitted eyes. It's - honestly, it's really horrible to look at. Now that it's not pretending to be Ford anymore, its expressions, its movements, even just the way it holds itself are all different, and overlaid over the so-familiar figure of Dipper and Mabel's great-uncle, they all just scream 'wrong'. "Sure, sure, just paint all demons with the same brush. Like you know anything about us, kid."

"I know how to kill you," Dipper says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels.

The unblinking yellow stare that the thing in Ford's body turns on him seems to say otherwise.

And then it grins.

"You know what, that's not a bad idea!" it says, almost chirps. It steps past Mabel, ignoring her wide-eyed stare, and holds the memory gun out to Dipper. "Give it a shot, kid! Let's see what you think you know."

Dipper eyes the gun, dangling tantalisingly in front of him. He locks eyes with the demon in Ford's body as he reaches out.

The hilt of the memory gun is cold and heavy in his hand.

"Dipper, no!" Mabel gasps as Dipper raises the memory gun. He hopes - though he knows it's futile - that the demon doesn't notice the way his hand shakes. "That's our grunkle!"

"Not right now, it isn't," Dipper says, settling his finger on the trigger.

"But if you shoot it, you'll wipe out Grunkle Ford too!"

"That's right!" the demon in Ford's body says, still grinning so wide it must hurt, throwing out both arms and advancing, step by looming step, towards Dipper. "So go ahead! Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what your uncle would want? I killed your parents and ruined your life! You've been hunting me for decades, and now here I am! C'mon, kid, don't you have the guts? Take - the - shot!"

That awful smile is right in Dipper's face, and he squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the trigger.

When he opens his eyes, though, it's to those slitted yellow eyes still winking at him from his great-uncle's face.

"How - what -" Dipper stammers, stumbling backwards, holding the memory gun between himself and the demon like a security blanket. Which would be about as useful as the gun turned out to be. "Grunkle Ford told us this could kill you!"

"Oh, I bet he did!" the demon in Ford's body cackles. "But let me tell you, kid, there's a whole lot ol' Fordsy didn't tell you. You should ask him about me someday! About what really happened to your parents!"

"Our -" Dipper starts, but then one of Ford's broad hands grabs him by the throat and pins him up against the wall. Dipper kicks out and struggles for breath, lungs burning, but the demon's grip is solid.

"Of course," it says thoughtfully, stroking its chin with its free hand in a mockery of one of Ford's favourite mannerisms, "you'd both have to be alive for that to happen."

Dipper gasps, uselessly, as the demon tightens Ford's fingers around his throat.

His vision starts to darken, tunneling around the edges, but it doesn't go dark so fast that he can't see the movement over Ford's shoulder. And, despite everything, he can't help but smile.

The demon narrows Ford's eyes. "Hey, what's so funny -"

And then Mabel slams the fireplace poker into the side of its head.

The demon stumbles, letting go of Dipper's throat as it goes down on one knee. It looks up at Mabel, that smile still slashed across Ford's face and a dangerous glint in its eyes.

"Well, I gotta hand it to you two! You sure are persistent! So I guess I'll let you off the hook for now." The smile slides off of Ford's face, eyes narrowing as Dipper steps over beside Mabel, trading the memory gun for the poker dangling in her good hand. "But know this." Its voice goes deeper, picking up a strange reverb as it says, "A darkness approaches. A time will come when everything you care about will change." Its smile snaps back, as though nothing is wrong. "Until then, I'll be watching you! I'll be watching..."

It winks one yellow eye, and waves.

And then it throws Ford's head back, and a jet of blue flame pours from Ford's open mouth, splashing against the ceiling. It goes on, and on, until finally Ford's mouth shuts, and with a sigh, he topples over onto his side, unconscious.

Dipper looks over at Mabel, sees his own confusion and fear written on her face.

Somehow, between the two of them, they manage to drag Ford out to the de Ville before the burning roof of the farmhouse collapses.

________

AN: I started this crossover/fusion AU in a fit of excitement and then quickly realised that I was not equipped to respectfully and tastefully mash up a show that, among other things, is based entirely on Christian theology, with a show with Jewish-coded protagonists. So this is all there’s gonna be of this. I sincerely hope I haven’t butchered what I have done here too badly.

Had I been able to rework the...entire storyline of SPN to make this endeavour not a questionable decision, though, the role of Literal Angel would probably have been played by Soos.

#gravity falls #supernatural #hi my name is mary and i do not think things through #this is mary's fic tag

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sprnklersplashes · 5 years ago

Text

not beyond repair (5/?)

AO3

Veronica goes into school far earlier than normal. Her dad isn’t even awake when she slips out the door, her mom just coming down the stairs. She spins a lie about going to the library before classes to get some books for a project. Her mom didn’t think twice, only patting her shoulder and telling her to have a good day.

The streets are near deserted at this time. Of course they are, no one in their right mind would leave their house now, especially with the light rainfall that’s going on. Only an idiot would. Or a coward. A coward who is too scared to face her best friend.

Her mom said after she got in from JD’s house on Saturday morning that Martha had called, looking for her. Veronica had said she’d call her back and then spent all weekend fearfully looking at her phone, hoping to God it wouldn’t ring. Martha deserved an explanation and she had promised her one, but there she was being far too scared to do it. She still is, her stomach twisting in knots, preventing her from even trying to eat breakfast that morning.

What exactly could she say? She knows what she can, and really should, say “I forged the note and let the Heathers give it to you and gave you false hope please forgive me”. Damn, she already hates herself. And she knows Martha isn’t the type to hate, but she has dignity. They’ve barely spoken since she became friends (or whatever they are-were) with the Heathers, and they haven’t had movie night since the start of school. When they pass each other in the hall, sometimes they’d smile and chat if Veronica was alone, but if she was with any of the Heathers, Martha would scurry away from her like a scared mouse.

She catches sight of herself in the reflection of a car she passes. Bright blue blazer, white shirt, skirt so short it barely qualifies as a skirt. Hell on wheels. That’s what she’d thought when Heathers first bought her all this and told her how to use make-up and style her hair. It’s become so easy now, her old clothes stuffed in the back of her closet, along with her old Barbies and teddy bear, her fairy-tale books and Disney videos. She had stood by with a pained smile and a bowed head while Heather Chandler had gone through her room, putting anything she deemed too childish in the back of her closet. She had wrinkled her nose at most of it, laughingly asking why she even still kept a lot of it. She had mumbled some lie about how her parents wanted to hold onto it. All her old clothes and toys shoved into the back of the closet, along with her old self. Her old friendships. Her old morals.

If this wasn’t someone’s car, she’d punch her reflection. Her hand jerks and clenches into a fist, but she manages to hold herself back, forcing herself to just keep walking. Through quiet streets, past bleary eyed men and women getting into cars to go to work and past dim streetlights, all the while the rain gets heavier.

Her blazer is damp when she gets to school, the wet ends of her hair beginning to curl, her socks sticking to her legs, making them chafe. She pushed them down when she reaches her locker, scowling at the ugly red patches they leave on her legs, but knows they’ll have faded by first period, and opens her locker to get her morning books out. She slams it shut, letting the sound of the sound of the metal door echo up and down the empty hallway, drowning out her heavy, shuddered breathing. Her hand curls into a fist against the locker door, driving it hard into it like she can punch right through the metal. Through the wall behind it and just keep going until she’s knocked a whole through the school.

“Well good morning,” someone says behind her, the voice smooth and silvery. She can hear the smile he no doubt has. When she turns around, pressing her back against the locker, JD is barely two feet behind her, backpack slung on one shoulder and again wearing his black trench coat. She gives him a weak smile and he smiles back as much as he can. “Maybe not so good?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, pushing her hair away from her face. He comes closer to her and she grabs his hand, needing the comfort she gets from him. He takes one look at her face, it’s not like she’s hiding her feelings, and pulls her against him, running his hand up and down her back while she buries herself in his chest, listening to the gentle beat of his heart and rise and fall of his chest. She feels the pressure of a kiss on the top of her head and his arms around her, his fingertips tracing patterns on her back.

If she closes her eyes, she can pretend it’s Friday night, or Saturday morning, again, and she’s in his bed with him, just about to fall asleep, instead of getting ready to face the best friend she betrayed.

“You were right,” she murmurs sadly.

“About what?” he asks.

“I shouldn’t have bowed down to them.”

“Yeah,” he hums. For a moment, she wants to smack him, because really, all she is looking for is a little bit of sympathy. He must have picked up on her feelings, because he holds her tighter and nuzzles her hair. “But it’s okay.”

“No.” She wriggles out of his arms just enough to look at him. “You saw what I did to Martha.” He shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest, but she presses her finger to his lips to silence him. “I dropped my best friend for a group of girls I’m not even sure I like. What does that say about me, JD? How can any of this be okay?” He sighs deeply and shrugs, threading his fingers through her hair.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “All I do know is that you’re not a bad person.” She looks up at him, frowning slightly, and he just smiles. “I can tell what you’re thinking. And you’re not bad. You’re a very, very good person who made a bad decision. There’s a difference.”

“Don’t leave,” she asks, threading her fingers through his. He has to leave once that bell rings, but she can pretend that doesn’t have to happen. “Please, stay with me.”

“Of course,” he answers. She takes him by the hand and leads him down to her homeroom, cracking the door open slightly. It’s empty, of course, still too early in the day for students or even teachers to be in. She leads him down to her desk and he helps her sit up on it, positioning himself as close to her as he can, one leg on either side of her. His hands are in her lap and she plays with them absent-mindedly, scratching gently in the middle of his palm, touching her fingertips gently to his, lacing their fingers together. Her hands shake against his steady ones. “Are you all right?” She shakes her head slowly.

“I’m scared,” she admits. “I’m scared of telling Martha. I’m scared of how she’ll react and I’m-” It’s ridiculous. Saying it out loud would be even more ridiculous, especially to JD. But he’s watching her and he’s listening and no one else is. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, her hands playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I’m scared of Heather Chandler.”

“Well don’t be,” he tells her. He puts his finger under her chin and tilts her head up.

“How can I not be?”

“Because I’ll be here to protect you,” he states simply. She can’t stop herself from smiling, warmth spreading from her stomach all over her, making her fingers curl into his coat.

She pulls him closer and kisses him. He smiles against her lips, tangling his fingers in her hair. He has a magical way of making her forget everything that might have been upsetting her. She makes a small, satisfactory noise, her hands cupping the back of his head.

“Miss Sawyer,” a thin voice comes from the doorway. Veronica and JD break apart swiftly and she looks up to see her homeroom teacher, Miss Fleming, standing in the doorway, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the two of them. “Public displays of affection like that are not allowed under the school code.”

“Yeah, sorry Miss Fleming,” she says.

“Neither is sitting on the desk,” she continues, not taking her eyes off Veronica until she jumps off the desk and onto her chair. JD kneels down so he’s not towering over her and she settles for stroking his hair and letting her hand rest on the back of his neck.

“Busted,” he whispers, just loud enough for her to hear, and she giggles.

From there, kids begin piling in, some taking note of the new kid in a trench coat kneeling next to Veronica’s desk, some too caught up in their own conversations or in the cloud of Monday morning blues to notice. But not one stop stops to talk to her. JD keeps a tight but gentle grip on her hand, running his thumb along the back of it. She feels like he’s still got his arms around her, shielding her from the debris that’s falling around from her mistake.

At some point, Heather Chandler walks in, Duke and Macnamara in tow with her. She looks at Veronica almost immediately, a triumphant smirk on her face that makes Veronica shrink into her chair, her heartbeat getting faster as everything else seems to fade to black; the only thing in the universe right now is the promise of destruction in Heather’s eyes and in her smile.

“Hey.” JD takes her chin and makes her look at him, his thumb stroking underneath her eye. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. Just look at me.” She nods, trying to focus on him and block Heather out. He gives her a grin and she tries to copy it. When she can’t fully, he just keeps stroking the back of her hand until she calms down enough.

When the door opens again, she looks up and sees Martha coming in. She hangs back a little when she sees Veronica, especially when she sees JD next to her, but scurries with her head down to her seat, at least smiling at her.

“You should go,” Veronica whispers to JD.

“Are you sure?”

“I need to do this on my own,” she explains. “I’ll see you later.” He nods, and before he leaves he takes a moment to brush her hair away from her face, letting his fingers linger on her cheekbone before he got up and left. Several people watched him as he went and she can’t blame them. He’s only been in this school less than a week but they’ve all watched him cosy up to her. Despite her better instincts, she looks over at Heather Chandler, and sees her frowning, whispering something to Duke. That can only be bad.

“Veronica,” Martha says, turning around in her seat.

“Hey,” she replies in a small voice. Her throat suddenly runs dry.

“So, how was the rest of the party?” she asks casually.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replies. Martha ducks her head, smiling slightly, but it’s empty. She’s too damn kind to ask her. “I know I said I’d explain everything, and I will.” She turns around and sees her fellow students watching her and Martha, and it feels like they’re vultures circling her. She doesn’t even have the balls to look in Heather Chandler’s direction. She glances up at the clock and sees they still have time before classes officially start. “Just not here. Come on.” She takes Martha’s hand and pulls her out of the room, letting her hair shield her from everyone’s eyes. They come out into the empty hallway and Veronica pulls her into a small corner.

“Veronica, what’s wrong?” she asks. Veronica looks at her best friend, wide eyes, pink unicorn sweatshirt, round glasses. She could just make up some lie. Paint herself as the saviour who stood up to the Heathers’ cruelty. Then they could go on with their lives and their friendships like nothing happened.

But that’s not her.

“Martha, I am so sorry,” she says, feeling her throat closing.

“For what?” she asks.

“Ram-Ram didn’t write that note,” she says. Her heart gets louder with each beat. “Ram didn’t invite you to his homecoming party. I forged it.”

“No,” Martha says, shaking her head. She laughs a little, but it’s forced and cold. “No you didn’t.”

“I did,” she admits. She feels tears run down her cheeks, her eyes hot and already sore. “The Heathers put me up to it and then they gave you the note, and I let them. And I’m so, so sorry.”

Martha steps back and hits her back against the wall. She opens and closes her mouth but no sound comes out.

“Martha?” Veronica asks. “Martha I’m sorry. I just-say something. Please.”

“How could you do that to me?” she whispers.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just-I thought I could protect you at the party. Or that nothing bad would actually happen.” There’s of course, no excuse for what she did. She can blame it on the Heathers or anyone else, but she never stopped them. “Martha, I-” She goes towards her but she backs away from her, recoiling away from her outstretched arms like they’re holding guns.

“I’m sorry, Veronica,” she says. “I just-I don’t think I can talk to you right now.”

She turns and quickly heads back into the classroom before Veronica can say anything, not like there’s anything to say that can fix what she did. She buries her face in her hands to muffle her crying, grateful that no one is around to see her.

When the bell rings, she has to go back inside, regardless of how she looks. She only opens the door a crack and slips in, hoping to attract as little attention as possible, but unfortunately, luck isn’t on her side. All heads, except for one sitting just in front of her desk, turn towards her, whispers bubbling throughout the room. Heather Chandler leans back in her chair with a satisfied grin. If Veronica was brave enough, she’d strangle her there and then.

“Take your seat, Veronica,” Miss Fleming instructs and she almost runs over to it, putting her head in her hands. Martha still doesn’t turn around. She sits alone while Miss Fleming runs through the morning announcements. Some people keep their conversations going under their breath, some flick through books, one or two ask questions. She grips her elbows and tries to keep herself from losing it entirely, her best friend a few feet in front of her, but at the same time completely unreachable.

By lunch, she’s considering faking sick and going home. She might not be faking, given how nauseous she’s felt since that morning. All day people have avoided her like she carries some rare disease. Just as Heather Chandler predicted, not even the losers are touching her, no doubt hearing about how she vomited on the Queen Bee, and who knows what else she let spread around the school. Some of it could be true or it could be lies, it doesn’t matter. It’s coming from Heather Chandler, and that makes it the Word of God.

She walks into the cafeteria with her head bowed, scanning the room for a place to sit. Her old table with the Heathers is off the menu entirely, they deliberately turn their backs to her. She spots Martha and Betty at her old, old table and even dares to approach, only to see Martha shrink back in her seat, Betty putting a comforting arm around her and a “don’t you dare” look at Veronica before whispering something to Martha.

She steps back, message received. Hardly anyone looks at her, and if they do it’s a cold, unwelcoming gaze. Almost all she can see is backs turned to her. Until she feels a tug on her hand and jumps at the contact.

“Woah, hey,” JD says, putting his hands up in defeat. “Just me.”

“Yeah, hey,” she says, pulling her bag up on her shoulder. He takes a quick look around the cafeteria, wincing in sympathy.

“Got no table to sit at?” She shakes her head pathetically. “Me neither. Come on, let’s go.”

“Go?” she asks. “Go where?”

“I’m not asking you to ditch, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “Come on, I’ll show you were I eat.” She takes his hand with a raise of her eyebrows. Still, she follows him out of the cafeteria, not being able to care that everyone she knows has now seen them together. He takes her down the hall and out a glass door, leading into an empty courtyard with stone picnic tables. It’s not entirely unfamiliar to her.

“Martha and I used to come here,” she tells him. “Freshman year. We just thought it was the best place in the world.” He laughs and pulls her over to a low wall. She sits on it and he sits down next to her, one leg on either side of her. She thinks it might be because he wants to keep looking at her but shakes her head to get rid of that idea. “I don’t know why we never came back.” She sags against JD, closing her eyes tightly. “She hates me.”

“Her loss,” he says gently, but it shocks her enough to lift her head off him.

“No, JD,” she tells him. “My loss. I screwed up and now my best friend in the whole world hates me. And she’s right to.”

“Hey, what did I tell you?” he says. “Good person, bad decision.”

“You don’t know me,” she sighs without thinking. “You don’t know if I’m good or bad.”

“I knew you five years ago,” he reminds her.

“You did,” she agrees, turning to look at him. She hesitates for a moment but lets herself be brave and stroke the side of her face, tangling her fingertips in his hair. She bites her lip, her question dancing on her tongue and begging to get out as she thinks about the last time she saw him. “What happened to you?” He looks away from her and she pulls her hand away, afraid she’s gone too far too soon. She wants to grab his shoulder, either to comfort him or beg him to stay.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, his voice flat.

“Only if you want me to,” she replies. He looks up and smiles, not quite meeting his eyes, and pulls her closer to him, taking her hand in his. He holds it against his chest and takes a deep breath before beginning, looking out rather than at her. “After those social workers took me away, I was put in this temporary foster system and my dad was arrested.” He shakes his head and holds her hand tighter. “I’m a little fuzzy on the details, really. But then I got taken to the courthouse and asked a ton of questions about him and then… then about my mom. They just kept telling me to tell the truth.” He swallows thickly before continuing, still not looking at her. “Anyway they came to the conclusion that he is not a fit parent, which I wasn’t going to dispute. So they charged him with neglect, and some other stuff. Then there was the question of what to do with me. I stayed in one place in Moundsville, but that was never going to be forever. That was just a few weeks until someone was willing to take me. Then I was sent off to Indiana after a few years, actually. Until last July. Then,” he chuckles bitterly and pauses, seemingly trying to find the right words. “I turned out to be quite a handful. And they didn’t have any other teenagers. So I got sent back to the group home for a few weeks while they tried to find someone willing to step up. And it turns out Claire in Sherwood, Ohio was the only one close enough willing to take a teenager with my baggage. No one else in the whole of Indiana was. So I moved in with her just before school started.” He takes a swig of his water and smiles slightly. “Guess I’ve got to thank her.”

“Woah,” she says when he’s done. She’s not sure what else there is to say; his story sounds like something from a TV special aired late on Friday nights. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why?” he asks. “Not your fault, Ronnie. And-” He closes his mouth and shakes his head, clearly thinking better of himself. He settles for pressing his forehead to hers and rubbing their noses together softly. “So, Veronica. I’ve told you what happened to me, now tell me what happened to you.”

“What?” she asks. JD raises an eyebrow and gestures to her outfit. “Oh. That. Okay. Well, it started when I was just in the bathroom when the Heathers were there. It was the first day of this year. And Mrs Fleming came in and busted them for not having hall passes. So I… forged them one.”

“You’re still doing forgeries?” JD interrupts, amused. She laughs and shoves him.

“Yeah, and I’ve gotten way good at it,” she tells him. “Anyway, it worked, so I asked them to let me sit at their table.” She even cringes as she tells it. It would be so much better if it had happened to someone else and she just watched from the side lines like she used to. “But then they sort of… made me over. Bought me new clothes, showed me how to do my make-up. Accepted me up into their circle.” She leans her head on his shoulder. “I can feel you judging me.”

“I’m not judging you,” he promises.

“You should,” she sighs. He kisses her head and just smiles gently. “So I started hanging out with them. Eating lunch with them, going to their parties, going to their houses. Martha and I sort of hung out less and less.” She picks at the sandwich sitting on her lap, her appetite deserting her. “It was fun, I guess. Until it wasn’t.”

“You stood up to her, though,” he points out. “Quite heroically.” She rolls her eyes but hides her smile behind her hair. They eat their lunch in a comfortable silence, sharing silent smiles and whispered kisses. “Well, look at us,” he says eventually. “One former Heather, one messed up foster kid. Quite the pair.”

“You’re not messed up,” she tells him, making him smile.

The bell rings, too soon for her liking, signalling the end of lunch. Veronica crams as much of her sandwich into her mouth, giggling at JD’s face. She takes his hand and lets him lead her back into the school, swinging their arms slightly. When they get inside, the halls are still buzzing with students, brushing past her and JD without giving them a second glance, either because they’re too busy to notice them or because of her new status as a social pariah. And oddly enough, she likes it that way far more than she did when everyone’s eyes were on her.

*****

Veronica spends every lunchtime with JD out in the courtyard, even when it rains on Thursday (they huddle under a tree to keep dry, their knees touching). By the next week, Veronica, tired of the judgemental and disgusted looks in the cafeteria, doesn’t even wait for JD there, simply sits on the wall waiting for him.

“Well someone’s early,” he says, coming behind her and kissing her head before settling next to her.

“You took your time,” she corrects cheekily.

“So,” he begins delicately, rubbing his hand on her back. “As of this Friday, I’m no longer grounded.” Veronica hums in acknowledgement, her lunch in her mouth. “And in celebration, I thought on Saturday I could take you out on a proper first date.”

“A date?” she asks, her voice higher than usual. She bites her lip as she smiles, fighting the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“I mean if you don’t want to that’s-”

“No, JD!” she says, grabbing his arm as he tries to move away from her. “JD, I’d really like that. I’d really like a first date with you.” She cocks her head to the side for a moment. “Well, technically second.”

“Well yes, but our first date was you breaking into my house and seducing me,” he reminds her, making her giggle. He presses his lips to hers in a quick kiss. “So, Saturday night? I’ll take you somewhere nice. Well, as nice as there is in Sherwood, Ohio.” She chuckles in agreement and offers him a chip. “And I can pick you up at your house.”

“Actually,” she says. “Why don’t I just meet you there?” He frowns in confusion. “I don’t really want my parents to know I have a boyfriend yet.” She laces their fingers together and snuggles into his chest. “I know it’s weird and kind of dumb, but if I tell them they’ll be all over us. They’ll take photos like we’re going to prom. And my dad will spend at least half an hour grilling you about your intentions with his daughter. I’m an only child, remember? Right now, I sort of just want to you myself.”

“Sounds perfect,” he says, kissing her gently. Gently at first, then she kisses harder, grasping his shoulders as he tightens his grip on her waist. She moans slightly and bites on his lip. When she pulls away, he chases her lips for a moment, grinning.

“Not at school, JD,” she tells him playfully, tapping his nose.

******

Safe alone in his room after school, JD finally allows himself to bounce up and down, pumping his fists in the air in the privacy of his own bedroom. The excitement in his body had been coursing through him since lunchtime, making him unable to sit still or even focus on lessons. How could he focus on meaningless things like the civil war when Veronica Sawyer had agreed to go on a date with him?

He thinks that their first date is rather overdue; he wishes they’d had this chance years ago, if he had stayed in Sherwood when they were twelve and he had asked her out when they were fifteen and right now they’d be living in bliss, maybe not ruling the school, but laughing at the Heathers and their ridiculousness while sitting under the bleachers.

But he’ll just have to make up for lost time.

When he sets his bag down on the bed, reality starts dawning on him. Their date is on Saturday; that’s three days away. He lowers himself on the bed, getting his thoughts into order. First things first; he had to find a restaurant. He hasn’t ventured out much since he moved here except for going to and from school and all he has passed is a burger joint that looks from the outside like a heart attack and food poisoning rolled into one. On his first night, Claire had suggested going out to eat, telling him about the various places to go around town, but he just shook his head silently and she ended up ordering pizza, which he had picked at wordlessly before mumbling about not being hungry.

Now he’s kicking himself for not listening to her.

He gets up and goes to his wardrobe instead. Inside is fairly depressing, all he sees is grey or black t-shirts, exactly two checked blue shirts and a spare pair of dark jeans. He supposes he got into the habit of not owning much when he was younger and it stuck. It made moving to new foster placements easier anyway but made dates significantly harder.

Claire knocks gently but firmly on his door.

“Come in,” he says without thinking.

“Hey,” she greets, stepping into his room just a little. “How was school? I didn’t even hear you coming in.”

“It was fine.” He frowns at the pitifully empty wardrobe.

“Something wrong?” she asks tentatively.

“Why are the only things I own grey t-shirts?” he asks, not expecting an answer, not even directing it at her. He’s just speaking because she’s there and it’s better than letting it sit inside his head.

“Want to add some colour?” she asks teasingly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he sighs, sitting on his bed, back against the wall. He picks at some loose skin on his finger, trying to appear nonchalant. “Hey, where’s good to get food in this town?”

“Planning on going out?”

“Yeah, on Saturday,” he tells her. “After all, my punishment is over on Friday, right?”

“Right,” she agrees. She drums her fingers on the wood of his doorframe as she thinks. “Well there’s a nice Chinese place in the middle of town-”

“Take out?” he asks and she nods. “Nah I’m not looking for take out.”

“Oh, so you’re going out out,” she says, smirking a little.

“Maybe.”

“Going out with someone?” she continues.

“Maybe,” he says again. He deliberately doesn’t look at her, knowing her hopeful smile is too much for him right now.

“Well, there’s a little Italian place,” she tells him. “Mostly pizza and pasta. Not too pricey, but it’s nice. I took a kid of mine there a few years back and they really liked it.” JD tries not to laugh. If she’s hinting it’s not working. “I’ll get you the address.”

“Cool. Thanks,” he says.

“And if you want, we can go out to the mall,” she offers. “Get you something nice that isn’t, well… grey.”

“I’m okay,” he lies, deliberately avoiding her eyes. “I’ll think of something.”

“If you’re sure,” she says. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He responds with a small hum and she takes the cue to leave, leaving his door slightly open. He glares in the direction of his pathetic wardrobe. There’s no way he can show up on a date wearing the same thing he always wears. Let alone a date with Veronica of all people. He chews his lip, suppressing a groan as he prepares to swallow his pride, and violate his rule to get as little involved with his foster parents as possible.

“Hey, Claire,” he asks loudly from his bedroom door, wincing a little. He spots her just as she’s reaching the bottom of the stairs. She turns around and looks up at him, leaning slightly on the bannister. His mouth runs dry and he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Where’s good to buy clothes here?”

“There’s a nice store downtown,” she says. “Not too pricey, but good quality. I can drive you there now, I’m not doing anything.”

“It’s fine,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I can get there myself.”

“Can you?” she asks. “Without knowing where it is?”

“Then tell me,” he says, retrieving his coat and opening his sock drawer to take out his savings, tied up with a rubber band. All his allowance and car washing and newspaper delivering money he had saved since he was 13, rarely ever needing to go out anywhere meant he only spent money on necessities and as a result had quite the stack of what he called “emergency” cash, in case things get so bad he needs to run. Thankfully he hasn’t yet.

He gets into the front seat of Claire’s car without a word, patting out a quiet rhythm on the door.

“So, Saturday night,” she asks carefully. “Don’t suppose I get to know who exactly you’re going out with?”

“Do you need to know?”

“Not exactly.” She redirects her attention to the road, but her smile stays. Her stupid, teasing, affectionate smile. “Is it Veronica?” He responds by pulling up his coat collar to hide his face. She nods and presses her lips together in a thin line, keeping her eyes on the road. A stab of guilt pierces his gut, which he tries to ignore.

They don’t talk until she pulls up outside the store. He glances at it as he unbuckles his seatbelt, taking in the block lettering in bright red against the shining white plastic sign.

“Martin and Son’s,” he reads out loud, stepping out of the car. He follows Claire into the store, a bell jingling as the door opens. Inside the store has bright red carpeting and yellow walls lined with pale woods shelves of jeans, t shirts and sweaters. He strolls around, scanning his eyes over the store’s stock.

“See anything you like?” Claire asks, appearing behind him.

“I don’t know yet,” he mumbles, continuing to look through the racks of clothes. He doesn’t give the racks of logoed t-shirts a second glance and moves onto the racks of shirts. He quickly flies past the rest of the coloured ones and lifts a crisp white one off the rail. He holds out the sleeve to inspect it better, seeing the blue lining on the cuffs and feeling the soft yet sturdy fabric underneath his fingers. Simple as it is, it’s about as perfect as he can get and just what he was looking for. And when he checks the price tag and sees it’s only 10 dollars, it’s even more perfect.

“Are you getting that?” Claire asks, looking over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he replies flatly, lifting his roll of cash from under his arm and lifting out a ten.

“Hey, don’t worry I can pay for it,” she says, already opening her bag.

“I’ve got it,” he sighs, not even looking at her. The phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’ crosses his mind briefly, but that unfortunately turns out not to be the case.

“Jason, really, save your money for-”

“I said I’ve got it!” he snaps, taking a big, deliberate step away from her. He doesn’t quite regret it, but the sad look on her face still manages to make something unsettling swirl and his stomach and make him hunch his shoulders. “I got it.”

He pays for it while the waits a considerable distance from him, pretending to check out a rack of blouses with 50% off. He chuckles under his breath as he sees her. They don’t particularly fit in with her jumper and jeans filled wardrobe. They go back to the car and drive home without so much as a word to each other, the radio filling in the uncomfortable silence between them. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, his stomach and chest feeling almost empty, and like something is sitting and gnawing at his chest. He finds himself feeling attacked by the lack of words, the silence he often longed for with Claire suddenly feeling suffocating.

“Thanks,” he says. “For the tip on the store. And the restaurant. I think we’ll go there.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” she replies fondly. He sits back in the seat, rubbing the plastic bag containing his shirt between his fingers. The feeling in his chest fades slightly but doesn’t go away entirely. But it does fade faster when he looks at the shirt in his plastic bag.

******

After the complete disaster at Ram’s party, Veronica never thought she’d miss Heather Chandler again, or any of them, save maybe MacNamara. When she was with them, she learned all the tricks to get boys to notice her; ways to make her eyes more noticeable, how to frame her face with her hair, what to wear to show off her legs (which according to Chandler was her best feature) and make boys want her number. It worked; when she was with the Heathers she had a lot of boys (far more than she was comfortable with) asking for her number, asking if she was single, telling her how ‘hot’ she looked. If they were here now, at least in between the backhanded comments and judgemental looks around her room, they could show her what to do, instead of standing at her closet in a bra and skirt with the door closed and curtains drawn and two different outfits discarded on her bed. She doesn’t want to look like a Heather, but at the same time, she doesn’t want to look how she used to, not tonight anyway.

She lifts a short sleeved light blue shirt off the hanger and holds it against her chest, looking in the mirror on her closet door. It looks cute, especially with the black skirt, but she frowns at it, worrying she might look too childish in it. She takes out a dark blue blazer to go with it, hoping it’ll make it look less soft, and heads over to her dressing table, looking at all the make up the Heathers had gotten her.

She doesn’t need them, she decides. She doesn’t. She’s smart, smart enough to take an AP class and apply to Harvard, Duke and Brown. She must be smart enough to do her own make-up without anyone holding her hand. She picks up the eyeliner pencil first, holding it steadily underneath her eye, keeping in mind MacNamara’s words until it feels like she’s in the room with her, guiding her hand. Liking the way her eyes look, she puts the eyeliner down and reaches for tube of red lipstick, only to pull her hand back. After considering, she reaches for a tube of paler pink, a gift from an aunt for her last birthday which made Duke roll her eyes. The thought gives her a smirk as she’s putting it on. The difference it makes is small, but she notices it. Finally, she lifts an unopened bottle of dark blue nail polish and starts painting her nails, keeping a cautious eye on the clock.

Once she’s finished, she glances at her mirror almost sheepishly, curling her dried fingers into her hands. Still, despite her parents’ values about modesty, she likes what she sees. The shirt doesn’t look nearly as childish as she feared, especially not with her blazer covering most of it. And she’d even say she did a decent job on the make-up, even if all it does is make her eyes look bigger and her lips softer. If there’s a goodnight kiss, she wants to at least make it memorable for both of them.

Her leg bounces anxiously as the clock shows she has less than an hour until her date. JD gave her the address of the restaurant at school, written on a page torn out of his notebook, and told her he’d booked the table for six.

After he’d left, she smoothed the note out and put it in her pocket, bouncing up and down on her heels and trying not to squeal. She turns quickly, only to realise that she didn’t really have anyone to tell it all to, making the excitement bubbling in her chest subside quickly. No Martha, no Heathers. Just Veronica on her own in the middle of a near empty hallway. She doesn’t have anyone to get excited over stuff like first dates with anymore.

She turns quickly and lifts her purse from her bed. If she leaves now she’ll still be early, but it’s better than sitting in her room while the butterflies in her stomach get more and more agitated and the air in her room feels heavier.

She told a little white lie to her parents on Friday night; that she and the Heathers were going out for dinner. They don’t know about the fiasco of last week and they don’t need to, and they certainly don’t need to know about JD yet.

The whole walk to the restaurant she has to fight the urge to pick at her nail polish. She finds it easily enough; when she sees it she suddenly remembers all the times she’s passed it but never went inside. Inside the tables are all covered in red and white checked tablecloth and have small candles on them, and outside there’s a white and red striped canopy over the front entrance. The building itself is red brick and white paint on the windows and a menu pinned next to the door surrounded by a brown wooden frame. All in all, JD seems to have great taste in restaurants.

She keeps her eye on her watch. She’s ten minutes early but that doesn’t matter. She stands against the wall and watches cars and people pass until there’s only five minutes left. Then the hands of her watch tick to seven o’clock and she looks up, as if JD was just going to materialise in front of her. She tries to dismiss her worry when he doesn’t show up immediately, telling herself that he’s human and is probably just a minute away. She tells herself this as the hand on her watch ticks away from the twelve and towards the one and against her better judgements, she begins counting the seconds in her head, twisting her watch on her wrist until it starts hurting-

“Hey.” JD stands just behind her. His usual t-shirt is gone in favour of a white shirt, his hair seems a little more tame, his curls brushed down, and even his dog tag necklaces are gone. The trench coat has stayed, and she finds herself grateful for it, but it’s far more open than she’s seen it before. “I know I’m a little late, I’m sorry, I thought I was closer-”

“Two minutes late,” she says as a weight lifts from her chest. “Yeah, real deal breaker, JD.” They laugh and he holds his hand out to her.

“Shall we?” She takes his hand and the butterflies start in her stomach again, but the good kind. He leads her into the restaurant and to their table, next to one of the windows.

“This place is really nice,” she remarks as she sits down, taking a menu from the waiter.

“That’s what I promised you,” he reminds her. “Though really, Claire is the one you should thank. She told me about this.” He bites his lip slightly. “Just hope she was right.” He takes a moment to look up at her, smiling softly as he takes in her appearance. “You look really pretty.”

“Thanks,” she replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Um, you look great to.”

“Thanks,” he laughs nervously. He taps his nails on the table nervously, struggling for something to say. “Why don’t I order us some drinks?”

“Do you have a fake ID?” she asks with a smirk.

“Unfortunately no, which means we’re going to have to skip the alcohol.”

“Fine by me,” she says, wincing slightly, her mind flashing back to Ram’s party before she can stop it. “Me and alcohol don’t really mix.” He seems to sense her discomfort and grabs her hand, rubbing his thumb the back of it and across her knuckles. She smiles at the contact, her shoulders relaxing. They can’t touch her here. “I’ll just get a Coke.”

She orders a pasta carbonara as well while he gets a plain cheese pizza and the conversation turns to school, and of all things, the Heathers. Turns out making fun of them is actually pretty fun, especially when she finds herself unloading all the issues she’s been holding back, every sarcastic remark about Chandler or Duke she’s hidden with a smile in their presence.

“You’re not serious?” he asks, his eyes glittering.

“Yep,” she admits, hanging her head slightly. “Chandler got me to forge a note to get her out of gym by saying she had yearbook committee, and another to get her out of yearbook committee on the same day.” She scrunches up her face. “And I agreed to it.”

“Okay, okay,” he says between laughs. “But what I need to know is… how did you get so good at forgeries? I mean when we were kids you had a knack for it, but when did you make it a career choice?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I just thought, hey, I’m good at this, you know. It was sort of a hobby. That I just got insanely good at.” She takes his napkin and giggles, lifting a pen out of her purse. “Here, watch. You know Miss Fleming?”

“I think it’s impossible not to,” he says. “But she signed off on my papers when I came here.”

“Okay, watch.” She gets to work, which is harder on a napkin, which tears or stretches with almost every stroke of her pen, but she gets it done and turns it around to show JD an identical copy of Miss Fleming’s signature.

“That’s pretty amazing, Veronica,” he laughs, making her heart skip a beat. He looks over at her finished plate and pushes his own away from him slightly, leaning over on the table. “So, what about dessert? I’d happily split an ice cream sundae with you.”

“Sounds great,” she says, smiling softly to herself as the butterflies settle in her stomach. “You know all the ways to me, don’t you?”

They order a chocolate sundae, satisfying Veronica’s secret sweet tooth, and that takes them on a stroll down memory lane. The world outside is dark, the sky turning ink-blue, but the candles are lit around them, light the whole place, and JD’s face in an orange hue.

“Back when I was a kid, I used to spend summers with my grandparents in Maine,” she tells him. As she’s rambling, she wonders briefly if she can get drunk on ice cream. “It was always cold up there but my grandpa used to get me this really huge ice cream-or maybe I just thought it was huge because I was a little kid. But he got me one every time I went there. Vanilla, whipped, chocolate sauce.” She takes another spoonful of ice cream. “My mom never let me get actual chocolate because she thought that vanilla was healthier.” She pauses as he laughs, his smile reaching his ears and creating little dimples in his cheeks. She finds herself wanting to press her fingers into the indents. “But yeah, best ice cream I’ve had came from an ice cream van in Maine.”

“Aww,” he says. “That’s kind of adorable.” She half-hides her cheek behind her hand but it does nothing to hide her oncoming blush. “I guess mine was…” His tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth, his smile softening at the edges. “I was 14. So I was living in Indiana at the time. And the foster parents I was with took all of us, like eight kids, about 12 to 14 years old, out to the movies. We saw The Great Mouse Detective. It was shit. But the foster dad got us all these little tubs of ice cream they were selling at the theatre. And I got a chocolate and vanilla swirl. And it was the second best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

“What was the first?” she asks. He taps the spoon against their half-emptied sundae glass, making a small tinkling around only they can hear. She turns her spoon around in the glass, looking down at it; it’s almost empty, save for smears of ice cream up and down the sides of it and a red cherry sitting amongst the sea of light brown. “I’ll fight you for the cherry.” He smirks, licking his lower lip.

“On three,” he says. “Keep your spoon up, it’s not fair if you keep it in the bowl.” She raises her spoon, poised down at the glass like a fighter jet. “One… two… three.”

Their spoons go down together, the metal clanking drowned out by her own too-loud laughter. They fight each other in the glass, her cheeks and throat beginning to hurt from laughing, until she raises hers out, cherry sitting pride of place, and pops it into her mouth with a winning grin.

“Fair and square,” he chuckles. “He checks his watch and looks out the window. “Hey, it’s getting late, why don’t I just pay the check and take you home?”

“You’re paying the check?” she asks, already taking her purse out. “No way, we’re splitting this.”

“Come on, Veronica,” he says. “Let me be the gentleman here.”

“You’ve been a gentleman all night,” she says, making him smile bashfully. “It’s 1989, JD. We’re splitting this check.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “But next time I am at least buying you a drink. Or an ice cream.”

They step out into the street, trading the warmth of the restaurant for the slight chill of a September night in Ohio. She tries not to shiver, but it’s hard, and her eagle eyed boyfriend picks up on it anyway.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“A little,” she admits. After a moment, he puts his arm around her and pulls her close, studying her face the whole time. She responds by wrapping her own arm around his waist, rubbing her cheek against his coat.

“Warmer now?” he asks gently into her hair.

“Yeah,” she replies, tightening her grip on his waist. A check on her watch says it’s 20 minutes until her curfew and she suppresses a groan. When she was with the Heathers, they had always mocked her for having a curfew, some more than others, all three of them stayed out as late as they wanted while Veronica had to leave their houses at 9:45. She is sure JD wouldn’t make fun of her like they did, but she would vastly prefer staying out here with him than having to go back home and answer her mother’s questions with one or two words.

“Hey, Ronica,” a slightly slurred voice says behind them.

“Oh, Christ,” she mutters. She takes JD’s hand and starts pulling him, urging him to walk faster, but their path is cut off by none other than Kurt and Ram, who lean on each other, sniggering to themselves, no doubt taking in how close they’re standing and their intertwined hands.

“What are you doing out here,” Kurt asks. “Especially with Bo Diddley here.”

“None of your business,” she says, sounding braver than she feels.

“Ohhhh,” Ram says. “You two out on a little date?”

“What, you using her to act straight?” Kurt giggles. Veronica feels JD’s hand tighten around hers and has a slightly worrying feeling that it’s not entirely out of protectiveness.

“Buzz off,” she says, shaking her head to make her hair fall out of her face. She sticks her chin up and straightens her back, but she doesn’t look them in the eye. “Don’t you two have somewhere to go?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kurt admits. “Going to a party at Heather Chandler’s.”

“Shame you won’t be there,” Ram adds with a wink. “Unless you want to ditch Bo Diddley here.”

“You already used that insult,” JD reminds them. They look at him dumbly, mouths hanging open, but shrug him off.

“Whatever, dude,” Ram says. “Later.” They stagger off into the night, shoving each other and laughing at something that probably isn’t that funny.

“Assholes,” JD mutters.

“Hey,” she says, tugging on his coat sleeve. “Come on, let’s just go home.”

When they arrive at the corner of her street, her house is just about visible under the streetlights, less than a minute’s walk, but she stops him there, placing her hand on his chest.

“Just stop here,” she says. “I don’t want to risk my parents seeing us.” He takes her by the waist and pulls her against his chest, pushing her hair away from her face and making her heart race. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

“I’m glad,” he replies softly. “I had a nice time too.” She grasps the collar of his coat, watching her breath come out in smoke as he sways her gently. “So, do I get a second date?” She giggles and presses her finger gently to his lips.

“My turn to ask,” she tells him. “Will you go out with me again?”

He answer her with a kiss, cupping the back of her head with his hand and stroking gently. She makes a small, pleased noise as she kisses him back with just as much fervour, her teeth tugging on his lip, her tongue entering his mouth. She feels him against her, ready and willing to take it as far as she likes. She pushes him against the hedge, running her hand down his chest and tugging on his hair while their tongues and teeth keep clashing.

“Okay,” she breathes, pulling away from him. Under the orange glare of the streetlamp, she can see his red cheeks. “Good night, JD.”

“See you in school,” he replies, stroking the back of her hand before turning and heading to his house. She takes a few steps backwards as she goes so she can keep her eyes on him. Her boyfriend. She has an actual boyfriend. A funny, charming, protective boyfriend who makes her blush and cooks her breakfast and makes her feel like she’s the only person in the world.

Her diary is going to have quite the entry tonight.

#heathers ff #jdonica ff #heathers the musical #jdonica #long post for ts #mobile users i am SO DAMN SORRY #i just wrote nearly 9000 words #help

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suburbantimewaster · 5 years ago

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Most Hated Characters

This is a list of characters I hate because they’re poorly written, not because they’re written to be hated. So Joffrey from Game of Thrones is safe.

Ross Gellar (Friends): Where to begin with this guy. He obsessed over a girl since high school and, when he gets together with her, acts like a possessive douchebag to the point that he doesn’t like Rachel going to a work lecture with a colleague. Then complains about her actually having a life outside of him when she gets a career in fashion. Even though, earlier, he didn’t like that Rachel was just a waitress. Not to mention his misogyny, where he refuses to hire a male nanny who was qualified in every aspect expect for being a man. Then makes a huge deal about Ben playing with a Barbie doll. Not to mention that he whines and whines about every small thing that goes wrong in his life, even though a lot of them are his own fault. People who complain about the live-action Jafar being too whiny seriously need to take a look at Ross Gellar, the king of whine.

Dawn Summers (Buffy the Vampire Slayer): While I absolutely love this show, and Buffy Summers is my hero, there is one thing I would desperately change about this show and that is Dawn Summers. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her whole key arc in season 5 but, in season 6, I just wanted to strangle her. She complains constantly about how Buffy doesn’t spend enough time with her because she has to work at a crappy job to support her. Which, if Dawn hadn’t purposely flunked her classes, Buffy wouldn’t have had to quit college and get anyway. Dawn regularly does stupid stuff, such as accidentally inviting a vampire in the house, and we’re supposed to side with her because “she’s just a kid.” Other than being the Key, this girl contributes nothing to the show. They should have just killed her off in season 5 instead of introducing that stupid plot hole just to keep her.

Every Single Character in the Big Bang Theory: That’s right, I hate them all. Sheldon for being a whiny spoiled brat, Leonard for being an entitled “nice guy,” Howard for being a perverted manchild (the latter staying even when he married Bernadette), Raj for being a whiny douchebag, Penny for acting like an entitled alpha bitch who mocks the guys’ interests even though they’re scientists and she’s a waitress, Bernadette for being an evil bitch to the point of making Howard give up his Tardis (I’m never forgiving her for that), and Amy for being every bit as evil and manipulative as Sheldon, even though she’s supposed to be the one that suffers. That’s right, everyone in this show has done something that makes me want to throw my shoe at the TV and my mom and I continued watching it just for the sake of completing it. Don’t get me wrong, I watch many sitcoms where the characters are insufferable douchebags, such as Seinfeld, but the difference is that the writers embraced the douchebags and rolled with it. Not try to make us sympathize and say that they’re good people deep down, which they’re not.

Ahmed (Thief of Baghdad): Okay, I did like his storyline in the beginning about how he learned not to trust his Grand Vizier Jaffar (the one Jafar was based off of) and how he went out into the world but, after that, everything interesting about him goes out the window. Throughout the movie, all he does is whine about his nameless princess and how he can’t live without this girl he knew for all of five minutes and who he met by breaking into her garden. The first time I watched the movie, my thoughts were “My God, shut up about your stupid princess already.” Is it any wonder that, when the movie was out, so many women wrote to Conrad Veidt saying that they would’ve chosen Jaffar over Ahmed any day?

Jack and Kate (Lost): That’s right, I gave Jack and Kate an equal spot. I’ll admit, Jack got cool at the end when he was all about the island but it doesn’t make up for seasons of bad writing we had to sit through about how everything on the island doesn’t make sense. Jack, you live on an island with a giant smoke monster and you saw your father’s ghost. The laws of reality are being severely challenged for you. Also, you had no proof that not pushing the button wasn’t going to blow up the island and you were willing to risk everyone on said island just to prove that you were right. Not to mention all the pointless flashbacks I had to endure starring you, such as that stupid flashback about the tattoos. It couldn’t have been something he did in medical school when he was drunk, it has to have some super special significance. Kate, on the other hand, started out cool but quickly became disappointing. You had a hardcore criminal on the show and her major plot was her stupid love triangle between Jack and Sawyer. Her reason for killing her stepfather (actually her real father) wasn’t because he was abusing her but because he was part of her. Seriously, what the fuck? She forces herself into the final climax by shooting the smoke monster, even though she had no personal conflict with him, and she wanted to get off the island, despite being a wanted criminal. I know some people have to want to leave the island, but you have to give them a legitimate reason. Wouldn’t it be more interesting if Jack wanted to leave and Kate wanted to stay, giving them a conflict that didn’t have to do with the love triangle?

Wesley Crusher (Star Trek: The Next Generation): The very character who started the trope Creator’s Pet, which used to be called The Wesley. He was the irritating boy genius that was smarter than everyone, even the super smart robot. Wesley played around in Engineering on duty, seeing how he could boost the sensors. When Data asked how I was asking why. He’s forced into the plot just to prove how smart he is, one time being given command of an entire project filled with older and far more experienced officers. He’s the only one who figured out that Data was Lore, even though it was super obvious to the point that a 5 year old could’ve figured it out, but everyone else was taking their stupid pills so that Wesley can look smart by comparison. Even Will Wheaton himself admitted to hating the character of Wesley Crusher. This is how NOT to write a boy genius while Peter Parker from the MCU is a great example of how to do Wesley Crusher right.

Neelix (Star Trek: Voyager): Words cannot describe how much I hate this stupid alien. He was supposed to be the breakout character of Voyager, a combination of Odo and Quark, and he came off more like Michael Scott on a starship. When he wasn’t incessantly bugging Tuvok, who made it very clear that he wants to be left alone, he was making adjustments to recipes no one asked him to make adjustments to. Neelix also forces himself into situations where he’s not wanted or needed, such as insisting that he be part of the security team. Not to mention his possessive jealousy over Kes makes Ross Geller look like a supportive boyfriend.

Connor (Angel): Meet the son of Angel and Darla that nobody wanted. He’s an unlikable bigot who tried to kill Angel and, even though he was misled, wouldn’t even consider that he was wrong. Then there was that whole Jasmine arc where he knew all along that Jasmine was evil, but went along with it anyway. At no point does he try to help Fred, who’s been there for him and cared for him, and he screws over not only the Angel crew, but everyone on Earth because he went along with a lie. Supposedly it was because it was “the best lie he’s ever heard,” but if that’s supposed to make me feel sympathy for him, you’re barking up the wrong tree. He got less annoying once Angel rewrote his memory.

Lana Lang (Smallville): I have saved the best, or worst, for last. Meet Lana Lang, Clark’s love interest who’s so amazing and strong, even though we never see evidence of either of that. All she does is get captured, have various stalkers declare their undying love for her, mope about her dead parents, who died before she could even remember them and was raised by a loving aunt and makes Clark mope about how he can’t be with her. She’s supposedly running the Talon (the coffee shop), even though she’s in high school and has no business training whatsoever. So many men declared their undying love for Lana Lang, it was ridiculous. This small town nobody had more stalkers than Lex Luthor, and he was the heir of a wealthy entrepreneur. Later on, she gets tougher by learning martial arts in the span of one day and ends the show by getting navy seal training. Then we have to have this whole sad scene about how she and Clark can’t be together because she sucked up kryptonite inside of her. Though, when they were together, she wasn’t really a great girlfriend considering that, when Bizarro replaced Clark, she had to be told by Chloe that her boyfriend’s an imposter. When Lana leaves the show for good, you’d think we’d get a break from it but no, we have to hear over and over about how amazing Lana is and how no one can ever dream of matching up to her perfection. Every time people talk about what an unbelievable Mary Sue Michael Burnham from Star Trek: Discovery is, I want to show them Lana Lang.

#most hated characters #wanted to do this for awhile #i got bored #trying to kill time

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flyingcookierambles · 5 years ago

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im going thru this and it’s like a call out post to me, hittin every thing my family’s done lol. also tho, its nice to know that im not alone in feeling a weird funky limbo.

like, im not sure if ive mentioned it here before but im a chinese american adoptee and my family’s uhhh pretty white.

basically, ive never like felt like im in a weird limbo until i came to college and interacted w/ other asian american kids and asian students from overseas. like, in high school, which was a predominately white school, there were probably only 20 asian kids in the entire school. in my grade, there was me and 3 other girls. but i was only friends with 1 of them, and she transferred schools, so it was me and 2 other girls in my grade. i knew that they weren’t adopted and we were more of classmates existing in the same space since we didn’t have overlapping friend groups. so i didn’t get to know them that well. and i just lumped myself in the group of “asian american” or “chinese american” because i thought that i was probably very similar to them, or something like that.

then in college i actually met other asian students and asian american students. my one chinese friend, X, who i mentioned in an earlier story, would introduce me to her friends as her “american friend.” cool, understandable, there’s a cultural/national background difference there. i don’t mind being called the “american friend.” but then when i talked to other asian american students, and they would mention things like “oh my family made homemade dumplings” or like “i’m going to visit my family in taiwan” or whatever, i began to think, “wait maybe i dont have much in common with other asian americans.” like, they also didn’t fit in completely with the asian/chinese students from overseas, because they grew up in america. but, they still had like an immigrant parent or grandparent and a bit of a connection to chinese culture, whether that be celebrating chinese holidays at home, making homemade chinese food, or speaking to their relatives (or, at least, some audio comprehension). so, i just like smiled and nodded and didn’t really bring up being adopted unless asked, so i kinda felt like an imposter. i had no connection whatsoever to china or “being chinese.” i mean, i took mandarin as a language in high school, but that was basically it. (also before high school i only had my mom’s stories of when she went out to adopt me and my sisters, which i cringe at for different reasons that i might complain about in another post, and the disney movie mulan, the life and times of juniper lee, american dragon jake long, and atla. make what you will of that.)

like, i felt like i can’t fit in completely with the white kids, i can’t fit in completely with the chinese kids, and i can’t fit in completely with the other asian/chinese american kids. ok. im stuck in limbo. never to belong anywhere.

but reading this about how the korean american adoptees made their own third space of not being white, not being fully korean american, and not being korean, made me just be like “oh yeah! i’m not the only one!” and then i was actually kinda happy. (altho, i didn’t know that before the whole “adopt from china” thing, americans (or uh the world?) had an “adopt from korea” phase???)

im not sure if my younger sisters who are also adopted feel this way. they aren’t uhh, very woke, as you would put it. neither are on twitter or tumblr and probably have never even heard the phrase “social justice” before. and my mom, who is white and a boomer, is, uh, probably not very qualified to talk about such things. so we don’t really talk about complex stuff like this in my house.

anyways, it’s interesting to learn that this third space, which i guess ill now happily embrace bc i have nothing else to do, exists. also that asian adoptees, or i guess just any adoptee of a different race than their adoptive parents, are understudied. like, i don’t doubt it. just that i’m wondering if this identity has come to light more because we’re growing up and voicing how much we feel in limbo. i mean, this report came out in 2006, and i must’ve been in like 1st grade. i certainly couldn’t tell sociologists and psycharists about this feeling of never belonging, i only cared about barbie probably. this weird limbo (racial? cultural? dysphoria?? ) only fully hit me just now in college, in 2016. i’ll start to look into other studies of adoptee diaspora. it’s interesting and also i can read it and be like “oh god my family did that. and that. and that.” lol.

also, weirdly (? ironically?) in my landscape photography class, there’s this other chinese american girl who, while explaining why she took her picture of bamboo, just mentioned “oh yeah, my parents got this bamboo because i’m adopted from china” and i wanted to be like “omg same” but i’m too shy for that lol.

#gummytruck rambles #uhhh #personal #really personal i guess #adoptee #the full limbo experience of being adopted #uh hey fellow adoptees lets reclaim the term transracial and #punch white ppl like rachel dolezal in the face #that word shouldnt belong to weird white ppl who for some reason wanna be in blackface 24/7 #it should be belong to ppl who are adopted or are mixed race

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elegantxsavageryx · 6 years ago

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Emerson Claire Tate’s playlist:

“I believe most people are good and most mamas ought to qualify for sainthood. I believe most Friday nights look better under neon or stadium lights. I believe you love who you love, ain’t nothing you should ever be ashamed of. I believe this world ain’t half as bad as it looks, I believe most people are good. I believe that days go slow and years go fast and every breath’s a gift, the first one to the last.” Most People Are Good by Luke Bryan

“She grew up on the side of the road where the church bells ring and strong love grows. She grew up good, she grew up slow like American honey. Steady as a preacher, free as a weed. Couldn’t wait to get going but wasn’t quite ready to leave. So innocent, pure, and sweet, American honey.” American Honey by Lady Antebellum

��In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel living in the garden of evil. Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed, shining like a fiery beacon. You got that medicine I need: fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly. Put your hands on my waist, do it softly. Me and God, we don’t get along so now I sing. No one’s gonna take my soul away, I’m living like Jim Morrison.” Gods and Monsters by Lana Del Rey

“So many things to do and say but I can’t seem to find the way, but I wanna know how. I know I’m meant for something else, but first, I gotta find myself but I don’t know how. Oh, why, do I reach for the stars when I don’t have wings to carry me that far? I gotta have roots before branches to know who I am before I know who I wanna be, and faith to take chances, to live like I see, a place in this world for me.” Roots Before Branches by Room For Two

“You won’t make yourself a name if you follow the rules, history gets made when you’re acting the fool. So, don’t hold back and just run it, show what you got and just own it. No, they can’t tear you apart. If you trust your rebel heart, ride into battle, don’t be afraid, take the road less traveled on. Wear out your boots and kick up the gravel, don’t be afraid, take the road less traveled on.” Road Less Traveled by Lauren Alaina

I saw you dancing at the ocean, running fast along the sand. A spirit born of earth and water, fire flying from your hands. In the instant that you love someone, in the second that the hammer hits, reality runs up your spine and the pieces finally fit. And all I ever needed was the one, like freedom fields where wild horses run. When stars collide like you and I, no shadows block the sun. You’re all I’ve ever needed, baby, you’re the one.” The One by Elton John

“Her daddy gave her her first pony and taught her how to ride. She climbed high in that saddle, fell I don’t know how many times. It taught her a lesson that she learned maybe a little too well: cowgirls don’t cry.” Cowgirls Don’t Cry by Brooks and Dunn ft. Reba McEntire

“You got the soul and you know how to use it, put your hand on my hip ‘cause you know that I’ll lose it. You got my heart racin’ like there’s nothing to it, we’re falling in love to the beat of the music.” Beat of the Music by Brett Eldredge

“Now her daddy’s in the kitchen starin’ out the window, scratchin’ and rackin’ his brains. How could eighteen years just up and walk away? Our little ponytail girl grown up to be a woman and she’s gone in the blink of an eye. She left the suds in the bucket and the clothes hanging out on the line.” Suds in the Bucket by Sara Evans

“Well, I ain’t never been the Barbie-doll type. No, I can’t swig that sweet champagne, I’d rather drink beer all night in a tavern or in a honky-tonk or on a four-wheel drive tailgate. I’ve got posters on my wall of Skynard, Kid, and Strait. Some people might look down on me but I don’t give a rip.” Redneck Woman by Gretchen Wilson

“I don’t believe in self-pity, it only brings you down. May be the queen of broken hearts, but I don’t hide behind the crown. When the deck is stacked against me, I just play a different game. My roots are planted in the past and though my life is changing fast, who I am is who I wanna be.” I’m A Survivor by Reba McEntire

I’m the kinda girl who says it with a smile, oh yeah, that sweet-as-molasses down-home style. I’m what you might call a real corn-fed, ooh, yeah, I’m a country girl born and bred. It’s a state of mind, no matter where you’re from, living like your grandma done. ‘Cause good home trainin’ ain’t a common thing.” Country Girl by Rissi Palmer

#londonhq:task003 #&&( try to take what's lost and broke and make it right ) → emerson's playlist #&&( a spirit born of earth and water ) → emerson's musings

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garden-of-succulents · 7 years ago

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Kent Parson and the Comeback Kid - 3

After a week of Kent Parson breaking everybody's hearts I was like I AM GONNA WRITE SOMETHING FLUFFY FOR HIM IF IT KILLS ME. And tonight I wrote 6k in four hours? Which is an amazing omen for the new year, may it prove so in the future?

So this is a new chapter of Kent Parson and the Comeback Kid. It's 2021. Kent's finally gotten Andy from Leave Your Lovers Like Campsites to settle down and have a kid and marry him. They've got an open relationship and he's got boyfriends who don't appear in this fic so far; she's dating Maida Hombrebueno. Andy, who was an elite hockey player in her youth, was out of the sport for many years and just got rediscovered as a talent. She's 32 and just qualified for the US National Women's Team for the first time. Also, it's Round 3 of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and the Aces are up in the series 3-2.

(There's one little sour moment where Andy's dad is mentioned, and general BS of the media being gross, but nothing like the last part. And for people who're wondering: Katie is Kent's sister.)

At the airport, Nick jumped down and ran for her as soon as he got a clear eyeline. He almost got taken out by a luggage cart before getting within ten feet of her, and Andy sent thanks with her eye contact as the man stopped and let Nick blithely swerve around him.

"Mommy! Mommy!" he exclaimed, as she scooped him up. "What did you bring me?"

Andy laughed and rocked him back and forth, pressing her cheek to his hair. "Hey kiddo," she said, heart thudding. "I am so happy to see you. I brought you... a giant kiss. You gonna let me give you a big kiss hello?"

He did, pressing his hand over his cheek afterwards to hold it there. "I'm in pull-ups," he informed her glumly as she walked across the Arrivals area with him on her hip.

"Yeah? You peed yourself a little? Happens to the best of us, buddy," she said, tightening the arm around Nick so she could lift her other one and reel in her girlfriend.

A few years back, Andy ended her twentieth hockey season in a rec league in Minneapolis and hung up her ice skates in frustration. Half her team were skating for their first season ever, and were carried along by the half who'd been playing since they were little girls. They made great drinking buddies, but she hadn't been going anywhere as an athlete, and felt a little burned out by having to coach in her rec time over and above her day job coaching teenagers at a hockey academy.

Roller derby gave her a lot of the same things as hockey. It was fast and fun and violent, and played by women who made her laugh so hard she snorted beer out of her nose. But the player base had a deeply different ethos, embracing the weird and wonderful instead of hockey's straighter laces. When Maida Hombrebueno joined the Sin City Derby Girls, it was the first time she'd willingly participated in a team sport since the age of ten, and Andy might never have met her without it.

Maida spent her summers touring music festivals and New Age gatherings with her boyfriend Luis, a Santeria-practicing guitar player. When she wasn't rehabilitating injured wild raptors, Maida's own interests ran to composing slam poetry in indigenous Mexican languages and occult divination.

She was like water in the desert.

Once Andy got over her sense of disorientation with Maida, the feeling of being so far from any familiar cultural referents she didn't know where she was, she found herself at home. Maida was the teammate she trusted to have her back, the witch who poured blessings on her son's head. As a lover, she was like a stray cat who just walked into Andy's house one day and treated her bed like home, filling up her house with warmth and wisdom. When she left, it was on her own time and for her own reasons, but also the certainty that she'd be back. Maida was the only person Andy would trust to take her two-year-old son to the airport and let him wander freely, risking life and limb in the face of baggage carts and many other unknown horrors. Maida treated Nick with a calm, hands-off attentiveness, knew where he was every second, and could--unlike his grandmother--call him back at any minute.

Maida squeezed her in a hug, and Andy breathed in the jasmine perfume behind Maida's ears, pressing her face into Maida's hair for a minute before letting go.

"Congratulations," Maida said, and twined her fingers with Andy's as they began walking out to the parking lot.

We'll just do the long-distance thing, she'd said even before Andy left for the selection camp. No drama, no questions. Unless you don't want to. But you do what you need.

"Thanks." Andy squeezed her hand. "You coming to the game tonight?"

"Oh, no," Maida said. "You guys have fun. I'll go home when you guys head out."

Andy shook her head, smiling. Kent's friendship with Maida went back almost as many years as he'd known Andy, when he'd started exploring Paganism, and had been lovers with Maida and Luis for years; when he drove out of Las Vegas to their trailer in the desert, it was to escape hockey, to escape being Kent Parson, to escape even the memory of the pressures laid on him in the city. So even after all these years, they never went to Kent's games. Maida might acknowledge that Andy played hockey, but politely treated Kent's hockey career like a hobby that paled in comparison to everything else about him. She'd rather talk to him about music, xeriscaping, statistics, about the progress of Nick's potty-training, than let discussion of hockey pass her lips in his presence. "Series is 3-2 us," she said, just to fill Maida in. "Either they win conference finals and advance to the Cup final tonight, or it goes to another game."

"Karen's been trying to pack when she thinks Kent won't see," Maida said with dry humour. Kent and Andy were hockey-player superstitious, made uncomfortable by words or actions that implied their teams would win; Maida was idiosyncratically superstitious, more likely to believe fate was affected by the phase of the moon and the rains last winter than human actions; Karen didn't think she was superstitious at all, and liked to be well-prepared ahead of time. Karen therefore struggled to reconcile her son's habits and her household management, especially during Playoffs. In her opinion, a week's warning was hardly enough for her to prepare to take Nick to New England so they could be there at the game if Kent won, and the shuttling back and forth between home games and away was a demonic plan specifically designed to torment her. Over the past week Maida had probably been surreptitiously keeping friction between mother and son from erupting, when she wasn't tending to her birds.

"Grandma's gonna be so happy when Playoffs are over," Andy chirped to Nick, who had his arms around her neck and his head against his shoulder. To Maida she asked, "Where's Kent napping?"

"Swoops's," Maida answered. She reached over and rubbed Nick's back as they got to the car. "Though this one's not going to be too loud, I think. He was up at six this morning. Be nice if he could--" she mouthed the word nap-- "this afternoon."

"Mmm," Andy agreed, depositing Nick in his carseat. He clung to her, his eyelids drooping. She was already calculating the probability that he'd fall asleep in the car and stay asleep while she carried him inside.

The odds weren't great, but a girl could hope. It made sense that Kent Parson's son would be a stubborn little motherfucker, though.

"Kent wants to see you before puck drop," Karen said, as Nick dragged Andy by the hand. His eyes had snapped open just as Andy laid him down on his bed, damnit.

"I know," Andy said, as she retreated down the hall. "He texted me." And then she waved as Nick pulled her into the playroom.

She had to admit, privately, that she didn't always understand her son. His noises didn't always resolve into words in her ears, and she frequently relied on Kent and Karen for translation. She didn't understand why he wanted to do something with a train and a Barbie and a spaceship, and just patiently held the spaceship aloft for him until he took it out of her hands and set it to rest on a toy car. She never knew what his scribbles or Play-doh blobs were supposed to represent, and found herself falling back on phrases like, "That's a lot of blue!"

And yet, when she sat back on her heels and Maida brought her a cup of tea and a kiss goodbye, she said, "I've decided? I think I actually am a better parent than my parents were."

"Yeah," Maida said, and squeezed her shoulder. "Karen wanted me to remind you that you've only got two hours before the team goes in for strategy."

"Yeah, I know. I'll get dressed soon." Andy squeezed Maida's hand, and kissed it. "Drive safe."

Kent and Andy had an entire closet for jerseys. It was sentimental and a bit ridiculous, but there it was. Some jerseys got special treatment; his first Olympic jersey, framed with team picture and silver medal, hung in his den. One of her NCAA jerseys, and the award plaque she won that season, had the same treatment in her work office. But after a while there got to be so many--and not all fit for public display, like the All-Star jersey from a few years back with bloodstains on one side and a little penis drawn on the other in Sharpie. This was where her new Team USA jersey went when she pulled it out of its plastic wrapping, buried her nose in the fabric, and then slipped it onto a hanger.

Her chin trembled a little when she indulged in a whim and pulled out one of Kent's IIHF Worlds jerseys. It wasn't the same--different year, old logo, different neck decoration. But both jerseys were the same colour. Same team. PARSON, across one back. SCARLATTI, across the other.

She put them back in the closet and sighed wistfully. There used to be a time when she'd just throw one of them on over a pair of jeans and sit down in the stands with a hot dog and a beer. It was comfortable and familiar. She still did it for a lot of games and tournaments, but not NHL games, especially not Aces games, anymore. Instead she put her curling iron on to heat and stepped into the shower.

Kent didn't care what she wore. Or, that was, when his opinion was a deciding factor he preferred her in a jersey as God intended her. But he was a player, not a fat woman being spectated as a spectator. His fashion choices during a game didn't get dissected the way hers did. When she wore a jersey, his Twitter mentions didn't fill up with messages about her looking ugly and slovenly the way hers did. He didn't have bosses in the Aces Foundation making nervous comments about "professional attire" and "media image" the way she did. So when he was around he didn't comment on it, just helped her pull her Spanx on and zipped up her dresses.

Almost over, she consoled herself, blending her makeup.

Even the lower passages and back hallways of the arena sparked with life. This was an important game, and Las Vegas knew it. Andy waved to familiar faces--parking lot attendants, security guards, janitors in her husband's jersey. As she came down the tunnel the boom of the music playing hit her before the scrape of skates and smack of sticks did.

Jorge, the towel boy, nodded to her as she came down to the players' box, but the coaches and trainer there--Harry, Mel, and Luc--were too busy watching the ice with eagle eyes and conferring over their notes. The box was otherwise empty as the team warmed up. Andy went to lean on the boards and look out.

Swoops was still wearing fairy wings pinned to the back of his jersey, the way he had at warmups for the last three games. It was a bet Andy didn't fully understand. Dmytro was lying on his back and cycling his legs through the air, pretending that his jersey totally accidentally fell back and exposed his abs. Gordie's glove hand was still moving a little slowly when he windmilled, and therefore unsurprisingly, the backup kid they'd called up last night was nervously stretching on an empty patch of ice.

Kent was--

Kent skated away from a consultation with a rookie, snatched a puck, handled it over to the lineup to shoot on Gordie. Kent kept drawing her eye, and not just because he was hers. Kent was--

His jersey was missing the Nevada patch on the shoulder, the extra stripe of white at the bottom. Its sleeves were straight, not shaped the way they'd been for the last three years. The sides didn't have the subtly greyer panel the Aces were wearing this season. It looked retro, and it hung on him a little looser than normal, and there were what looked like scuff marks all over it, and--

SCARLATTI, it said. 14

Kent sank the puck over Gordie's glove, shook his head sympathetically, looked over to the callup kid, who looked like he was about to puke. Kent was on his way over to him when he noticed Andy.

Almost a decade ago she'd slept with him for the two weeks between conference finals and Cup final, slept with him a few times after, and then kissed him goodbye and moved back to Minnesota for four years. As a parting gift, he'd asked the team shop to custom make a jersey with her name and habitual number, to remember her year with the Aces by. A lot of the guys had signed it for her.

He'd felt self-conscious about giving her his own number and didn't want him wearing anybody else's, he'd said. But she'd always hugged a secret little hope to her chest when she wore it: that he put her own number on it because he took her a little seriously as a hockey player.

"You stole my jersey," she said through tears when he skated up.

He just grinned and wrapped her up in a hug over the boards, murmuring thanks when Jorge took the stick out of his hand. She hugged him back and gripped big handfuls of the fabric.

"I am so proud of you," he said. "You're gonna get everything you need to play. We're gonna figure it out."

"I'm wearing mascara, you asshole," she sobbed. He let her go so she could turn away and grab one of the bench tissues and turn back to him while she was crying. "I did actually know that."

"You... did?" the man wearing her jersey asked.

"I know, right?" she asked, blowing her nose. "On the plane back I just thought... you didn't actually say, but I just thought. If I made the team, and you were like, no, we can't make it work, your career is more important, after you told me to go? I'd be so fucking angry with you. You'd be an asshole." She sniffed mightily and swabbed at her face. She'd been smart; she'd used waterproof mascara, though she hadn't remembered it at first. "So it turns out I actually have, like. Expectations? And I..." she started crying again. "I actually believed you were gonna believe in me and support me? Even before you said so?"

"Babe," he said, and gathered her in again reverently. She leaned against his chest, holding tissues to her face, even when she felt him slide back on his skates and have to re-set his feet. She thought about the fact that their entire exchange had just been videotaped and clips of it had probably already been broadcast, but wasn't too troubled. Kent was shielding her; her face was safely hidden in his shoulder, and the jersey he'd chosen to warm up in told the story itself. Maybe he'd anticipated that. The media were going to want visuals to go with the story, and there had already been stories about the surprise addition to the roster before she boarded the plane back to Las Vegas. He'd already known they'd have to present an image as a team.

They just moved to the side for the first guy who came skating back to the bench, so he could step around Kent, but when it became clear this was a general exodus Andy sighed and straightened up and Kent let her go.

"I love you," he said.

She set her hands on his chest, gripping her jersey, and thumped him a little. "You make me proud tonight. Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, touched her chin, and she let him go.

Andy blotted her eyes with a paper towel soaked in cold water, and then when she got up to the family box she looked for Valentyna. It was a lively box tonight--all the wives, most of the girlfriends, the callup goalie kid's parents, various friends and hangers-on. Nick and Karen weren't there yet, but Oksana and a couple other kids had pulled out the big Rubbermaid bin of Duplo from behind the bar and started playing with it already.

It took one look--it looked like Valentyna had been waiting for her--before Dmytro's wife was pulling out her glass makeup case and coming up to one of the tables in the back of the box. She adjusted the overhead light to shine on Andy's face, frowning at its inadequacies as Andy meekly sat on one of the tall stools.

"You TV interview?" Valentyna asked, snapping open her case. Before her marriage she'd been a model in Kiev, and worked as a makeup artist when she couldn't get modelling gigs. (Somehow, Ukraine had hundreds of women more beautiful than Valentyna Mykhailuk) She was normally shy around the other Aces wives, partly because of the language barrier, but their children were friends only six months apart, and watching Andy struggle with makeup alone had pushed her past her limits. Before the big games, Andy had to pass Valentyna's inspection before being allowed out to the front of the box.

"No," Andy said, squirming a little. "And no big eyeliner wings, Valentyna."

"Accentuates face," Valentyna said. "National team! Patriotic hero! Ought to interview you."

"My face," Andy said. "My eyeliner." And then, as Valentyna loaded up a brush: "Thank you."

"Will miss you," Valentyna said matter-of-factly, and then had to pause to let Andy wipe away tears again.

She got one interview that night, as it turned out, as well as going down into the stands because a group of girls had hastily written on the back of their posterboard sign, ANDY SCARLATTI COME SIGN MY JERSEY. They played on a U18 team together in Ontario, and got playoff tickets as part of what they described as "the most amazing vacation ever." Then she hustled back up to the press box.

Sam Park was the veteran holding down the Las Vegas Star's sports reporting, which meant he bounced from NHL and WNBA games and the local Little League games and initiation hockey tournaments Andy's office either organized, oversaw, or sponsored. They'd last texted two weeks ago when she'd given him the name of a good local flooring contractor for his house, and tonight he sent, Willing to come down to the press box and talk as a member of Team USA?

An interview with an old friend like Sam was a good starting place. He liked wordy character pieces more than brief sports reporting, so he listened with interest as she threw a new light on their acquaintance--how she worked with the Aces in 2010 because she'd always known she'd have to get a paid job after her college sports career, and left in 2011 in part because of the lack of local women's hockey; the growth of professional leagues for women, and differences between men and women's hockey. How her office at the Aces foundation being literally a hundred feet from the team's practice ice meant she could go out and skate at lunchtime if she wanted, and how those hours and her time playing keep-away with Kent before the teams she coached showed up were often more player development than other women just as skilled as her could afford.

She kept quiet about her speculation about next season, though Kent had already spoken about it. In an attempt to distract the press during the first intermission from the emotional crisis their new goalie was having in the dressing room, Kent had stepped out for a brief media scrum. When asked how Andy's selection to Team USA would affect his plans for next season, he'd shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back

"We haven't settled on any details, but, y'know, I wanna support my wife," he said. "I've had ten years of support to be the best player I can be, best coaching, best training, on the best team in the best league. So I think, y'know what, fair's fair." Then, having done his best to ensure rumours of his retirement would bump clips of the kid having a panic attack on the bench from the reporting, he'd smiled and slipped back into the dressing room.

Sam was softballing her, probably planning a series of articles if the story generated much interest. He wanted to know about her family, her friends, her new teammates.

"Have you seen this?" he asked, offering her his phone.

Lansing Cougars @mi_girlshockey · 2h So proud of my daughter #AndreaScarlatti for being selected to #USNWT #TeamUSA!

For a minute she smiled, under the assumption that someone running a girls' hockey account in Michigan had hyperbolically claimed her as their daughter. Then she read the sidebar with the account information. The realization that it was the team her dad was coaching now--that it meant "daughter" literally--wiped the smile from her face.

She wanted to snatch the phone up in a typing grip and fire back a response. Fuck you, she wanted to say. You don't get to claim any part in this. I did this despite you. This was exactly the kind of bullshit that made her block her father on Twitter every time she figured out what his new handle was.

Instead she let the impulse pass through her, and when she could, she consciously relaxed her grip on the phone. She put effort into breathing normally, sitting back in her chair, offering the phone back to him. "No comment," she said casually.

How like him, he thought, to name an account after the girls he's coaching and use it as his own personal mouthpiece.

Sam's eyebrows flicked up. "No comment?" he asked. "That's... not like you."

She made sure to take a full breath and double-check her response. What did she want to say? This was Sam, right; Sam who was writing a book about the Aces, Sam who hadn't written a word about Vladimir's breakdown despite witnessing some of it himself. Then she smiled, a little strained. "When I'm ready to talk about that? You're one of the people I'll talk to. But right now I think it's wise to leave him out of the story."

Sam looked a little concerned, like he was going to ask her if she was really okay, but Andy was saved by the airhorn. The game was back on.

When the game was over Andy kissed and hugged her son goodbye, and headed downstairs. Nick was under Valentyna's watchful eye, and would be going home with her, Oksana, and Dmytro tonight. Western Conference Finals, win or lose, were Kent and Andy's date night by very ancient compact. The other guys would tease Dmytro about not wanting to go out and party, but the same way they teased Kent: good-naturedly, and without a real intent to make him change his mind. Andy was grateful to the Mykhailuks and said so. Karen split off in the hallway to party with another group of middle-aged "wine grandmas".

When Kent met her in the hallway to the parking lot, his suit was rumpled and slightly damp with champagne spray. He grinned sheepishly and laced their hands together.

"Good game," she said, kissed his cheek and looked up. "Oh, hey Gordie, good effort. Tough luck. Rest that shoulder, hey?"

"Thanks, Ands," Gordie said, dredging up the ghost of a smile, and shouldered past them. Dmytro came out, his phone in his hand.

Then Valentyna came down one of the staircases with the kids and Nick caught sight of Kent and shrieked, "Daddy!"

"Oh, dear," Andy sighed under her breath, as Kent crouched down to receive Nick in a running hug.

"Daddy won!" Nick said, hugging him. "Good game, Daddy!"

"Yeah," Kent said. "Thank you! You gonna go home with Oksana and have a sleepover?"

"No," Nick said.

"Yeah," Kent encouraged. "You're gonna go home with Valentyna and sleep over at our place, and see me and Mommy next morning."

"Don't wanna," Nick said, and then something low and incomprehensible that Kent listened to with a furrowed brow. He scowled when Kent said something softly back, and then balled up one fist and hit his father's shoulder with it.

"Hey, hey, hey," Kent said. "Hands aren't for hitting. Gentle hands."

"Daddy mean," Nick said accusingly. He stopped to consider his actions, weighing righteous fury against fear of consequences, and hit Kent again with his face screwed up for tears.

This is my fault, Andy thought suddenly. I've been away for a week. He's upset because I've never been gone that long. That's why he's wearing pull-ups. He hasn't tried to pull a stunt like this for months. It's because of me.

Kent sighed, hitching Nick up into a surer grasp, and turned to the side to let a few other players by. He took a minute to rub Nick's back and close his eyes. "I love you, little man," he said, and then, muttered to himself under his breath: "I cannot take away your pain. I can only sit with you and teach you how to feel it." When he opened his eyes again it was to meet Andy's eyes with a wry expression. He jerked his head to Valentyna, and they started walking to the parking lot together.

"I don't know what books they have at Oksana's house," Kent said as they walked. "I wonder what you're gonna read together. You've got Goodnight Moon and I Am Not a Chair with you, you could read those. But you might read one of Oksana's books."

"No," Nick whined, but his strength was fading. He was collapsing into Kent, tiredness replacing anger.

"Which one would you rather read?" Kent kept going with that gentle voice. "Goodnight Moon or I Am Not a Chair?"

"...Chair," Nick conceded, as Kent pulled open the back door to Valentyna's sedan. Nick's car seat was already in it so Kent settled him in, while Oksana climbed into hers on her own. "An' also Goodnight Moon."

"Yeah, you want both books?" Kent looked over to Valentyna as she buckled Oksana in. "Do you think you can read two?"

"I think so," she said, and leaned forward as Kent drew back. "We gonna read two books?"

"Yeah," Nick said softly. "I love you, Daddy."

"Love you too, little man. Night, Oksana."

Andy stood back, watching with a sense of wonder as Kent closed the car door. He came back to join her with a crooked smile, and they started walking to their car in the other direction as Dmytro started his sedan. They glanced back to watch it reverse out, then drive away.

"I thought we were seriously done for," Andy said, taking Kent's hand. "How did you do that?"

"I mighta let him come back with us, to be honest," he said. "Even though we've got stuff to talk about. He missed you. Coulda put him to bed first. But then he hit me, and we talked last week about how hitting never gets him what he wants." He slipped into the passenger seat of the car, and resumed once he and Andy had their seatbelts on. "I think as soon as he hit me, he knew it was over. I was gonna have to make a stand. So then he gave in pretty fast."

Andy sighed. "I feel so bad. He was probably more upset because I was away."

Kent rolled his head against his headrest to look over at her. "Babe? Welcome to how I feel all the time."

Their drive home was quiet, nerves on her part and pleasant weariness on his. Because they were old, they changed out of their nice clothes as soon as they got in the door and changed into pyjamas. Kent fed the animals and poured a drink out onto his altar to the gods of luck, then stretched out his legs on the couch so Kit Purrson could have the seat she was actively agitating for. Andy brought him a cold pack for his knee first, and then the homemade pizza the oven had been programmed to have ready for them when they got home, and finally two glasses of rosé. She'd sat down when he said, "I wanna see your jersey," and then she had to get up again.

"Sorry," he said when she came back, taking her hand and kissing it. She let him, and then handed the jersey over and picked up her wine.

"Shit," he said after a minute. He was tracing the number on the sleeve.

"They, uh," she said nervously, twisting her wedding ring. "It got us to list three jersey numbers by preference, and then they got assigned based on seniority. And there's a lot of competition for the lower numbers, and Bri's played under number fourteen forever, so I..."

"Dude." Kent looked up at her, eyes shining, hands still gripping the 90. "You're wearing my number. It's not even your birth year."

"Fair's fair," she finally got out past her tongue.

Then she had to lean forward so he could kiss her, and they both cried a little bit, and then it seemed like they were really talking about how to do this.

"I'm afraid," she said. "I'm afraid like, you'll organize some big trade to another team, and we'll change our whole lives, and move everyone, and then I'll get cut from the team in October." She made a little cutting gesture with her hands. "Whoops! I thought I had a career, but I don't."

"It'd still be worth it," he said. "Even just having that chance."

Andy reached back and wrapped her hands around the nape of her neck. "It would be so fucking embarrassing. It's not us, it's the fucking commentators. They're just..." She rubbed her face. "I don't want to do something we're gonna regret, or that you're gonna resent me for, in case it doesn't work out."

"Okay," he said, like that was easy. "What are our options?"

"I mean like, technically..." she laughed nervously, picking up a pizza crust. "I still have one year of NCAA eligibility, I think? But I mean, that's not..."

"Yeah, no," he agreed, stroking his cat.

"If it were an Olympic year..." she paused. "Well I mean, I wouldn't get on in an Olympic year, because it's just that much more intense. But then the players take the whole season to build together. Whereas now there's a training camp, and then everybody's off to their regular team until the 4 Nations Cup. So unless I wanna stick around here and keep training with you... The N, the C-dub, the Russians, or China. I mean, I could play in Minnesota, but..."

"Everything we're hearing from Patty says their league might not last the year," Kent agreed. "And you might not wanna be around for the implosion."

"Yeah," she agreed. "As nice as it would be to be home. So. Realistically? Um. Because, all of the NWHL teams have expressed interest in me. But then it's like, the two body problem. Boston can't afford you. The Sabres aren't a good team right now. Connecticut doesn't have a team at all so then you're commuting, or I am. And you..." she trailed off when he lifted a hand, asking to jump in.

"I want to retire," Kent said.

She blinked at him, and then reassembled her face into something empathetic and supportive and ate her pizza crust. He smiled and poked her knee with his toes, because he liked to make fun of her Listening Face.

"I might as well admit it," he said. "I did this season out of spite. When I came back after my paternity year, people were just... so shitty. Everything they said or did was like, 'Oh, losing his edge.' By the end of the year I was so pissed I just... didn't want to prove them right with that shitty season. So I came back." His face twisted. "And now Nick has nightmares where I'm dead."

"Honey," Andy said. "He hasn't had those for..."

"Okay, but he did," Kent said. "And I'm just... wondering how many more seasons I might've put him through if I hadn't got that far. But now I'm here, and it's..."

Andy reached out and squeezed his foot while he searched for words, and then topped up his wineglass.

"There's this art studio in Rochester," Kent said. "It's in the building where Katie works. It's like, a family creative space. Child-led play. You take your kid in and there's all these art materials around, and the person teaches you how to make like, a popsicle stick picture or fingerpaints or whatever. But the point isn't the art, it's like... teaching your child to explore. How to let them be creative while you're there supporting them but not smothering or anything. She sends me snapchats about it. I wanna go there."

Andy started on her second crust, puzzled but willing to hear him out.

"I just hate how like... all of my time with him is chopped up and scheduled and he's always tired and we can never just be together. After the summers it's almost worse because then he's used to me being around and he's like, 'Where did Daddy go?' What I want is the time to just wake up and decide we're gonna fingerpaint today, and he never has to worry about when I'm gonna leave."

"You wanna be a stay-at-home dad again," Andy said slowly.

Kent paused to think about that, and then looked at her again with something almost fervent. "There's been so many times since he was born that I've been on the ice and asked myself, 'What the hell am I doing here? I've got important things I need to do!' It's like... being around Nick feels important in a way hockey hasn't in years. Even when he's just sleeping. Something changes about him every day, and I love being able to catch it. It kills me every time Mom has to send me a video of something he learned to do without me."

"Shit," Andy said. "I thought you were doing okay."

Kent shrugged, a little helplessly. "I think I repressed a lot. But also like, he's just gotten so interesting now. He's inventing stuff and coming up with ideas, and more and more I'm like, I don't wanna miss this. I wanna be there for this. I wanna get to know him." He picked at his nails and looked up at her. "I spent all these years wishing I had people who loved me, who took care of me, who needed me. And now I've finally got you and under all the competition there's a little bit of me that's like, fuck, why can't I rest on my laurels? Why do I have to get another season out like I'm wringing out a dishrag?" He rolled his head back and sighed. "I am so fucking glad we won tonight, because that might be the only way I'm brave enough to say this."

Andy wasn't good at accepting the fact that Kent loved her. It was like she was coated with an impermeable resin, and that love only seeped in when it cracked and flaked with age. But she didn't think it was just that difficulty that left her feeling that Kent's love for Nick was so much deeper than his love for her.

She wasn't jealous. It wasn't a competition. In some ways it felt like how the world ought to be. It was just a kind of realization: If Kent and I divorced, he'd hurt a lot, but then he'd live again. If he lost Nick, he'd never recover. The immensity of that secondhand love was so deep that it threatened to overwhelm her, and she was kind of humbled just to witness it.

It's gotta be good, some part of her thought. It overcame his pride and his workaholism.

"So," she said, voice rusty. "Rochester. How far is that from Buffalo?"

#kent parson #andy scarlatti #maida and luis #kent parson and the comeback kid #stuff i wrote

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