#i am like. physically incapable of taking classes in a nice normal order I think. though its been a domino effect situation for a while

[sevenfactorial]

Approximately 7 months ago, during my spectral theory class, I learned of the word sesquilinear and haven't gotten over it since.

Sesquilinear is the property of being linear in one argument and being conjugate linear in the other. In contrast to being bilinear, i.e. linear in both arguments. The root "sesqui" means one and a half, which, tbf, is reasonable enough.

(Side note: this is a property of inner products, which I learned about years ago? But I don't recall my previous measure/functional prof ever using it? Idk maybe just a language thing.)

But I think the word is just so funny? It sounds *silly*.

My perspective has only been moved into sillier territory by one of my friends adding "sesquilinear" to the "potential leopard gecko names" list that's taped to our office wall, shortly after we covered inner products in one of our shared classes this semester.

Idk when he added it, but he was there when I first noticed so I commented it seemed rather mean to do that. Then I recalled that he didn't actually like leopard geckos so okay, makes more sense now. Still mean, but makes sense.

Consequently, if I'm tired or otherwise a little out of it and hear sesquilinear, I cannot handle it and will have to stiffle giggles.

This hit recently during my linear algebra class when we defined bilinear, which shouldn't really have set it off since 1) literally not the same word 2) I wasn't even that tired. A little bored if anything. Otoh, same prof for spectral and linear. So I just sat and continued taking notes while grinning and smothering my giggles. Unknown if the professor noticed.

[welllpthisishappening]

A Touch of (March) Madness (1/2)

Emma can't quite remember how it started or why it happened, just that it did and she wants to win. Desperately. To prove something. Probably.

Or just to beat Killian. Either or. It doesn't matter.

She's picked her teams and her upsets and she's got a string of trash talk ready for any potential on-court situation. They're not playing the game, but they're playing a game and this one might change everything.

Rating: Teen’ish. Trash talking requires swearing.  Word Count: 9.1K HA.  AN: I owe @laurnorder​ my fic-writing soul, so when she texted me a couple weeks ago and was like...”It’s March, I think you should write basketball fic,” I was like...ok. And because I cannot rationalize Killian Jones playing basketball unless he’s some kind of JJ Reddick-type asshole, here are a lot of words about over-competitive friends and brackets and (maybe my very specific, personal) college basketball opinions. I will be honest and tell you guys this is definitely the most sports niche’y thing I have written and you probably need a general working knowledge of what the NCAA Tournament is, but there’s banter and eventual makeouts because of who I am as a person. Thank you, as always, to @distant-rose​ & @katie-dub​ for being endless sources of support and general fantastic’ness.  Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

Selection Sunday

“Can you just pick?”

“No.” “No? Did you tell me that you can’t pick? Are you physically incapable of making your picks then? Because that would almost explain some of your choices last year.” Killian doesn’t lift his head up, keeping his eyes trained on the small stack of papers in front of him and Emma cannot sigh loudly enough. His lips twitch slightly.

“This is not that hard,” she says and it’s hardly the first time she’s told him that, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference and it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night.

“You say that like you’ve got a title to defend, Swan,” Killian mutters. “This is a tried and true system with several minutes of actual research put into it and long-standing biases that have helped shape the sport for what it is.” “Overflowing with controversy?” Emma asks glibly, jumping onto the edge of the counter and kicking out towards him. “Deception? Disgrace?” “You’re trying to goad me into quoting something, it’s not going to work.”

She sighs, but she absolutely was and his pen sounds impossibly loud in the otherwise relative silence of the apartment. Mary Margaret fell asleep hours ago.

“That’s stupid,” Emma grumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out of Killian and she probably should have left already. She’s not sure why she hasn’t. Well, no, that’s a lie, but her apartment is far enough uptown that it’s probably better if she takes an Uber and she’s fairly certain they’re doing construction on the 2-train anyway.

Killian will probably make her take an Uber.

David’s probably got it on speed dial already.

“You really haven’t picked yet?” Emma continues and Killian shakes his head slowly, eyes darting up and she’s glad she’s already sitting down. “That’s also stupid. What’s your system, then?” “Excuse me?” “You said you had a tried and true system, explain it then, o ye master of competition.” Killian smirks, one eyebrow pulled dangerously high and Emma knows she’s not going to get an answer. “You know, I’m starting to think your compliments are ringing a little hollow there, Swan. I’ll admit that’s disappointing, but, again, I’ve got a title to defend and I’ll probably feel a lot better when I beat you all this year. Again. As per usual.”

He tugs a different pen from behind his ear – Emma dimly remembers something about color coding and possible upsets getting a different ink, but she’s fairly certain that it’s all conjecture just to annoy her. His tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth and it’s as infuriating as it is distracting because he’s absolutely right.

They’ve been at it for what has felt like actual days, crowding, as tradition dictates, onto the couch in Mary Margaret and David’s apartment for the selection show

And, as tradition dictates, they complain about every single seed and the pros and cons of Syracuse making it again – ”They finished tenth in the ACC, that’s just insulting to the rest of the field. “We know, David.” “What even is an Orange? That’s a fruit. That’s not a mascot. That’s not intimidating me at all.” We know, David.” “If I were Mt. St. Mary’s, I’d sue.” “We know, David.” – and eat a questionable amount of Indian food from the place that is, technically, closer to Killian’s apartment, but he knows their orders by heart now and he got Emma an extra samosa, so she’s not ever going to complain.

Unless it’s about how goddamn long it’s taking him to fill out his bracket.

It’s March and there’s still, somehow, snow on the ground in New York, but Emma’s just brought in some perp she’d been trailing for the last month and she’s got the next week off. It is, officially, the most wonderful time of the year.

And she can’t even really remember how it all started.

Technically, it probably started when she landed in the Nolan house several decades before, a vaguely jaded orphan no one had ever really wanted until Ruth Nolan did and decided, quite quickly, to give Emma the world.

And a brother she didn’t ask for.

Emma and David didn’t get along at first. They argued and bickered and they were the same age and he had that annoying, incredibly nice friend who lived down the street in Storybrooke who, at one point, Emma was convinced could talk to birds.

Emma was a frustrated, bitter eleven-year-old and the new girl again and Storybrooke, as far as she was concerned, was the absolutely worst. Until she tried to run away – and Mary Margaret found her.

It was Mary Margaret’s birthday and Emma couldn’t stomach the idea of another party and another town event at Granny’s and she slipped out the backdoor and...couldn’t get any farther. Mary Margaret showed up, exactly, twenty-seven minutes later to find Emma huddled in the corner of the alley, shoulders shaking and disappointment looming over her like a storm cloud and she did the single most Mary Margaret thing that Mary Margaret had ever done.

She hugged her.

And then went to bring her a slice of ice cream cake.

It got better after that.

Mary Margaret kept smiling and, presumably, talking to birds and Emma stopped picking fights with David just because he was there.

They were some kind of three-headed monster – never more than a few feet apart and speaking in blinks and tilts of heads when they had to and no one was surprised to discover that all three of them applied to the same school.

Xavier.

Naturally. They were already like the three musketeers.

And it was good and great and a slew of other adjectives for three musketeers who’d never really experienced the world, until David got assigned a new roommate second semester freshman year and Emma Swan hated Killian Jones with a passion strong enough to rival several suns.

He hated her right back.

Loudly. With a string of curses that regularly made Mary Margaret blush and left David smacking Killian’s shoulder, mumbling that’s my sister, man under his breath.

He was smug and far too good looking and he did that thing with his eyebrow that made Emma’s stomach twist and she would show up in his room unannounced and laugh when he couldn't quite scrape by a passing grade in that one business class they both took together.

The good looking thing wasn’t important.

And the bracket thing had been Mary Margaret’s idea.

Naturally. Again.

“Maybe if we’re doing something fun, you won’t hate him so much,” Mary Margaret reasoned and Emma hadn’t argued, much, because it was a chance to beat Killian Jones at something and then make sure he never forgot about it for the rest of his life.

Only Killian Jones was, actually, really, really good at picking teams in the goddamn NCAA Tournament.

“He’s some kind of soothsayer, I swear,” Emma shouted, her own bracket torn to shreds  and she still hated him, but he was always around and Mary Margaret and David had started acknowledging the longing looks they kept sending each other’s way that January.

“I think he’s got an algorithm or something,” David muttered.

Emma spun on the spot, glaring metaphorical daggers because she didn’t have any real daggers, and Killian held his hands up in mock surrender.

“There’s no algorithm,” he said. “Just a very good gut instinct and proclivity to being right.”

“God, you’re such an ass,” Emma groaned. “I bet you’re the only person in the country who picked that upset.” He shrugged.

And defended his inaugural title. For three years straight.

No one ever asked if they wanted to keep going, even after college and jobs and life, but no one asked if they all wanted to move to New York City either.

It just kind of happened.

And Emma just kind of stopped hating Killian.

He got under her skin. Or something less disgusting.

“Swan,” Killian says, jerking her out of memories and back to reality and she has no idea where she actually put her bracket.

“Yeah,” she mumbles and he’s smiling at her. Not smirking. No stupid eyebrow thing. A real, genuine smile and she wonders when that started making her breath catch and her eyes widen just a bit. “Here,” she adds when he stands up, eyeing her like she’s lost her mind. She might have. It’s probably with her bracket.

“I can see that. Although here seems a bit more physical and a hell of a lot less mental.” “Was that an insult? That sounded incredibly insulting.” Killian shakes his head, crossing the tiny space masquerading as a kitchen in three steps and his hand lands on her knee like there are magnets involved. “Not an insult,” he promises. “A genuine show of concern when you look like you’re trying to teleport back home.” “None of these words are making sense the way you’re saying them.” “Sounds like a sign.” “And an insult,” Emma hisses, kicking him in the shin. That feels a bit more normal. “Are you finally done?” “Mmhm.” “That’s awfully smug.” There’s the eyebrow arch.

“You’ve got quite a few opinions on my bracket, Swan,” Killian says and he’s started tapping his fingers on her jeans. Emma swallows. “I think it’s a defense mechanism.” “I think you’re refusing to talk about your so-called methods for picking teams because you know your good luck has finally run out and you’re nervous about what will happen if you don’t live up to expectations.”

She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth, Killian’s fingers going deathly still when her mouth snaps closed and Emma bites her tongue to stop herself from doing anything else quite that stupid – like crying while sitting on the counter in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment.

And maybe she knows exactly when she stopped hating Killian.

“Purdue,” he says, ducking into her eye line and Emma has to blink, at least, sixty-seven times because the whole thing is ridiculous.

“What?” “Purdue. I picked Purdue to win.” “For real?” Killian tilts his head. “Why would I lie about that?” “I honestly have no idea, “ Emma admits. “But I’ve kind of lost track of the conversation and...honestly, Purdue though?” “You have something against Purdue, Swan?”

“No,” she snaps, shoving lightly at his shoulder and his gasps like it actually hurt. His hand is still on her knee. “But, like, why?” “That seems to fall decidedly in the realm of giving away my plan.”

Emma groans loudly, drawing a set of footsteps that were absolutely eavesdropping on the conversation and David hands her the bracket she filled out hours ago as soon as he’s within arms reach.

Killian’s hand is gone.

That’s fine. It’s fine. Cool. Totally cool. God, she can’t believe she just thought that.  

“You’re going homer again, this year, huh, Em?” David asks, phone already out and she nods so he can order her the goddamn Uber.

She scowls, eyes darting Killian’s direction before she can stop herself and he’s trying very hard not to smirk at her. It’s not really working.

“I am going with a potential winner this year,” Emma corrects archly. “If it just so happens that I pick our alma mater, then, you know, so be it. It’s their year.” “Did the boosters get you to say that?” “How far do you have them going?” "Far.” “That’s not an answer,” she mutters, but it sounds more like a growl and they’re definitely going to wake Mary Margaret up at some point. “When did we all decide to descend into secrecy over our brackets? M’s told me as she was filling hers out.” “That’s because Mary Margaret is not trying to win,” Killian points out. One of the pens is back behind his ear, arms crossed lightly over his chest and there’s really not enough room for all of them in this quasi-kitchen.

Emma rolls her eyes, but it’s probably true and Mary Margaret regularly makes her picks based on nicknames, color schemes and the overall creepiness of mascots.

She’s never picked Providence. Ever.

“Whatever,” Emma mutters. “We’ve all reached a brand-new level of super strange competitiveness. I picked Xavier to win, not just because we all possess degrees from that school and they’ve now started calling asking for money, which I think is a sign of actual adulthood, but because they’ve got a good team this year and I genuinely believe they can win a national championship.”

“Because it’s their year, right?” David asks and he can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. Emma flips him off. “Honestly though, Em, tell me something. Did you...did you rehearse that?” “Oh my God, you’re even worse than him.”

She jerks her hand in Killian’s direction and he makes a good show of being affronted, but there’s something lingering just on the edge of his expression that makes her wonder all sorts of things she shouldn’t even be thinking.

“These insults, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you do remember that Xavier lost to Villanova twice this year, right?”

“Villanova lost to St. John’s. At home. When they were the top team in the country.” “That’s a good point,” David mumbles, but Killian and Emma both wave him off and this is almost, painfully, normal. “Xavier still won the Big East outright,” she argues. “First time in like...I don’t know, whatever it was historic.” “Not the tournament and if you’re going to bring up facts, you need them to be accurate. That’s arguing one-oh-one..” “Why are you so against a Xavier run?” “I’m not,” he says. “I’m simply pointing out that Xavier has a habit of fucking up once they get to the later rounds. It happens every year.” “If you say tried and true I will get off this counter and punch you right in the face.”

Killian laughs, head thrown back and shoulders shaking and Mary Margaret makes noise from wherever she fell asleep. Hours ago. “I wasn’t going to,” he says lightly and maybe Emma’s got food poisoning from that extra samosa. It would explain whatever is going on with her brain and her thought processes and whatever her whole being does as soon as Killian’s hand lands on her knee. “These are just facts, Swan. And David picked Arizona.” “What?” Emma gasps, laughing as well when David starts cursing Killian to several different underworlds. “Oh my God, David, seriously? You want to talk about a team that disappoints regularly. Plus all that off-court shit! No way they even make the Sweet 16.” “They’ve got the best freshman in the country,” David reasons. “This is a sound choice. And I’m doing some kind of thing this year.”

Mary Margaret pads into the kitchen when Emma can’t bring herself to stop laughing, a blanket tugged tightly around her shoulders and sleep clinging to every one of her movements. “It’s a Wildcat movement,” she mumbles. “He’s picking Wildcat teams this year.” “What?” Emma asks. Killian is barely standing up.

“Wildcats. He's picking as many Wildcats teams because he thinks it’s funny.” “And because it makes sense,” David adds sharply, rolling his shoulder when Emma grips it to try and stay upright. “Or it would have if I’d been able to get it to work, but Midwest doesn’t have any Wildcats--” “What team,” Emma interrupts and Mary Margaret drops her blanket when she starts laughing, shouting back Wildcats on cue.

David rolls his eyes. “Anyway,” he continues pointedly. “I got three of four, so that’s a majority and it’s totally going to work because an Arizona and Villanova final is not only probable, I’m guaranteeing it.” “Wow, talking a big game.” “I’m confident. That’s all. And I’m tired of Jones winning every goddamn year, so I’m willing to do whatever it takes. “It’s not going to work,” Killian says easily and the other pen is in his back pocket. Emma can feel Mary Margaret staring at her. “I’ve got a system. And I’ve got consistency on my side. And nicknames or mascots or whatever don’t have anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you’re always saying,” David grumbles. “You know what? Get out of my apartment and take your research with you because I’m not walking down the hall to put that in the garbage disposal.” “I mean, it should probably be recycling, right?” Emma asks, sliding off the counter and she’s suddenly far closer to Killian that she anticipated. She’s ninety-two percent positive he moved.

“You can get out of my apartment too. Your car is here, anyway.” “Ok, well, that’s rude, but thanks for the ride. Go back to sleep, M’s.”

Mary Margaret salutes, already halfway down the hallway and Emma glances Killian’s direction before she can lose her nerve. “You want a ride?” He blinks, like he’s trying to make sure he heard her right, and Emma chews on the inside of her lip, willing her stomach to act like an actual part of human anatomy.

He nods before he answers.

“Yeah, sure, Swan,” Killian says, grabbing his stack of paperwork and his ridiculous number of pens and they both sit in the backseat of an Uber on their way uptown.

They don’t say anything for the first dozen or so blocks, a companionable silence Emma never would have considered possible when she was a sophomore in college and spent most of her free time trying to figure out what Killian’s deal was.

She’s still not entirely sure she knows.

It’s a work in progress.

Or something.

Whatever.

“I can hear you thinking,” Killian says, gaze flitting her direction. “It’s very loud.” Emma bites her lip – mostly so she won’t smile and he won’t lord that over her for the rest of time. “Is it distracting?” she asks, but it feels like a much bigger question.

“No. Just general curiosity.”

“Because you claim to hear my thoughts. That’s...you know that’s weird, right?” “Only because you’re making it weird,” Killian challenges and they’re at his apartment already. Emma’s not disappointed by that. God, she needs to sleep for the entire week she’s off. She can’t. She’s got basketball to watch.

And a bracket to defend.

“God,” Emma sighs, rolling her head on the back of the seat and top of her hair is damp from resting on the window. “Do you have to be right about absolutely everything? Or do you just get a kick out of arguing with me?” “Did you just use the phrase get a kick, Swan? That’s...did we teleport in this Uber?” “Get out.” “I’m asking a genuine question.” “And I’m telling you to get out.”

He blinks, lips pressed together tightly enough that it’s difficult to make them out in the dim light from the street lamps and the Uber driver is getting more and more pissed off by the second. And suddenly it’s like that day and Killian’s face does something stupid, softens or settles more into him, like he’s seeing Emma for the first time and pleasantly surprised to find her there.

She’s going to bite her lip in half.

“You know I’ve got Friday off,” he says and maybe they did teleport.

Emma lowers her eyebrows, tilting her slightly and if he doesn’t stop smiling at her she’s going to get out of the Uber and walk the rest of the way home. “What does that mean?” “Are you confused by the words or…” “God, stop being a dick!”

The Uber driver snorts.

Killian glares at him.

“I’m saying that I know you caught that guy last week and now August requires you to take at least five days off to recoup or make sure you actually get the kind of sleep a human being needs to function. Which means that you, presumably, will be home screaming at your TV--” “--I don’t scream at my TV.”

“Swan, sometimes you get up and actually try and play defense with the team. It might be my favorite thing you do.” “Ok, well, if this is just some twisted way for you to make fun of my questionable interest in college basketball then…”

Emma trails off when she notices the look on his face – another expression she’ll probably file away in that metaphorical file she’s absolutely, positively not keeping because they’re kind of friends now and that’s cool.

She can’t believe she just thought the word cool.

“What?” Emma asks, the word coming out like a whisper and her lip is bleeding.

“I wouldn’t do that, Swan.

“Anymore.” He shakes his head, the muscles in his throat moving when he swallows and maybe whatever place they’ve teleported to has slightly brighter street lamps because the blue in his eyes seems to get sharper when he looks up at her.

“No,” Killian says. “Not anymore.” “So...was there an offer or an invitation in there or…” He grins. “I’ve got Friday off and I know you’ve got Friday off and I’ve got a better takeout selection than you do.” “See, you’ve just gotta add in those last, little insults don’t you?”

“You blink quicker when you get angry, did you know that?”

Emma shoves at his shoulder, like that will do anything at all, but he’s always had impossibly quick reflexes and she’s not even surprised when his fingers wrap around her wrist. She’s a bit more surprised by whatever her heart does in response and she’s fairly certain it’s the most he’s ever touched her in a 24-hour span. Or, like, a two-hour span.

“You want me to come here on Friday so we can watch basketball together?” Emma asks skeptically. Killian’s nodding before she can get the question out, eyes a hint wider when he tries to speak without actually speaking. “I think your team plays on Friday.” “I’m aware of the schedule, Swan. Xavier does too.” “It’s weird that you’ve memorized it already.” He hums noncommittally, but he really does have better takeout near his apartment and an exceptionally good coffee maker that Emma will undoubtedly use several times and, well, it might be kind of nice.

They’re friends now.

They spend time together. On their own. It’ll be fine.

Cool. It’ll be cool. Cool, cool, cool.

“Was anyone actually going to get out of the car or….” the Uber driver starts and Emma can’t quite mask her laugh. “Because I’ve got other fares I could be taking and…” “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving,” Killian promises, twisting behind him to open the door and it’s fucking freezing outside. He glances back at Emma, one leg on the sidewalk already. “Friday?” There’s something just on the edge of that too, but Emma can’t quite figure it out and the Uber driver is the single most impatient person on the planet. She nods before she can come up with any of the reasons it will not be cool.

“Yeah,” she says. “Friday.”

He flashes her a smile, rolling his eyes at whatever noise the Uber driver makes when he kicks at the door and Emma’s fairly positive she doesn’t mishear him when he leaves, the quiet see you later, love ringing in her ears for the rest of the night.

  The Play-In Games

David Nolan, Tuesday, 7:53 p.m.: Did we know that LIU Brooklyn was in the tournament? Emma Swan, 7:54 p.m.: It’s a play-in game it doesn’t count.

David Nolan, 7:55 p.m.: Also, what channel is TruTV?

Emma Swan, 7:55 p.m.: I’ll repeat myself.

Mary Margaret Blanchard, 7:56 p.m.: They’re playing a game, it definitely counts! They’re doing their best. And almost winning, kind of. Emma Swan, 7:57 p.m.: They are not almost winning. Where is LIU in Brooklyn? Shouldn’t it be...on Long Island.

Emma Swan, 8 p.m.: ????

Killian Jones, 8:01 p.m.: It’s right near Barclays.

Emma Swan, 8:03 p.m.: Why do you know that? Who knows that? No one. No one knows that.

Killian Jones, 8:04 p.m.: I know everything. You know this, Swan.

David Nolan, 8:07 p.m.: Guys. Seriously. This is a group text.

Emma Swan, 8:08 p.m.: Did you pick them?

Emma Swan, 8:15 p.m.: ……. Honestly, Jones? The tournament has started you can tell us who you picked.

Emma Swan, 8:17 p.m.: Killian, seriously!

David Nolan, 8:18 p.m.: This. Is. A. Group. Text.  

Emma scowls when LIU Brooklyn shoots like garbage in the second half and loses its opening-round game and she’s already picked one team wrong, which doesn’t seem like a very good sign. Her phone dings almost immediately.

Killian Jones, 8:59 p.m.: I didn’t pick them. Did you?

Blackbirds are stupid mascots.

David Nolan, Wednesday, 11:37 p.m.: WHAT THE FUCK IS AN ORANGE, ANYWAY?!?

Killian Jones, 11:38 p.m.: Bahahahahahahahahaha.

David Nolan, 11:40 p.m.: Screw you, Killian.

Emma Swan, 11:42 p.m.: Did you put a period after your maniacal laughter?

Killian Jones, 11:44 p.m.: Proper punctuation is important when you’re lording your basketball-picking ability over your lesser competition, Swan. And I take offense at maniacal. It was reserved, at worst.

Emma Swan, 11:44 p.m.: Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?

Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.: The Pac-12 is garbage. ASU was never going to win. Syracuse plays in the ACC. Strength of schedule is important.

Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.: Plus, no college kid knows how to play against a zone.

Emma Swan, 11:46 p.m.: You shoot out of it. That’s just...that’s basic.

Killian Jones, 11:47 p.m.: Tell Arizona State that.

David Nolan, 11:49 p.m.: This. Is. A. Group. Text.

 The First Round, Thursday, Day One

Emma sinks into the corner of her couch, hair still a bit damp from the shower she probably should have taken hours before, but she’s officially in basketball mode and basketball mode requires her to be as lazy as humanly possible while watching college-age kids be the exact opposite for the next twelve hours.

It sounds weirder out loud than it does in her head.

LIU Brooklyn was the only misstep in her First Four picks and, really, that was more of a technicality because most brackets don’t require First Four picks, but they’re all a bunch of over-competitive weirdos and they do it anyway.

She still has no idea what Killian’s bracket looks like.

It’s probably frustratingly accurate, but there are sixteen games that day which means there are sixteen chances for him to be wrong, which is really all she wants.

And maybe she’s the most competitive weirdo of all.

Because Emma really, really likes winning and she liked it a hell of a lot more the one time she beat Killian the first March after undergrad, but she doesn’t hate Killian nearly as much as she did before.

It's a very confusing sentence and a very confusing thought and she needs to watch some of these games to distract her from whatever her mind has been doing over the last few days – replaying that Uber ride and the slight shake in his voice when he asked about Friday, like he was scared she’d say no or like, maybe, it meant something good and big and important and it felt a bit like déjà vu because his voice had done the same, exact thing when she decided she didn’t hate him.

He’d just defended his championship, making sure to point it out as often and loudly as possible, a few days into April and Emma desperately needed the Benadryl she knew David kept in a box under his bed in the apartment just off campus.

She considered going back to her own room – only a few blocks away with her own stock of Benadryl because pollen seemed to exist only to ruin her life every April – but Emma was fairly convinced her nose was about to fall off and she was walking through the door before she even realized she’d taken her key out.

And Killian nearly ran her over as soon as she walked through the threshold.

“Swan,” he slurred, eyes a bit glazed and an actual bottle in his hand. He wobbled when he stopped to glare at her, a sneer to his lips that had become almost too familiar at that point. “What are you doing here?” Emma shook her head, kicking back to close the door and Killian winced when it slammed into its frame. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, reaching out to tug the bottle out of his hand. He tightened his hold. “It’s like...two in the afternoon.” “Ah, well, then we’ve clearly fallen behind schedule. You want a drink, love? There’s a few options in the kitchen, although I’m not willing to share the rum.” “Not your love,” she said, mostly out of habit and he stumbled when she took another step towards him. “Seriously, what the hell is going on with you? You can’t even stand up straight.”

“That, my dear, is the point.” Emma glared, pressing her tongue on the inside of her cheek and it probably would have been intimidating if she didn’t sneeze very loudly two seconds later. It shook through whole body, leaving her sniffling and red-nosed and Killian was staring at her like she’d been replaced with a cyborg as soon as she lifted her head up.

“What?” Emma grumbled, sniffling again.

Killian opened his mouth, only to close it three more times and Emma realized, rather suddenly, that they’d never really had a conversation about….anything. They’d circled around each other for more than a year and had almost gotten the hang of small talk when David and Mary Margaret started making eyes at each other, but there was no depth to any of it.

She’d never asked about his hand – the prosthetic at the end of his left arm catching her attention the very first time she met him, but David had glared at her and the questions got caught in her throat and no one ever gave her an explanation. She’d never even really asked how he ended up at Xavier or why he was a year older than all of them with far fewer credits and he kept taking six classes a semester.

She hadn’t really ever bothered.

That felt decidedly….wrong.

Killian had, simply, come blazing into their lives like some kind of dying star or possibly a comet and Emma didn’t know enough about space to make those kinds of comparisons, but the dying part seemed particularly apt at the moment.

“David’s not here,” Killian said softly, a note of something that might have been disappointment in his voice. “He and Mary Margaret had class and then they were going somewhere to be painfully adorable so…” “So you decided to drink your entire alcohol supply?” “No, no, that had nothing to do with their proclivity to romance. Quite the opposite, in fact.” “That was a lot of very fancy words for a guy who’s having a difficult time staying upright,” Emma pointed out, tapping her finger lightly on his chest and it looked like he’d frozen. “Honestly, you’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with you?” Killian tilted his head, gaze a hint sharper than it had been a moment before and Emma bit her lip. Tightly. “It’s not exactly like we’re friends, Swan. Or even acquaintances, really. You tolerate at me, at best.”

“Ok, well, you don’t really like me either,” Emma argued. “You think I’m…” “What? Please. Tell me exactly what I think about you.”

She stomped her foot, growling low in the back of her throat and Killian did something absolutely ridiculous with his eyebrows. “Fine, fine,” she hissed. “You want to get blasted in the middle of the afternoon, fine. I couldn't care less. I came here to steal some of David’s allergy medicine because the world is attacking me. So I will go get that and then you can get back to your one-person pity party of whatever it is you’re being pitiful about.”

Emma nodded once, like that had won whatever argument they’d been staging, stepping around him towards David’s room, but she barely made it one step before Killian’s fingers wrapped around her shoulder.

“Did you say the world was attacking you?” he asked and it was the last question she expected.

“Yeah. I’m, uh...super allergic to pollen. Spring is, like, my own personal brand of hell.” Killian hummed, taking another swig of whatever was in the bottle – the label had peeled off at some point – before offering it to her. “It’s almost better than Benadryl,” he said and it felt like a much bigger offer.

She took the bottle and the rum – it was rum, incredibly good rum that probably cost a questionable amount of money – shivering when it burned the back of her throat and settled in the pit of her stomach and it almost felt like she could breathe a little better.

“He really never told you?” Killian continued softly. “David, I mean. He knows...the whole thing.” Emma shook her head. “David wouldn’t do that. Not if you didn’t want him to.” “Well, I mean, they’re dead, so it’s not as if they’re going to be offended by me talking about them behind their back.” “What?” “There really is almost a reasonable explanation for the alcohol.”

“Ok,” Emma muttered, nodding in the direction of the second-hand couch in the corner of the room. “But we really should sit down for this because you honestly look like shit and I don’t know that I’ll be able to do anything if you fall over.” Killian scoffed, but he didn’t argue and they spent the next forty-six and a half minutes sitting on opposite sides of the couch, passing the bottle back and forth and he told her everything.

He told her about Liam and Milah and the accident that took both of them at the same time and how he was fairly positive it was some kind of absurd joke when he woke up in the hospital bed, eighteen years old with one less hand than he expected.

He told her about getting out of that town and trying to decide what do next and how to honor both of them without living in the past.

It wasn’t easy, but there were classes and loans and his brother always thought Killian could do anything, so he figured he might as well. He ended up at Xavier by chance, a scholarship that just sort of landed in his lap and a business program that was good and great and a slew of other adjectives that might have included insane because--

“Liam would have been thirty today,” Killian said, taking his time on the words and he kept staring at a piece of string on the one couch cushion in between them. “And he would have hated that I did…” He waved his hand through the air, as if that was enough description, smiling softly when Emma pulled the bottle back to her side of the couch. “But I woke up this morning and I got another shit grade in that marketing class and I can’t…” “So then don’t,” Emma shrugged. Her words felt heavy, hanging on the tip of her tongue and jumbling in the air and Killian stared at her like she was that cyborg again.

“What?”

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Do something else.” “Like...what?” “Anything. You’re minoring in something, right?” Killian nodded slowly, groaning when she wouldn’t relinquish control of the bottle. They’d put quite a dent in it. “Classics,” he said. “You know...Greeks and myths and that kind of thing.” “So do that.” “That’s not really how it works, Swan. And this is sounding incredibly out of character. I wasn’t aware you were so positive.” “Ok, first of all, that’s rude and, second of all, I have known Mary Margaret for nearly a decade now, so some of that is bound to rub off. And third of--” “--There’s a third thing?” Killian asked incredulously and he grinned when Emma stuck her tongue out.

“There would be if you’d let me finish,” she muttered. “Everything you’ve just told me about your brother makes it seem like he was Mary Margaret levels of supportive, right?” Killian hummed again. Emma rolled her eyes. “So then he thought you should major in business because, what, there were careers in it?” Killian shrugged.

“God, you’re the most frustrating drunk in the world, you know that? We’ll go with that theory for now because there are also jobs in the classics and you could...I don’t know, you could teach or something.” “What?” “We are going in circles.” Killian shook his head, like he was trying to work through some more fog or metaphorical cobwebs and Emma felt the muscles in her face shift. She was smiling.

She was smiling at him.

“I just think you could do it,” she said, absolutely ignoring whatever Killian’s entire being did as soon as the words fell out of her. She took another swig of rum. “And I bet your brother would have too. You shouldn’t have to be worried about a marketing grade.”

He didn’t say anything for several days, at least, and Emma had never been particularly good at patience and she wasn’t entirely prepared for--

“I’m sorry,” Killian whispered, leaning forward to rest his hand on one of her knees. Emma suddenly felt far more drunk than she was. “For, well, for all of it. Being a dick and...being a dick.”

Emma’s smile widened, ducking her head and she sneezed when her hair brushed her nose. “Yeah, me too,” she said. “Truce?” She stuck her hand out and, eventually, she’d blame the rum and whatever he was doing with his face, but in the moment it made a hell of a lot of sense and Killian’s fingers were warm.

“Truce,” he echoed.

Emma never got the Benadryl, but they finished the rum and Mary Margaret’s laughter woke both of them up where they’d fallen asleep on the couch.

He changed his major two days later.

And, now, Emma can’t stop thinking about that day and what it meant or, maybe, means because things got better, but Killian is still David’s friend and Emma is still David’s sister and she’s definitely thinking about this way too much.

Particularly when there’s an upset brewing.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, reaching for her phone because she totally picked this one. She absolutely picked this one. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she mutters and patience is still not one of her strong suits.

He picks up on the third ring.

“What?” Killian whispers. “Is someone dead?” Emma nearly drops her phone. “No, what? Why?” “Swan, it is four in the afternoon. I have class. I am in class.” “Why did you answer your phone, then?” “You called me, love,” he says like it’s obvious and it kind of is and it makes every single one of her internal organs do something stupid. “So just to double check. No one is dead? David and Mary Margaret are fine?” “Presumably.” “Swan.” “Yes,” Emma sighs. “David and Mary Margaret are both fine. I just...well, it sounds stupid now. Are you actually in class? Aren’t there rules about that?”

“In a normal class, sure, but I’m a fantastic professor and my rules are much cooler than a normal class. And,” he adds, ignoring her not-so-quiet laughter completely. “It’s March, Swan. Early’ish March. There are midterms, you know.”

“Is that why you have tomorrow off?” “Mmmhmmm.”

“Oh, shit, does it make me a bad friend that I didn’t know that?” “I don’t expect you to have my schedule memorized, love.”

That’s two loves in the same conversation and, maybe, three in the last week and it’s not like Emma’s counting, but she isn’t not counting and--

“Yeah, but I feel like I should know that,” she continues. “Are you talking on the phone with me in the middle of a midterm? Because that’s also kind of shitty.” “I went outside. Figured if there was some kind of death notice imminent then I should be away from the prying eyes of undergrads.” “That is...morbid.” Killian laughs and Emma’s organs are just, like, on fire at that point. “I’ve been reading a lot of essays about the Underworld recently. It’s put me in a mood.” “Maybe I should bring more alcohol tomorrow.” “I wouldn’t say no, although we probably should wait until the later games for that, don’t you think?”

“Look at you, a picture of responsibility,” Emma says and her cheeks are starting to ache. She refuses to acknowledge the symmetry of her thoughts and their current conversation and he never brought it up again.  

He just changed majors and started taking more classes and went to grad school and he had a satchel now. She teased him about it mercilessly.

“Sometimes,” Killian admits. "Why’d you call, Swan?” “Did you pick Loyola Chicago?”

“Excuse me?” “First-round games. Loyola Chicago. Did you pick them beating Miami because they just beat Miami. I know you didn’t pick this so--” “--Of course I did.”

Emma blinks. “What?” “I definitely picked them. I think they could make a run. How’d they win?” “No, no, you don’t get that,” Emma mutters and he’s laughing again, free and easy and she wishes he were there. So she could kick him. Or something else. Whatever. “You can’t be serious. What the fuck is Loyola Chicago even?” “Presumably it’s a school,” he reasons. “And you might want to watch that, Swan because my research shows they’ve got some kind of nun on their side and I don’t think you want to jinx yourself like that.” “I’m going to murder you.” “You’ve just jinxed it.”

Emma makes some kind of noise in the back of her throat and it’s not particularly human, but it draws another laugh out of Killian and at least she also picked the upset. “I can’t believe you researched Loyola Chicago,” she says. “Why?” “Swan, we’ve been over this, there’s a system and it’s tried and true and I’m sharing it with you. Also Miami has been streaky all season. That was an easy upset.”

“Of course it was.” “Anything else to report?” “Don’t you have some kind of internal update that lets you know when your bracket stays perfect? That way your ego never takes a hit?” “That’s rude, Swan. And, no, I don’t. C’mon, update me.”

She does – spends the next five minutes giving him a run down of the early games and the pros and cons of Trae Young leaving Oklahoma after his first year, of which there are many because his jump shot is off sometimes, Killian, you know it, I know it, NBA front office knows it and she’s almost surprised when he mutters that he has to actually go acknowledge his class eventually.

“Oh, right, right, right,” Emma stammers, but she’s ninety-nine percent positive Killian is still smiling. “And I think Collin Sexton is a better freshman than Trae Young and whoever that Arizona kid David was talking about.” “I’ve got no doubt you’re right, love,” Killian says. Her body, possibly, explodes. “You want to tag-team David when Arizona gets upset later on tonight?” “Arizona’s not going to get upset later on tonight.”

Her phone dings as soon as the Arizona game ends and Emma’s watched enough basketball that her brain is starting to get a bit muddled, but she can still spot a monumental sporting moment and Arizona got upset.

By Buffalo.

Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:57 p.m.: Please do not say anything. He threw the remote.

Emma Swan, 11:57 p.m.: Uh oh.

Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:59 p.m.: I’m serious, Emma.

Emma Swan, 12 a.m.: I said no words.

Killian Jones, 12:02 a.m.: I will gladly say words. Off-court issues are on-court problems and Sean Miller is a terrible coach. Go back to Dayton.

Emma Swan, 12:03 a.m.: Were you...just talking to Sean Miller? Via text?

Killian Jones, 12:03 a.m.: Yes. Also I will repeat myself from the First Four. The Pac 12 is terrible. You picked the wrong Wildcat, David.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: It’s unfortunate, but you know, someone’s got to be out first, David. It just so happened you were first on the first day.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: The very first day.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: The first one.

Killian Jones, 12:05 a.m.: As early as possible.

David Nolan, 12:11 a.m.: THIS. IS. A. GROUP. TEXT.

The First Round, Friday, Day Two

“It’s freezing and I’m here and I bought really expensive rum!”

The lock to his building clicks and Emma doesn’t exactly race up the stairs, but she doesn’t just walk up the stairs and by the time she makes it to the third floor there’s a stitch in her side that leaves her just a bit breathless.

Killian’s eyebrows are doing something ridiculous.

“You ok, Swan?” he asks, stepping out of the doorway and grabbing the bottle before she can object. “Did you run here?” She sticks her tongue out in response, pushing lightly on his shoulder and she really does lose her breath at the sight in front of her. There’s already a pre-game show on TV and two more screens and some kind of projector thing hooked up to his laptop and Emma can feel Killian behind her, something that feels like nerves rolling off him.

“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s just...wow.” He makes a noncommittal noise, more nerves and caution and Emma wonders if her week-long thought process makes a bit more sense than she originally thought. But that’s only more confusing and she kind of wants to drink some of the rum now.

“It’s really not that impressive,” Killian promises, dropping into the corner of his couch with forced casualness. “The laptops are mine and I borrowed the projector thing from school and there are a lot of games, so I figured…” Emma nods slowly, trying to take it all in and it might be the nicest thing that’s happened to her in several years. “You figured right,” she promises. “You going to let me see your bracket then?”

It’s enough to break the tension or the nerves or anything else that isn’t the sort of normal she and Killian have settled into and the couch creaks when she sits down.

“I think you’re obsessed with my bracket, love,” Killian says. She’s still not counting. “And, no, you can't look yet. Not until it's over.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't really argue because there's a game starting and she doesn't really want to argue. They’re both more than vocal when Cincinnati plays, shouting a string of insults that gets progressively more crass throughout the game.

And they’re somewhere in the middle of the schedule, debating when they should order food and how qualified Emma is to operate the coffee maker on the other side of the apartment, when she decides fuck it, she’s going to ask.

Or something a little less crass.

“Why’d you pick Purdue?” Emma asks. “Honestly?” The question catches Killian short, eyes widening until there’s far too much blue there and it looks a little like the Creighton uniforms on TV, which is, honestly, the single most absurd thing she’s ever thought.

“And please don’t make a quip about being obsessed again,” Emma adds. “It’s stupid and a deflection and--” “That’s where Liam wanted to go,” Killian cuts in, voice scratchy and emotional and she knows her mouth drops open. She’s not sure she’s breathing.

Her lungs have been through the wringer all day.

“I have no idea why,” he continues and he’s not looking at her anymore. “It makes no sense whatsoever because Purdue is several states away from where we grew up, but he did and he thought a Boilermaker was some kind of fantastic mascot and I think he kind of wanted to be an engineer? But then my mom died and he had to take care of me so--” “That wasn’t your fault.” They need to stop interrupting each other. They need to stop having these emotionally-charged conversations in the middle of a basketball marathon with takeout menus everywhere.

They probably should have done this before.

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you didn’t even make a joke about Purdue’s top kid getting hurt.” “You think I’d make jokes about kids getting hurt?” He sobers for a moment, eyes darting to hers immediately and the whole word seems to shift when he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, but it sounds like several admissions and some kind of major sporting moment and Emma tries to remember how important oxygen is to the human body. “I know you wouldn’t do that.” “You’re kind of a sap, you know that?” Killian chuckles softly, leaning forward and his hand is on her knee again. Time, it seems, is some kind of twisted circle.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “I’m glad you’re here, love.”

Emma’s mouth goes dry at the sincerity in his voice, the hint of hopefulness on the edge of his gaze, like he means it and has been waiting to tell her for several years. She can feel the flush in her cheeks, teeth digging into her lower lip and his hand tightens a fraction of an inch.

He doesn’t flinch when hers lands on top.

She considers twisting their fingers together, but there have already been enough upsets and that team with the nun mascot was all over social media the night before, so Emma figures the world only allows so many surprises in a twenty-four hour span.

“Yeah, me too,” she says instead and she might think about his answering smile for the next week. “You want to order some food?”

They order way too much food and eat way too much food and Emma almost expects Killian’s cheers when they both start yelling during the Xavier game.

It’s easy and simple and they watch every single moment of every single game, only pausing a few times to answer David’s manic texts once UMBC takes a lead into halftime against Virginia.

“He thinks they’re going to win,” Emma mutters, but she’s standing and pacing, mumbling instructions under her breath.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Do you not, love? As predicted, you’re playing defense. And rooting against your own pick.” “Aren’t you? I thought we determined you were a giant, sentimental sap?” “I’m not sure we settled on that turn of phrase, particularly, but to answer your question, of course I am. A little bracket chaos never hurt anyone.” “Plus you’re a great, big history nerd.” “You know none of these compliments sound much like compliments.”

Emma flashes him a smile, but her gaze darts back to the TV when Jim Nantz’s voice reaches a previously unachieved register and she’s not sure she’s ever heard of UMBC before.

They’re up double digits.

“I’m definitely complimenting you,” Emma promises. “And you know…” She waves her hand towards the screen, rolling her eyes when her phone makes more noise. Killian hasn’t blinked since the takeout got cold. He’s staring at her like he’s trying to read her mind or figure out what league UMBC plays in and they’re equally disconcerting and exciting because there’s more history to be made.

Maybe.

Emma hates her own metaphors.

“I don’t,” he mutters, gaze steady and just a hint imploring. Like he wants to know. Desperately.

“Well, maybe you deserve some compliments,” Emma starts. “And, you know...maybe I’m kind of a sap too. Rooting for the underdogs and upsets and picking the alma mater because there’s some history and...cut me off whenever.” He shakes his head, standing up slowly, and he’s in her space a moment later, one hand on the curve of her shoulder – as if he’s trying to make sure she’s there or keep her there and there are only a few minutes left in the game.

“That’s not a bad thing, Swan,” Killian says. “You’re allowed to care about things.”

“Yeah, sometimes those have a habit of blowing up in my face. The underdogs disappoint. That’s just how it works.” They are drowning in metaphors.

And he showed up on her doorstep a little over a year ago when she and Neal dissolved into whatever they weren’t, got her to let him into the apartment and brought her an entire box of samosas. He slept on her couch.

The buzzer on the TV goes off.

UMBC won.

History made.

Or something less sentimental.

“Not always,” Killian breathes, but Emma hears him perfectly and she’s, at least, seventy-six percent positive he’s going to kiss her when her phone dings, at least, seventy-six times.

She’s not sure which one of them groans louder.

“David needs a hobby,” Emma grumbles.

“This is his hobby.” ‘Well, then he needs a new one. This is just…” “Yeah, exactly.” “Why did that sound like an insult?” Killian makes a dismissive noise, an air of frustration lingering around him and Emma needs to go home. She doesn’t really want to go home. “It wasn’t,” Killian says. “It was just…” He’s going to do damage to his neck if he keeps shaking his head, but Emma’s forgotten how to hold a conversation and she’s too busy being stunned by the next words out of his mouth to be worried about saying anything except--

“What?” “It’s late,” he mumbles. “And you’re going to get surge pricing and you can just stay here.”

That’s what she thought he said.

Huh.

“Oh,” Emma blinks. “That’s um...are you sure?” That’s not what she expects to say.

Huh.

Again.

Killian nods. It’s a nice change of pace. So is the smile and that one lock of hair on his forehead and his hand is still on her arm.

“Yeah, yeah, it makes sense, right?” he asks. “And then you can raid the coffee again in the morning. It’s a win-win for you.” “Ok,” Emma says, a quick agreement that seems to rush out of her and into the air molecules where it lingers for several history-making, relationship-changing moments. “Ok.”

He absolutely refuses to let her sleep on the couch and Emma doesn’t argue, just smiles and lets herself be silently charmed by it and of course he has extra toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet. She falls asleep under the questionable number of blankets on his bed, a smile lingering on her face and in her soul or something equally ridiculous and he doesn’t say anything when she drinks four cups of coffee the next morning.

[taz-writes]

I was scrolling through your blog and saw something about a mermaid incident in class... date I ask for the story behind that?

I will absolutely tell you the story behind that, because it is equal parts baffling and hilarious, even now an entire year later. 

It begins… with my creative writing minor. Last fall I took a class called Survey of Forms: Fiction, which was an introduction to the canon of literary fiction, as well as literary fiction writing and basic style skills like characterization, narrative voice, dialogue, et cetera. Sounds pretty typical, right? Well, my professor was a fun guy, and one of our assignments around the middle of the semester was to write a rant. What sort of rant, you may ask? Literally anything. It was an exercise in narrative voice, he wanted 2-4 pages of a first-person tirade on something that you had strong opinions about, to be read out loud in class the next week. We had the option to write as a character from our short story WIPs or to write as ourselves. 

I chose to write my rant about a subject very near and dear to my heart: mermaids. Specifically, how much I fucking hated them as a child.

A bit of backstory, so you can understand why this got me so incredibly riled: I’m all about fairies. I was the fairy kid. I literally thought I was a fairy princess from outer space until I was, like, 11 or 12 years old. I wanted to have cool magic powers and sparkly wings and all that good stuff! I wanted to fly! I wanted to live in the forest and grant wishes! But like, mermaids are and have always been way more popular. If you’re a little girl who loves mermaids, your options are everywhere. You’ve got mermaid TV shows! Mermaid movies! Mermaid book series! Mermaid-themed makeup, mermaid-themed clothing, mermaid-themed Halloween costumes and lunch boxes and merchandise, mermaid stuff is everywhere. If you’re a little girl who loves fairies… you get, uh, Winx Club? Barbie Fairytopia? And maybe some Disney stuff if you squint. This was before even those Tinkerbell movies went mainstream, and if you were (like me) the sort of tomboy to frown at pink ruffly stuff, then you had absolutely NOTHING. 

And for bonus points, every single one of those fairy things I mentioned? Yeah they have mermaids in them. And the mermaids got overmerchandised, while the fairy MAIN CHARACTERS were neglected. Winx Club has a whole mermaid season, Barbie Fairytopia has mermaids and got a freaking mermaid-based sequel and never did justice to the actual fairy protagonists until long after I’d outgrown Barbie media. So like, I’m salty. I literally started writing Feilan because I was tired of every story with fairies being either immature Disney shit for 5-year-olds or edgy grimdark YA novels with too much kissing and inappropriate language for baby 12/13-year-old Taz’s tastes. I wanted something in between–fairies who weren’t stupid little glittery farts, but who didn’t spend all their time being ~evil and sexy~ or whatever either. If you like mermaid stuff, you can find a zillion different interpretations of merfolk lore, but despite the vast breadth of fae lore the fiction inspired by it only has two real subgenres. Fairies just aren’t as popular. I think they’re coming back a little bit because of SJM and Holly Black, but I HATE SJM’s fae and Holly Black’s are unbearably edgy, so that’s not really a good thing? 

On top of this, I am the type of person who clings very tightly and personally to minor things that aggravate me. I’m not sure why, and I wish that wasn’t the case, but at this point I’ve accepted it as part of my personality. It’s very rare that I find something I’m quite so passionately mad about, but when I latch onto a pet peeve I take it seriously. You can’t argue with me about the meaningless petty grudges, those are my lifeblood, and the mermaid thing is one of the oldest pet peeves I have. 

Back to the topic! The rant I wrote for Survey of Forms was the above tirade, expanded over several pages with sources cited. I was pretty proud of it! I came up with some really brutal turns of phrase, I thought my ~authorial voice~ was top of the line, it was a good rant. Time rolled around for us to share our rants with the class, and I gave a fabulous dramatic reading. My comedic timing is one of my strengths as an actress. 

Everything went as normal for the next few rants… and then, one of my quieter classmates began to read his rant. It sounded fine for the first few sentences, a discussion of traditional elements and their thematic associations okay whatever… but it became increasingly obvious, as he went on, that this wasn’t what he’d written. No, he was improvising a speech on the spot, because he was SO upset that I didn’t like mermaids that he had to tell me exactly how and why I was wrong about my entire worldview. 

In public. In front of our ENTIRE CLASS. 

He explained how mermaids belong to elemental water, and they’re valuable to modern society. See, water is the element of empathy and compassion, and those things are so rare in modern American society! It was almost a year after the 2016 elections, and our politics were so vicious and divisive, and the influence of water’s empathy was dwindling and he could see it burning through society! An over-emphasis on elemental air and its transience was leading to the rise of fake news and misinformation and alternative facts, elemental fire led to rage and passion and an inability to think logically, and we needed water to balance everything! So in fact, we need more mermaid stories! Because mermaid stories teach us to feel empathy! And the lack of water’s empathy, this growing hatred of mermaids (and by extension anything water-based)–that was the reason America was falling apart! That’s why Trump was elected! Because… uh, because I don’t like mermaids? 

Yeah, this guy basically implied that I was the reason Trump became president and the media devolved into vitriolic chaos. Because I don’t like mermaids. 

I couldn’t make this shit up on my own if I tried. 

I was absolutely livid, a friend of mine in the same class told me I turned redder than my scarlet school hoodie. I’ve never had the best anger management skills, I was literally shaking in my seat, I was inches away from flipping the table I sat at. I probably would’ve done it, too, if my classmate hadn’t put her boiling hot cup of soup down on it without the lid on. One of the lovely side effects of my ADHD is that sometimes when I get upset, my brain gets so hyperfocused on that one emotion that I’m physically incapable of feeling anything else or even thinking straight, and I can’t snap myself out. Those rages are terrifying. This was one of the worst rages I’ve ever experienced in my life, and I thanked my lucky stars later that I didn’t hurt somebody. I did get to scream at the guy for a couple minutes, but I don’t remember what I actually said. It involved a few physical threats and a lot of being embarrassed in front of my peers. 

Anyways, the professor didn’t even stop this guy, because–like everyone else–he didn’t realize what was going on until it was too late. And once he realized, I guess he froze up or something? I don’t know. I lost my fucking mind about this, I went into my next class and screamed for like fifteen minutes. My poor Music History teacher was so confused. 

The Survey professor emailed me and asked me to stop by his office later, and I thought I was going to get lectured for throwing a fit in class. I used to throw a lot of tantrums in grade school and even when I grew out of that, I was always the person blamed when an argument or fight broke out with me involved, so I had some muscle memory… the professor actually wound up apologizing. He told me he just didn’t know what to do in the moment, and he was really nice about it, and by then I’d calmed down enough that I wasn’t literally frothing with rage. It was very very surreal. I felt quite validated. 

Mermaid guy wound up writing me a length apology email. I’m pretty sure the professor put him up to it. He went on to explain that he was from Singapore and he was raised right by the water and so it was really important to him, his culture has some kind of mermaid thing that he’s emotionally attached to, et cetera… He seemed very sincere about it, so I accepted the apology, but I still have no freaking clue what possessed him to derail the entire class in order to argue over my goofy childhood grudge. It’s hilarious in retrospect, I just can’t even begin to understand the logic. I still have that email saved because it was so mind-blowingly absurd. 

So yeah, that’s the Mermaid Incident. I wish I could say it went down in university history but I’m not sure if anyone remembered it longer than a week or so after it happened. Nobody ever mentioned it again. 

And despite said classmate’s best efforts, I still have a grudge against mermaids. They’re very nice in their own dedicated media, but if I see them popping up like plot cancer in stories you told me were about fey? I will come for you. 

[irregularwebcomic]

[Irregular Webcomic! #1609 Rerun](http://ift.tt/1nuXeiM)

Normally when I receive complimentary e-mails I dash off a quick reply and then delete the message. (My mind still exists in the "keep your mailbox tidy because it'll eat up all your disk space otherwise" days of the early 1990s.) But recently I received one that I've been unable to bring myself to delete. The reader writes, in part:

I don't usually write to any of the myriad of webcomic authors whose work I read; even if their work makes me laugh I'm just too lazy. But, I just had to tell you, your IWC is the BEST original work I have ever come across. [...] your dedication to casually spreading advanced scientific knowledge and post-religious morals is truly inspiring.

I came across your stuff last night around 11 pm and read the entire archive. So many wikipedia tangents, so many browser tabs. So many WTF it is the next morning now? When I read about the mercury poisoning in Japan I became so angry I yelled at my computer. Your explanations of complex physics and math have an elegance at least on par with that of any popular scientific writers. I could go on, but in short, you win. You have redeemed Teh Intarwebz.

Now obviously this is pretty high praise and the sort of thing that would swell anyone's head. But two bits really got me. The "mercury poisoning in Japan" sentence. I've already discussed this, and you can go back and read it again if you wish. I remembered the tears in my eyes as I wrote the annotation to that particular strip. So many people suffering, absolutely pointlessly, amidst corporate and government apathy. I remembered being horrified when I first learnt about that terrible episode of human history when I was in high school.

It brought back memories of other things too. Also in high school, my English class read The Diary of Anne Frank. I remembered groaning when I was given the copy of this book with some girl on the front cover and being told it was her diary, and we had to read it and write essays about it. As background work we were also given assignments to research and write about the Nazi-perpetrated Holocaust. I recall vividly the awful photographs I uncovered in the history books in the school library. The mind-numbing numbers of people killed, and the heartless ways in which it happened. It was gruesome, but fascinating.

In my recent trip to Germany, I made it a point to visit the Jewish Museum in Berlin. Because of Anne Frank and those assignments I was forced to do at school. We need to know what depths of depravity humanity is capable of descending to in order to understand what we can do to rise above it.

Which brings me to the real showstopper in that e-mail:

your dedication to casually spreading [...] post-religious morals is truly inspiring.

That has to be one of the most wonderful things anyone has ever said to me.

I wasn't even aware I was doing any such thing. I write these comics because it's a creative outlet for me. I'm not after fame or fortune (certainly not fortune!). I could probably grow my audience by a factor of two or three simply by submitting my site to a few webcomic indexing sites - but that's not what I'm about. I like to think I still have a small core group of people who come here every day to get a slice of something that will perhaps make them laugh, perhaps make them smirk, perhaps make them groan, perhaps make them think a little. I want to feel like there's something personal here.

So the comments I write here in these annotations are merely an extra way to get something from my mind across to you. Now: "post-religious morals"?

I like to think of myself as a moral person. I'm sure most of us do. And, while I don't think I've explicitly stated it at any point, watchful readers may have deduced that my religious beliefs fall into the realm of atheism. I'm willing to give some ground if God (or a god) manifests in front of me and does some miracle stuff, but failing that, my working assumption is that the Big Guy doesn't exist.

I've seen some very disturbing arguments made by some religious people (of more or less fundamentalist persuasions) to the effect of: If you don't believe in God, you can't be a moral person. I've never understood this, and it has always bothered me. How can people even make such statements? I don't believe in God, yet as far as I know I'm not a criminal, sociopath, drug dealer, axe murderer, or anything like that. I happen to think I live a pretty respectable life and have done vastly more good in the world than any of my few ill-considered rash actions that I promptly regretted soon after.

As far as I usually see it, the argument goes like this: God tells us how to behave morally. If you don't believe in God, you have no moral guidance, therfore you must be immoral.

A few weeks ago I saw a blog somewhere - I forget where. Anyway, there was a post and a series of comments about whether we possess free will or not (it was around the time I wrote this poll question). The discussion centred on the thought experiment of "would you shoot an innocent person, given no extenuating circumstances"? For the vast majority of us the answer is, instantly and incontrovertibly, no. The application to the free will question then is that if you are incapable of shooting this person, perhaps you don't actually possess the free will to actively decide to shoot them. Of course this invites the argument that, "Well, actually I could decide to shoot them, I just wouldn't." At which point the argument can go in circles for as long as the arguers enjoy it.

Someone raised the question, "Well if you have the free will to decide to shoot, but never actually do shoot, what's stopping you?"

Someone answered, "God."

"And what if God doesn't exist?"

"Well then I guess I'd shoot the person."

Wait a second. How does someone who believes in God and God's moral code and is a moral person, come to the conclusion that if God did not exist then God's rules would simply not apply and he would be able to bring himself to shoot a completely innocent person?

He's literally saying that he's only a moral person because God exists and lays down the law. He said, right there in black and white, that if God didn't exist, moral laws would cease to apply and he would go around casually killing people.

Now one conclusion you could come to is that this guy is a complete nutter and should be locked up in an institution somewhere. But I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, because clearly he is not actually going around murdering people, and (because of God) he actually thinks that killing people is a bad thing to do. But the really scary thing is that this is not the first time I've seen such an argument. Over the years, in various places, I've seen many religious people make the statement in more words or less that if God wasn't around, there'd be nothing to stop people doing any antisocial, violent, evil thing they feel like whenever the whim takes them.

I've never understood how religious people who are basically good can think like this. It seems clear to me that the vast majority of atheists (thus with no religious moral code) are basically moral people, extremely unlikely to swing at people with axes when the fancy takes them. If they weren't, the world would be a seriously dreadful place. How can the people who believe this sort of thing not see that?

So this has always puzzled and disturbed me. Until a few days ago when I raised the topic in conversation with a friend of mine. And he had an explanation.

Atheists, he said, need to find a moral direction from within. We need to examine our own values and beliefs in the context of human society, put some thought into them, and behave in ways that accord with what we decide is the moral way to act. There are various expressions of moral codes that work in this context. A simple one is "do unto others as you would have them do unto you." You don't need to believe in God to think about that and decide that yes, if everyone lived by that simple maxim, the world would be a nicer place. You don't need God to be nice to people. You don't need God to have morals.

Strongly religious people, on the other hand, get moral direction from the authority of God. God tells them how to behave, and God is the most important thing in their lives, so there's their moral code right there. They never have to think about their morals, because they are decreed from on high. They never have to go through a logical argument with themselves to decide that they should be nice to other people - they're just nice to people because that's what God says to do. If they never have to internalise their values and derive their own moral code, then it's not even something that they realise can be done. When a person like this looks at an atheist, they don't realise that the atheist has probably spent time (more or less consciously) to produce a moral code that they endeavour to live up to. All they see is someone without the moral code of God. They don't realise that there are other ways in which one can be a moral person. So they conclude that the atheist has no morals.

This is why religious fundamentalists are so scared of atheists. Everyone who believes is okay, because God will keep them in line, but those atheists, they'll probably stick a knife in you as soon as look at you. This is the problem with religious fundamentalist morals.

(I should stress at this point that I'm talking about the more extreme sort of fundamentalist. As with any word there are different definitions, and I know some readers of this comic describe themselves as "fundamentalist". As long as you don't believe that I'm an immoral potential murderer, I'm not talking about you.)

Richard Dawkins recently released a book titled The God Delusion. I have not read this book (yet), though I am interested to pursue it relatively soon. As I understand it, the book is a scathing attack on religion and the belief in God. Dawkins is apparently on a mission to discredit religion of all stripes and promote atheism as the solution to the world's problems. Atheism does not need a champion like Dawkins. Sadly, I can see that all his book will accomplish is to inflame religious opposition.

What we need is an atheist spokesperson to sit down with religious people and discuss issues with them. To point out that atheists are not scary people with no morals. That we have moral codes and are good people, and to describe how we have become moral people through our own introspection and thought. To point out that deep down we're really the same - people on a small planet, mostly trying to live good lives and do our best to find our way in a world that has enough dangers without us making more of our own through misunderstandings.

How do we develop thoughtful morals in people, as opposed to God-given ones? We educate our children. We teach them the history of the world. The bad bits as well as the good bits. We show them what happens when people treat each other badly. We get them to think about what is right and what is wrong, rather than just telling them. If you tell people something as an edict from authority, sooner or later they're going to question why. It'd be nice to have answers that lead to essentially the same conclusions, rather than an emptiness that can lead people to think morals can only exist in a world with a God, or in people who believe in a God.

When I first received that e-mail, I was taken aback by those words: "post-religious morals". I had to think for some time about exactly what that meant, and in what possible way I could have come across in the previous 1600 comics as conveying anything of that ilk to my audience. And honestly, I can't recall any particular instance of me expressing a moral opinion, other than that mention of the Minamata Bay tragedy that had already been brought to my attention. I suppose there must have been others, if this reader had seen fit to comment on it.

I suppose if you try to live a moral life, it just rubs off on people somehow. That's a good feeling.

I've received an overwhelming amount of feedback to this annotation. I don't have the time to reply to it all, but most of it is welcome and I thank you for writing.

Almost all of the response has been positive, both from atheists and religious believers. The response from religious people has generally been along two lines: (1) Yes, I agree, it's a shame that some atheists and theists find it necessary to fight or simply misunderstand each other so badly. (2) Thank you, you've given me some food for thought.

I've received criticism too, from both directions. Some took me to task for attacking Richard Dawkins. I confess I based my conclusion that "Atheism does not need a champion like Dawkins" on a lack of research on my part. I reserve judgement until I become more familiar with Dawkins' work on promulgating atheism. And some believers asked me to consider some points that I hadn't mentioned.

One particularly interesting one is that what many theists find scary about atheists is not that they don't understand where an atheist gets his morals from, but that an atheist's morals, being based on introspection and thought, are liable to change under different circumstances, whereas God's morals are absolute and provide certainty of action. I can see that this line of thought would be potentially disturbing to a theist, and I thank those readers who pointed it out. (I would argue that theists who hold this belief are discounting the very real notion that someone following God's moral laws can also change their mind under different circumstances, and also that the same moral law clearly does not lead to the same moral choices by believers - just look at how many believers of any given religion disagree on various issues.)

I've also received some scathing attacks from religious believers, stating that my arguments are full of logical holes and that either, yes, by declaring myself an atheist I am indeed immoral, or that I may have morals, but they were given to me by God and I'm just too stupid to realise it.

Interestingly, I hadn't received any such strongly negative comments until five days after this strip appeared, when suddenly several landed in my mailbox. I suspect someone has linked to my strip from some religious forum somewhere and is stirring up people to send me hate mail.

My question is, how is writing to viciously attack me moral behaviour?

2017-08-26 Rerun commentary: The funny thing is that I do now have a link advertising the availability of the first Irregular Webcomic! book. Still no T-shirts, though. I don't have anything to add to the long annotation above, except to mention that this year I started volunteering to teach primary school children ethics (which is not exactly the same thing as morals, I know), as part of the Primary Ethics program here in New South Wales. I currently teach a Year 4 class[1] once a week. I would do more, but I need to take a 2-hour slot out of my working week every week during school term to do this (lesson time plus travel time), and make up the time with my employer by staying back later. This has reduced the time I have available to make comics and engage in other hobby and leisure pursuits, but I think it's worth it. [1] That's children about 10 years old. I currently have 19 kids in my class. They can be a bit of a handful at times. If you ever want to appreciate how hard teachers have to work and how underappreciated and underpaid they are, try actually teaching a classroom full of kids some time.