#lobs a softball so they can both laugh

[rahleeyah]

I realize in some quarters this is a controversial statement but I am not and never have been mad at the body count conversation

[abbatoirablaze]

Bunk Mates, Chapter 10

Word Count:  1.9k

Warnings:  Mentions of an injury, broken bones, medical situation/being in a hospital.

Alex’s POV

"You look really cute," Ike smiled, "I just wanted to tell you."

I laughed at my boyfriend, "shouldn't you be paying attention to the game, Crystal?"

"I'm paying attention," he lied, “totally paying attention.”

"Oh yeah?" I asked, "keep looking at me. Who's going up to bat?"

"I uh," he stutter-stepped. He tried not to look but gave in anyways. I shook my head at him as he triumphantly turned around, "Granny is."

"What?" Granny asked, focusing on Ike and I.

"Nothing," Ike shouted back to Granny, "uh, keep your eye on the ball."

"COPS SUCK!" Chief McConkey yelled as Polansky pitched the softball.

"Cops do not suck." He yelled, "firefighters suck."

"Plates that way Polansky."

Ike looked at me again as everyone on both sides began to insult each other.

"You're kinda cute yourself Crystal," I said with a wink, “come here often?”

He smiled at me, "are you hitting on me, Boykins?"

"Maybe," I giggled, standing near the baseline, "do you like it?"

He nodded, taking a few steps closer to me, "If I asked for a kiss, would you let me?"

"Is a third base coach allowed to kiss a player?"

"Yes?"

I laughed as Polansky pitched the ball again.

"WOAH!" all of us began to yell. Polansky had lobbed it, and if Granny didn't move it would have hit him, "What the hell, Polansky?"

"You trying to hit me, cop?" Granny yelled.

"Baby," Ike said, moving next to me, "calm down."

"He almost hit Granny."

"Come here," he laughed. I shook my head at him. He kept laughing, "you're so cute when you're competitive."

"So are you," I said with a wink. He smiled again, and I gave in going to the base. I gave him a small kiss when everyone focused on Granny.

Ike's POV

I kissed Alex, and then moved back to the base as cap side-eyed me.

"Come on Granny," I said throwing a clap at the guys to make it seem like I had been paying attention. Alex shook her head at me, and I sent her a wink. Captain Polansky set Granny up with a good one, and he swung for the fences. It hit Polansky square in the knee, and he went down hard. I bolted home and scored a point. Alex was clapping excitedly, telling Granny to keep running, “THAT’S RIGHT!  SUCK IT!  DIRTY COPS!”

"Time out," Shuck yelled running over to his captain, "he's hurt!  Guys! We got a guy down."

"You guys are first responders, come on!" Salazar yelled at the rest of the team. I saw the shock on Alex's face as she realized Polansky wasn't faking. She made her way over to him as cap began yelling back at Salazar, "you guys are first responders. Respond!"

"Come on Granny, you're a medic." Shuck yelled.

I reached for the go-bag that had our emergency supplies and jogged over to Alex with it, "is he okay?"

"Stop running!" Salazar screamed. Polansky's high-pitched screaming annoyed me, but Alex kept calm, trying to get him to stop rolling so that we could look at it.

"Jerry," she pleaded, "stop rolling so I can examine your knee."

"IT HURTS!" he screamed, “OH GOD!”

"Salazar," Alex said. She stopped screaming long enough to look at her, "Hold Jerry so I can examine him."

She rushed over, and I backed away, watching my baby work.

"Ike," she pleaded, turning to me, "bring the jeep up and have Granny call the hospital. Caps knee looks busted."

"Shit, really?"

She nodded. I took her keys and grabbed Granny, "ey man, call the hospital. Alex is gonna bring him in."

"Oh shit, he ain't faking?"

I shook my head, and began jogging to the parking lot, Granny in tow, "That was really cool of your girl to help the cops even if they are jerks."

"She's technically on the clock," I sighed, shrugging my shoulders, "she didn't have much choice."

"Oh yeahhh," Granny agreed, "she's still C shift, right?"

"Yeah," I replied, "though, cap said that they were thinking about opening another spot on the A shift next month. He said that we were going to be restructuring because a few of the other guys want to switch shifts as well."

"Who would want to leave their shifts?" Granny asked.

"I don't know," I shrugged, "but if it means Alex gets to come to our shift, I'm okay with it!"

"Luce would love that," he said getting into the Jeep as I started it up, "she's always talking about how she wants another girl on the shift."

"Yeah." I smiled, thinking about how awesome it'd be if she was, "But I guess that means she'd have to change which bunk she's got...because we share one now."

The conversation ended up falling flat the closer we got back to the field. I shrugged it off. I could still hear Captain Polansky crying about his leg, "man what a baby."

"Ike don't drive onto the field!"

"She said bring her jeep up," I said defensively. Cap shook his head at me, “so I’m going to bring the jeep up to her.”

"She didn't mean drive it onto the field," Andy yelled, “Ike you’re ruining the grass!”

"What are you doing, you idiot?" Shuck yelled.

I got out of the Jeep and ran over to my girlfriend. She and Salazar were helping Polansky up.

"Here let me help," I said, trying to be useful. I took over for Alex, and she rushed to her Jeep, opening the door for us to help put Polansky in, “thanks baby!”

"I'll go with him," Shuck said, jumping into the back seat, “I got you cap.”

Are you sure you don't want me to come?" I asked. Alex shook her head, "it's okay. Finish your game babe. I'm on the clock, remember? Call the station if another injury happens, okay?"

I hopped in the Jeep anyways. Shuck glared at me, "she said she was fine."

"It's okay," she said, trying to ease the tension between us all, "You guys can help carry Jerry in, and I'll park the car when we get to the hospital. Granny called, right?"

I nodded and we pulled out. I could hear Granny still talking to someone on the phone, "yeah."

She nodded and we raced off. Captain Polansky was screaming about how much his leg hurt, while Shuck just glared at me.

"What?"

"Why did you even have to come?" he said through gritted teeth, "you ignored us when we said the captain was hurt."

"I'm helping," I said, confused as to why he was being so harsh, "I got the car. I helped him into it. What's your problem?"

Shuck ignored me, huffing at the window.

Not wanting to be outdone I crossed my arms and huffed harder.

We kept going back and forth until Alex stopped at a light. Captain Polansky turned to us, and through his wailing he yelled, "WILL THE TWO OF YOU SHUT THE HELL UP!"

"Jeez you don't have to be so harsh, cap," Shuck huffed glaring at me, "it's all Crystal's fault anyways."

"Yeah." I said, "wait, what? No, it isn't. It's your fault. You started huffing at me!"

"Guys," Alex said, as the light turned green. She didn't turn around. Her voice was calm but had an edge of danger to it that I didn't want to question, "I don't know whatever pissing match the two of you are having in the back seat but you better end it. The captain is in pain, and if you two being children is making that worse you need to stop."

"It is," Polansky whined.

"He started it."

"Well, I'm ending it," she growled, "don't test me."

Shuck and I looked at one another, and I sucked on my cheeks. I wasn't going to test Alex, and it looked like he wasn't willing to either.

"It'll be fine," she said in a calm voice. She was rubbing Shuck's back, and I couldn't help but feel a little jealous. She was being so nice to him, “Brad, he’s going to be alright.”

Was she flirting with him?  I looked down at my arm, absentmindedly flexing, then looked at Shuck.  He wasn't as chiseled as I was.  He wasn't as good looking as I was.  His mustache definitely wasn’t as full as mine was.  She wouldn't leave me for him...would she?

"Thanks for being so nice," Shuck whimpered. He put one of his hands on her thigh, "you're so nice, Alex."

"I promise, it'll be okay, Brad," she reassured him. I watched as she moved his hand onto the arm rest of the chair but placed her hand over his, “you’ll see.  They’ll have Captain Polansky all fixed up in no time.

I wasn't sure what was worse. Him touching her, or her touching him.  But either way I felt upset.

"That was really scary."

She turned to me, studying my features.  I don't know where the hell those words came from, but my voice sounded hollow as I said them.

"Babe?" she asked, "are you okay?"

"I just...I don't think it hit me until now," I lied, hoping that it would get her attention. I tried to keep the smile from my face as she moved her hand from Shuck and put it over mine, "life is just so fragile."

"Oh Ike," she cooed. Her body turned away from Shuck entirely and I sighed and looked at the ground. She lifted my face up and held it between her hands, "hey. Captain Polansky is gonna be okay. Just like I was telling Brad. He's just got a few broken bones. They're doing the X-ray's now, but Jerry stopped yelling. It's okay, Ike."

I was leaning in slightly, and she gave in, ready to kiss me. I had led her to believe that the only way to calm me down in this moment was with a kiss.

"But just think about it," Shuck said, voice loud. Alex's eyes opened and she backed up, remembering that we were in a hospital waiting room, "that could have happened to any one of us."

She turned to him again, and I felt jealous.

GOD DAMN IT!

"It didn't though, Brad," she sighed. One of her hands stayed with me, but the other she put on his knee, "you're fine."

"But it just makes me think," he said quickly, "What if I was closer and Granny's bat hit me in the head. I'd be here, now, not Captain Polansky."

I could see him tearing up, and I felt the rage growing in my chest.  Damn that man.  Alex fell for it though, and wanting to be the amazing woman that she is, she wanted to comfort him. She pulled him into a hug as he began sniffling. He wrapped his arms around her and stuck his tongue out at me.

"Son of a bitch," I growled in a low voice, “I’ll end you.”

"What's that?" he asked, pulling away from Alex, "Ike did you say you wanted a drink?"

"YEAH!" I lied, "you should go get me one."

"I'll get it," Alex volunteered, "god you two have been through so much today. I'll get it. What did you want, babe?"

"Just a water?"

"Shuck?"

"Same."

She nodded, leaving the two of us glaring at one another. I was the first one to speak, "what the hell are you trying to pull here, huh?"

"I'm not pulling anything," he growled back, "maybe you shouldn't even be here, Crystal."

"Maybe you shouldn't be flirting with my girlfriend, Shuck." 

Chapter 11

[oceanselevenism]

If you're still doing them maybe number 12 with both the ocean's siblings and their partners?

hell yeah!! i’ve put it under the cut :)) it is Very Tangentially holiday-sweater-related but it is too long to not post now! hope you enjoy, and happy holidays :))

It’s the first Christmas they’ve spent together in... nearly a decade and a half, actually. The years had flown by, blurring into a mess of run-ins and arguments and you stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine, but hey, Danny can’t fault his sister for wanting to make up for lost time. No, he can’t fault her (after all, if she had been the one to fake her death, he’d probably have moved into her house for a week, just to make sure she didn’t do it again) but he can make fun of her, so that’s what he does. “Aw, you really did miss me,” he says when she gives him and Rusty perfunctory hugs on her way into his house (Lou just claps them both on the shoulder, and he’s not sure whether to feel snubbed or relieved). “I can’t believe my dear sister actually cares,” he tells her when she brings him a mug of cocoa, ingredients nabbed from some billionaire in Germany. “Pure family bonding for the whole family,” he remarks when she goes off on a drunken, expletive-filled tangent about the Met Gala’s security over a game of poker (they’ve given up on trying to enforce the no-cheating rule, and he’s pretty sure Lou takes the opportunity to peek at Debbie’s cards). But in all honesty, he can’t keep up the ribbing; it really is good to see her, even if she definitely gets along better with Rusty (she’s told him as much, and right to his face, too) and the third day ends in a bitter, wine-fueled not-argument about their mother and their father and they themselves. But on the fourth morning Danny gets up early (it’s five in the goddamn morning, why the fuck has Lou already left a note on the counter saying gone on a run) to make latkes, and when Debbie comes downstairs she scoops out a dollop of his favorite sour cream instead of her usual applesauce, so unless her latke preferences have done a complete 180 since the last time he’s seen her, they’ve forgiven each other.

She and Lou volunteer to go on a grocery run that evening, and Danny’s glad; he hasn’t had the chance to jump Rusty’s bones in, like, five days (turns out cleaning up for houseguests takes up way more time than anticipated) (hey, the only people they’ve had over in years have been the crew from the Benedict job, and he’s heard Reuben threaten to shit on Turk’s feet, they don’t need to clean up for them). And for a minute, as Rusty pins him up next to the to-be-composted bag that is currently overflowing with potato scraps, the only thought in his head is the usual why didn’t we do this sooner. But then Rusty pulls back-- “Rus,” Danny complains-- and he tilts his head in that We Need To Talk manner. Which would be hot, if not for the fact that Rusty probably wants to talk about Debbie.

“You’re good, right?”

“We were never on bad terms.”

“Liar.”

“Well, hostile terms, maybe,” Danny amends. “But never bad.”

Rusty shifts, adjusting his forearms so it’s more like they’re just two good pals having a conversation three inches from each others’ faces instead of two good pals about to do very unsanitary things in a kitchen, and says, “I think you’re putting too much water under the bridge.”

“What am I, a Dutch engineer?”

“You’re very funny.”

“I know I am. Now, are we gonna--”

The door opens. Danny swears. “We were gone for twenty minutes,” Debbie says. “Are you that desperate?” Danny regrets going for the open-concept first floor, and he regrets it even more as Rusty pushes himself off with an air of utmost nonchalance.

“Here,” Lou says, lobbing a ball of fabric at Rusty. Her aim is remarkable, and Danny almost asks if she ever played softball before deciding he likes his well-being more than teasing his sister’s motorcycle-riding, brass-knuckle-owning girlfriend. It’s fine; next to him, Rusty huffs an amused laugh at the unsaid comment anyway. “Happy Christmas Eve.”

Rusty unfolds the fabric to reveal a truly hideous (and possibly offensive) Christmas sweater. It’s got red sleeves, a green torso, and a large, colorful fruitcake emblazoned on the stomach. Above it, in red and yellow, is text that reads FRUIT CAKE. “I love it,” Rusty says, pressing his lips together in that way that says he’s trying his damndest not to laugh. “It’s perfect.”

Lou opens her coat to reveal her own sweater, hers saying Ho Ho Homo. “I thought the theme was appropriate.”

“And for you, dearest brother,” Debbie says, pulling an atrociously-colored wad of wool out of a paper bag and chucking it at him, “you get the best of both worlds.”

With a mounting sense of horror, he recalls the year that he insisted on putting teal and orange streamers across the house, because it’s Hanukkah and Christmas mixed! That was the last year their parents had lived in the same house; Danny used to joke that it had been the final nail in the coffin for their mother. He pinches an edge of the cloth between two fingers and lets the rest fall open. It’s a Miami Dolphins holiday sweater. A teal-and-orange, festively-patterned Miami Dolphins sweater. Oh, his Boston-bred father would be frothing at the mouth. “We’re in Canada,” Danny says, equal parts shocked and awed. “How the hell did you get this here so quick? We were supposed to be meeting in Quebec until three days ago--”

“Danny, please learn what priority shipping is,” Debbie says. “Now c’mon. Wear it.”

There’s no way he can back out of this. If he refuses, she’ll just play the I thought you were dead card. He’s never regretted a decision more.

He puts on the sweater. Rusty-- his partner, his right hand, the love of his life-- wolf-whistles.

“I’m divorcing you,” Danny announces.

“Don’t worry,” Lou says with a grin, and is that her phone oh fuck she’s got a picture-- “Debbie, take off your coat.”

With the air of someone who has suffered the weight of the world, Debbie shrugs off her jacket. She’s wearing a matching sweater, and the dolphin on this one has a lovingly-embroidered smiling mouth stitched into it. Danny tries very, very hard not to laugh. “Shut it,” Debbie warns him.

“Oh, I’m not saying a thing,” Danny replies.

“We actually did get groceries,” Lou says, turning back to the door, “so--”

“Lemme give you a hand,” Rusty says. “Let these two bask in the joy of their new sweaters.”

“Fuck off,” Danny and Debbie say in unison. Rusty grins, cheery as ever, and leaves Danny’s side to follow Lou out the door.

“Great gift,” Danny says. “I’ll be laughed at by Reuben for the rest of my days.”

Debbie snorts, walking into the kitchen and rooting around in his cabinets. “Well, actually he’d-- wait, please tell me you didn’t, like, have gross old people se--”

“Shut up, Deborah,” Danny replies, feeling his neck heat up. “I’m only two years older than you. And no.” He refrains from adding on a “not this time.”

“Thank God,” Debbie says, pulling a glass out of the cupboard. “Anyway. Reuben’s not gonna laugh at you, he’s just gonna talk about your embarrassing baby stories in whatever groupchat you people have.”

Danny wonders how his baby sister got to be cooler than him. It’s very distressing. “That’s worse.”

“Yep,” she says, putting the pitcher down and picking her now-full glass up. She leans on the wall across from him, sipping her water, and narrows her eyes at him. “Are we, y’know... good?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Danny says. Besides the thirty years of vaguely pretending the other didn’t exist.

“I’m not gonna answer that,” Debbie says. “But... I’d just like to make sure. ‘Cause you’re the only not-completely-insufferable blood relation I have.”

Neither of them say anything for a moment; Danny picks at a loose teal thread, trying to think of how best to phrase the thoughts rattling around in his head. “I don’t hate you,” he finally says. “And I don’t dislike you, either. You’re a pretty good sister. And a great thief.”

“I know,” she replies. “I’m not gonna say it back, ‘cause then you’re gonna get an inflated ego.”

“Works for me,” Danny says, grinning a little.

“I guess it’s just... I mean, I let all the old resentment get in the way of, y’know. Having a decent relationship, personally or professionally.”

Danny nods. He’s still got the scar from the time they both went after the Ruby of the Isle; he’d won, but just barely, and only because he had Rusty and she hadn’t found Lou. But at the end of the day, neither of them have tried to kill the other, and they still did grow up together, playing in Atlantic City casinos and building sand castles under the boardwalk. “I think we’re too old for that now.”

“You’re the old one here,” Debbie replies, no bite in the remark.

“Only two years,” he reminds her. “But I did the same thing as you, letting petty grudges get in the way of family, and for that I’m sorry.”

“I am, too.”

“Thanks, Debs.” He frowns. “They’re taking a really long time to get the groceries, aren’t they?”

As if summoned, the door opens, and Rusty and Lou, each with a measly two bags in their hands, walk in. And Rusty has his phone in his hands. “Rus, I swear--”

“Too late,” Rusty grins, as the shutter sound rings out through the living room. “That outfit has already been immortalized.”

“Have I already said I’m divorcing you? I’m divorcing you.”

“Does it count as fratricide if he’s your brother-in-law?” Debbie asks.

“Disproportionate reactions,” Rusty accuses. “Besides, I’ve already sent it to Linus.”

Danny’s eyes widen. “Not Linus.”

“You heard me.”

His phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text from Linus Caldwell himself, consisting of a single thumbs-up emoji and two grinning cats. “You’re all terrible people. Terrible, terrible people.”

(the sweater rusty is wearing is real) (as is lou’s) (and the ocean siblings’)

[consumedkings-archive]

mayhaps 4. “You’ll play this game with me, won’t you?” for john/elliot?

BABES I AM. SO SORRY that this has taken so long but i am really pleased that i finally hit a stride with it and how it came out!! i hope you enjoy this absolute tooth-rotting fluff piece. i’ve been having a rough few days so it was so nice to get the chance to just write something sugary-sweet for once. (❁´◡`❁)

v. we can change or part ways ✤ pre-cult au

john/elliot + “you’ll play this game with me, won’t you?”, or: john picks a fight with isolde and immediately loses. hints of joseph/isolde mentioned very briefly. sort of a  sequel to this oneshot!

word count: 2.3k of pure fluff. also, some john bullying.

warnings: does john being an idiot count?

“This is a stupid game.”

It’s eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve, Elliot is snowed in at the Seed Ranch, and Isolde and John won’t stop arguing.

It’s almost enough to make it all worthwhile; the fact that they’re trapped, or that Elliot didn’t even want to come to this family dinner because she hasn’t forgotten about John impulsively asked her to marry him and her kicking him out of her apartment shortly thereafter, or that Jacob keeps looking at her from across the living room like, so uh, this is the one, huh?

“It’s not stupid,” John defends. “It will prove the superiority of Elliot and I over you and Joseph as a couple, and I think that’s not stupid at all.”

“It is,” Isolde replies flatly, “because any couple that has me in it is far superior over any couple that has you in it. No offense, Elliot.”

“None taken.”

“Offense is definitely taken,” John interjects.

“My point is that it could be Elliot and I versus you and Joseph, and I would still win, because anyone with two eyeballs probably knows Elliot better than you know her.”

“Then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t want to play!” John snaps, and then he looks at Elliot. Something in his expression shifts—something that Ell can’t quite read, and she thinks it might be because they haven’t even really made up yet from their last argument but have sort of been forced to play nice in close proximity.

And then his expression clears, and he flashes his teeth at her in that crooked smile, and he says, “You’ll play this game with me, won’t you?”

Elliot stifles a sigh. The idea of the game is simple enough—a couple stands back to back, is asked a series of questions about who-is-more-likely-to-whatever, the person who thinks they are drinks. And so on, and so forth. It sounds like a quick way for Elliot to get pissed at John, and also get piss drunk—there’s like, five rules about making them both drink—but he looks so earnest and—

And, well. He’s been trying. And that has to count for something, doesn’t it?

“Yeah,” she relents at last, “I will. If you stop fucking whining.”

“See?” John says, looking at Isolde pointedly, needling, and she groans.

“Can’t wait to watch you get drunk off your ass because you can’t get on the same page as your girlfriend to save your life.”

John rolls his eyes, almost so hard that Elliot can hear it more than she can see it, but he reaches out and snags her hand to haul her off of the couch. Isolde is prompt in producing two glasses full of alcohol—champagne, if Ell knows Isolde at all, and by now she does—and they stand, back to back, in the center of the living room.

Elliot says, “This is stupid,” with a withering sound, and John reaches behind him and gives her hip a squeeze. She still hasn’t forgiven him for his impromptu proposal, and yet he’s finding himself awful comfortable acting like everything is completely fine.

“Don’t be a poor sport, hellcat, you already agreed.”

She cranes her neck to shoot him a dirty look, with half a mind to tell him that she’d like to instead dissect everything he’d once done to piss her off rather than play this stupid fucking game, but her thoughts are quickly interrupted by Isolde settling onto the couch next to Jacob, looking quite pleased with herself.

Probably because she’d wriggled out of having to play a drinking game.

The first few questions are easy; softballs lobbed in their direction to get them to more relaxed. Things like, who’s more likely to get injured doing something stupid (Elliot), or have an embarrassing tattoo (John), or sell all of their belongings and move to Tibet (in which neither of them drinks, so then the rules are that they both must drink). In hindsight, Elliot thinks that Isolde is sending these easy ones on purpose, just ramping up for something better, grittier.

Halfway through, Joseph brings her a glass of wine just as the questions shift a little; who’s more likely to forget the name of someone they hooked up with (John), and date two people at once (John), and go home with someone they just met. The last one, they both drink, thanks to their most fortuitous first meeting in the club, and because they both drink they must then both drink again.

“These questions feel a little pointed,” John snips out eventually, when he’s drank six or seven times in a row, and Elliot can see Jacob grinning at them from the corner of her eyes. She’s pleasantly warm, but certainly nothing close to how toasty she’s sure that John is—how he must be after heartily drinking expensive, highly alcoholic champagne.

“They’re just fun questions, John. Aren’t you always talking about how you’re the fun one?” Isolde asks playfully. Elliot swallows back a laugh—it would be cruel, of course, to laugh at John’s expense—but she can’t help it. He’s put himself into corners too easily. “Who’s more likely to have the highest number?”

“Oooof?” John prompts irritably. “Candles? Chris—Christmas ornaments? Dog hairs on their clothes?” All things that he knows Elliot would beat him in and thus, have to drink for.

“Bedwarmers,” Elliot says, at the same time as Isolde does, and now she can’t help but laugh at the sound that comes out of John; long, and suffering, and fully aware that had he not insinuated that he is superior to Isolde in any way, she would not be specifically targeting him.

He drinks. Jacob asks, “More likely to hit someone with their car?” And she can feel John’s shoulders sag in relief, because she drinks dutifully.

“Thanks, Jake,” John murmurs, his words slurring a little now after enduring an onslaught of pointed questions. Elliot sees Joseph lean towards Isolde, murmuring something into her hair.

“Joseph says I have to stop torturing you,” Isolde announces, resulting in another breath of relief.

“I only suggested perhaps John has reached his limit,” Joseph admonishes. “You enjoy twisting the blade, a little.”

“You’re right, that is very sexy of me.”

John finishes whatever’s left in his cup—which can’t be much and then sets it on the table, nearly taking a headfirst dive over to the other side, and Elliot steadies him and sets her own glass aside.

“Easy, Slick.”

“Unfair,” is what John whines at her in response. “Isolde likes—she—you better.”

Looking awfully smug, Isolde suggests, “Should probably get that one to bed, Elliot, it doesn’t look like he’s gonna make it much longer.”

She stifles a sigh. The last thing that she really wants is to spend Christmas Eve with John completely, absolutely shit-faced; though considering that she’s so much more of a light-weight than he is, it is nice to have there be that kind of disparity for once. Let John be faced with his crippling vulnerability that he’d can’t laugh off because he’s so toasted.

By the time Elliot gets him up the stairs and into his bed, John has moaned and groaned his way through seven different thoughts. He settles against the pillows and lets out a breath, eyes closing.

“Gonna be stuck here,” he says after a minute. “For a few days. ‘Cause—the snow.”

“I know,” Elliot replies, perched on the edge of the bed. And then: "Fuck, I hate this," the alcohol in her system making her painfully unable to filter herself. At her words, John laughs, sitting up and sliding his arms around her waist so that he can look at her at her.

Drenched in dimly-filtered moonlight, all sharp elegant lines and eyes so blue she thinks they might swallow her up—he’s infuriating. Infuriating. So handsome, and also somehow smart and dumb at the same time. The idea that John wants to marry her is incredibly absurd, not only because of their track record but—

"Do you remember," John begins, fanning out the blanket across their laps, "that storm? A few months back? Took out your, uh....?"

“Power?”

“Yeah, that.”

She does. Elliot hates the dark, and with the power out that meant all of the small little lights she'd spread throughout her house didn't work. "Yes. It was awful."

"I remember it fondly," he continues in that still-warm lilt of being inebriated. He settles more comfortably in his spot and thumbs the slope of her hip, easy and affectionate.

“That tracks. We tend to have different views on how things go.”

He narrows his eyes, but the gesture is playful; he seems to be in a better mood than before, the tension between them less aggressive, waning and waxing the way it likes to do. John will contest it to his death, but she thinks that maybe he had intended for them to be equally as inebriated, not one more than the other, when he suggested the game before.

“It was awful,” John concedes, “but also—good. A moment in time can be many things. Should I state my case?”

Elliot groans. She’s drunk, and he’s more drunk but also a lawyer, and there is no way she can out-talk him anyway. Not in a million years. “John, you know I can’t out-argue you.”

“Maybe you’ll end up agreeing.” The brunette shifts again, reaching out and taking her hand. He does it very easily, like the argument doesn’t exist, like she hadn’t told him to fuck off and kicked him out of her apartment those nights ago. “Consider this: you’re me.”

“Hate it.”

“You’re me, and you’ve been dating this girl,” John continues ceaselessly, winding their fingers together. “That you really like, and you keep—messing it up, but this is the first date since the last time that you messed up, and the power goes out.”

Elliot grimaces. Even like this, even with John leaning in so that there isn’t a lot of space between them, telling her the story like it was the greatest thing in the world—all she can remember from that moment in time is the panic.

“And she’s really pissed off,” he adds, for flavor. “So you light every single candle you can dig out of her cupboard, because if you don’t you think she might actually come unglued from hitting her berserk button so much. And when she finally calms down, she ends up falling asleep right against you, and just before she’s really asleep for good she says that she loves you.”

Oh, Elliot thinks, her chest tightening painfully. She doesn’t remember that. The adrenaline crash, sure, burying her face into John’s neck and smelling his cologne as she fell asleep; but that does sound like something half-asleep Elliot would say, the traitorous bitch.

“Stupid,” she murmurs after a moment, when she thinks she’s recovered. Her words elicit from John a half-cocked grin as he’s leaned in, studying her. “That you remember that.”

“I remember everything,” John replies, his voice pitching low, “about you, Ell.”

Bad. This is bad, a mistake. It’s cozy under a blanket, away from the bustle of his siblings, knowing how much it’s storming and snowing outside, and she keeps thinking about how he kissed her in her apartment that night he’d tried to sneak the proposal in—like he wanted more, like he wanted to kiss her more than that, but he was trying to behave.

He was trying.

“I can’t,” Elliot manages out, soft. “John, I can’t—this—back and forth, and—”

“I don’t want to either,” John insists. “I want you, Ell, I mean it—I meant it then, and now, and I’m sorry that I thought a ring would fix it. Or, not even fix it, just that I thought—”

Her chest feels tight, and hot, and she swallows thickly as he speaks before she interrupts. “It was really stupid, really really fucking stupid, like—the meanest joke you could—”

“It wasn’t a joke—”

“So what did you do?” she asks, suddenly, blurting the words out before she can stop herself. John blinks at her.

“What did I do?”

“That night,” she presses. “That night in my house, when the power went out. When I said...”

Her voice trails off. She knows what she wants him to say, deep down inside of her. She knows that she wants him to say, I love you, I loved you then and I love you now and there’s nobody else I want more than you, because she’s a hopeless romantic and there’s nothing that would make her life into a Hallmark movie than John whispering a profession of love like this, right now.

John starts, “Elliot, I’m—”

Panic. If he says it, it’s real, and then she will have to face it. Really, truly face.

“An idiot,” Elliot interjects, her words overlapping with his and strangling them until all she can hear is the tail end of him saying, “—with you,” and his mouth sets down in a deep frown.

She looks at their hands, intertwined. He’d been so sure of himself that night, sliding the ring on her finger, and it’s less that he seemed sure she would say yes but more sure that he thought he had been making the right decision. More than anything, all I want to hear is that you missed me.

“Go to sleep,” she says at length. “We’ll see how you feel when you wake up in the morning.”

John, true to form, heaves the most dramatic sound possible out of his body before he lays back against the pillows, still in his jeans and button up. Elliot stands, and leaves him like that, because there’s plenty of things that John Seed deserves and Elliot thinks waking up in tight jeans is one of them.

“Hellcat,” he says, when she reaches the door. She pauses, glancing back; he’s quiet for a moment before he says, “Mean it, you know.”

I’m in love with you. She knows that’s what he’d been trying to say before she’d spoken over him.

“I know,” Elliot replies softly. “We’ll see if you mean it tomorrow, too.”

She hopes he will.

[creativesage]

(via Your failure of imagination is not my problem – anthro{dendum})

January 10, 2019

Written by: Zoe Todd

In November 2016, I flew to Zurich to deliver a talk on my work on Métis legal-ethical paradigms, prairie fish, and the Anthropocene. When we booked the tickets earlier that summer, it didn’t occur to me that I’d asked my hosts to book my travel for the night of the US Presidential election. So, as I set out from Ottawa, the Canadian capital, on the evening of November 8, I entered a strange and disorienting patch of space time that took me through multiple timezones, geographies, and national boundaries while the fate of American governance hung in the balance. At 6 PM, in the Ottawa airport, things still seemed hopeful. Maybe Trump wouldn’t win. Two delays later, I finally made it to Toronto. There, at our international departures gate, things were taking a turn for the grim. TV screens around us showed that Hillary was slipping, and Trump was gaining steam. I turned to a fellow passenger and said ‘wow, we might wake up to a Trump presidency’. Her face widened in horror: “don’t you dare say that!”.

As we boarded the plane, many of us realized there was no wifi onboard. There would be no obsessive refreshing of twitter feeds or CNN polls as we flew over the moonlit expanses of the Atlantic. We were locked in, for better or worse, for the next seven hours. As we flew up and over the eastern coast, over Newfoundland and out into the Atlantic, whatever was going on back in America was inaccessible to us.  When I awoke in the morning, we were readying to land at Heathrow. Just seconds before the tires touched the tarmac, I felt an overwhelming sense of nausea. I can’t explain it, but somehow I knew in those seconds when we came back into contact with the earth, that Trump had won. (The canny pilots waited until we were about to deplane to announce the election result, and the spirit of the entire economy section deflated, save for one man who shouted a muted ‘woohoo’ before reading the room and shutting the heck up).

This made for a dramatic backdrop for my first visit to Switzerland.

The evening of November 9th, strangers gathered in a large auditorium style classroom on the campus of ETH, the fabled Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics university in Zurich. My lovely hosts welcomed me, and I gave a talk on Métis law, watersheds, fish collapse, kinship, and oil and gas spills in my home province. At the end, the audience engaged in a deeply respectful way, asking questions about Indigenous theory, environmental issues, etc. However, the mic made its way to a young man who seemed to be somewhat agitated. He lobbed a softball question at me about spirits, I think. And then, his body language shifted. He had caught me in his snare! Aha! If I believed in spirits, then clearly this wasn’t science! I can’t remember the exact details of his next question, but it was not the words that mattered. It was the form, the energy, and the weaponization that mattered. He pounced on the mic — and launched into an accusation of my work being ‘anti-science’ (a sin to end all sins in a STEM institution).

I tried to answer, but he kept going, working himself into a froth. This clearly wasn’t about the content of my work, or even about ‘questions’. This was about the affront of my Indigenous presence in his rational space. How. Dare. I. Exist. In. Academia.

My hosts grew concerned with his hostility, and he was eventually asked to leave. When he left, the audience erupted in spontaneous applause. And we continued on.

(They weren’t going to let a Trump win, or the emboldened rage of the right, stop them from being good hosts, from looking after their guest, or from enacting some basic forms of care for their invited speaker).

A little while later, I shared this experience with a mentor. I shared my account of being heckled by a member of the audience. She compassionately corrected me:

“You were attacked, Zoe. That is an attack.”

Since that conversation, I’ve reframed my understandings of my experiences of white hostility in the academy. They are many. They are sometimes hilarious (“he said what to you?” a colleague will laugh as we parse out the latest experience). They are often dispiriting (you can only put up with hostility from dominant society for so long before it starts to wear you down). They are monumental (‘a whole department behaved that way?” a friend will whisper in shock as I share a story over a long overdue lunch). They are sometimes mundane. I am not the first nor the last to write about this — so many brilliant BIPOC scholars have outlined their own stories of surviving white hostility in academia and beyond. Sara Ahmed (2018) draws on her work with interlocutors working in diversity policy contexts to demonstrate how refusal to absorb certain forms of hostility from dominant groups impacts those who speak up:

“Another practitioner describes: “you know, you go through that in these sorts of jobs where you go to say something and you can just see people going ‘oh here she goes.’”  We both laughed, recognising that each other recognised that scene. The feminist killjoy, that leaky container, comes up here; she comes up in what we hear. We hear each other in the wear and the tear of the words we share; we hear what it is like to come up against the same thing over and over again.  We imagine the eyes rolling as if to say: well she would say that.  It was from experiences like this that I developed my equation: rolling eyes = feminist pedagogy.”

In Citizen: An American Lyric, Claudia Rankine (2015) states: “Because white men can’t/police their imagination/black men are dying.” (cited also by Kellaway in this interview with Claudia Rankine in the Guardian). White imagination is murderous.

As Ahmed references in her above mentioned 2018 piece, in his work in the UK with the UCL campaign “Why Isn’t My Professor Black?”, Dr. Nathaniel Adam Tobias C—- (2014) challenges the failure of the white british imagination to formulate the academy as one that includes Black professors:

http://www.dtmh.ucl.ac.uk/videos/isnt-professor-black-nathaniel-coleman/

These forms of white imagination, which inform violent white supremacist actions against Black people in America, the UK, and other white supremacist nations, are pervasive. I do not want to co-opt this work that Ahmed, Rankine, and C—- are doing, but rather to explain how it informs my own understandings of how white imagination operates to evacuate — sometimes very aggressively evacuate — Indigenous bodies and thinking from academic spaces.

Informed by this work, what I have come to realize is that many of the hostile encounters I have experienced in academia are, at least on some level, about failure of white people’s imagination. Failure to imagine Black, Indigenous and other racialized bodies in the hallways of academe. Failure to imagine epistemologies beyond those that fester in euro-western academic paradigms. Failure to imagine possibilities beyond jealously guarded white (often male) syndicates. Failure to imagine that white folks occupying space on stolen land ought to perhaps….ahem…tread a big more humbly. They are also about racism, white supremacy, sexism, classism, elitism, insecurity, jealousy, and greed.

But it is failure of (white settler) imagination that I can tackle the most directly with the energy and resources that I have at my disposal right now. (I keep doing my fallible best to disrupt white supremacy, sexism, and other forms of structural violence, but those are a much longer term struggle). When someone lashes out at me at an invited event for my use of Indigenous methodologies, Indigenous philosophy, Indigenous citational praxis — I reframe it for myself as their failure to imagine something bigger than they occupy. Through this framing, I am able to stop, or at least try to stop, taking these attacks personally. To mentally reframe these attacks in a way that doesn’t destroy me. I have to do this to survive. (I am not saying you have to do this. Everyone’s survival is multifaceted and complex).

But, I also want to address my white academic colleagues directly: this hostility is happening on your watch. When you invite Indigenous scholars into your colonial institutions, as guests, as colleagues, to share our knowledge on lands stolen and violated by the institutions you occupy and uphold, you have a duty to be good hosts and good colleagues. The toxicity or dysfunction of your department, the decades long disputes that shape your Faculty or Senate or tenure processes – these are not my problem. If these explode during my visit, you might want to, energetically speaking anyway, clean house a little. Because your guests aren’t consenting to travel hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles to be attacked or mocked. When you invite a guest into your space, there is an implicit expectation you will be on your best behaviour. In fact, visiting is one of the things that deeply informs Métis being. Hosting and being hosted is one of the ways we build up our nationhood, renew kinship obligations, and restore relationality. We take hosting, and being hosted, very seriously.

This goes beyond visiting and hosting, though. It stretches into the very fabric of academia. To how we conceive of how to be and how to formulate knowledge. But the casual dismissal of pervasive white settler hostility in academe is conspicuous when juxtaposed with how frequently any form of refusal or accountability from Indigenous scholars (and BIPOC scholars) is immediately parsed as inexcusably hostile. Isn’t it a little rich for white scholars to be able to be dismissive, rude, to raise their voices, to shout, to bodily intimate people, to go out of their way to humiliate Indigenous and other scholars? But if we so much as firmly refuse this, let alone openly address it, we are unprofessional and shrill? Marked as ‘difficult’ and whispered about by the very people who take glee in ‘cutting us down a peg’ at any opportunity?

A further concern: if you are a white scholar treating me, your peer and colleague, with hostility and contempt, it gives me a VERY good indication of how you treat Indigenous students. In 2004, Comanche scholar Joshua K. Mihesuah wrote about the reasons that Indigenous students drop out of school in the USA, and among the most significant reasons he lists are hostility in academic environments:

“Many dropouts and “stopouts” (those who leave for a while but return) choose not to conform to the values of the dominant society, and many remain frustrated because the academy does not meet their needs.” (Mihesuah 2004: 191)

“There still is a lack of respect among many university faculty, staff, and administrators for Native cultures. In Flagstaff, for example, despite the Navajo, Hopi, Walapai, Havasupai, and Yavapai Apache reservations’ geographic proximity to the border town (there are twenty-two tribes in Arizona), it is surprising to learn that few faculty have visited those communities. Insensitivity and stereotyping, both blatant and subtle, of Indigenous peoples are pervasive in classrooms. “Given” tribal names such as Papago, instead of the self-determined Tohono O’Odham are still used by professors; Squaw Peak and Squaw Peak Parkway are names that persist in Phoenix (although they have been renamed after fallen Hopi soldier Lori Piestewa); and despite Natives’ concerns about the ski resort on Natives’ sacred Mount Humphreys in Flagstaff, plans are in the making to expand the resort by using reclaimed water for snowmaking (which many Natives and environmentalists fear will increase the number of ski runs). New legislative and congressional lines have been drawn to include Flagstaff and large portions of the Navajo and Hopi reservations. Natives have high hopes for more political clout, but many non-Natives are concerned that Natives will get more than their share of funding, although there is no historical precedent for this concern. These topics are debated in classrooms, and quite often, Native students are too intimidated to speak up to express their views and stance about the ignorance of their instructors and classmates. Students continually fail Gateway courses (basic math, English, and science) because professors tend to have a “cut it or you’re out” attitude.” (Mihesuah 2004: 192-193)

Many of the behaviours Mihesuah details here are things that students have quietly brought to my attention that my own colleagues have perpetuated against them at myriad institutions across North America and Europe. So, again, if you can barely treat an Indigenous professor with respect, I can safely assume students are not being treated with respect either. So let’s cut the niceties and start addressing this white academic hostility directly.

(January 12 edit: for an article that explores what happens when white hostility is formalized into a wholesale dismissal of a discipline, please see Dr. Robert Alexander Innes’ piece “Introduction: Native Studies and Native Cultural Preservation, Revitalization, and Persistence” in American Indian Culture and Research Journal 34:2 (2010) 1-9. In this piece, he articulates how a white political science scholar in Canada elevates a misinformed understanding of Indigenous scholarship to dismiss the entire field of Indigenous Studies. Hostility indeed.)

Ultimately, I hope that white settler scholars will step up and do the labour necessary to address the way that their peers lash out at Indigenous scholars and other marginalized communities. I hope that my white peers will pay attention to the tone their peers use when they don’t understand an Indigenous philosophical approach, or how they respond when they feel threatened by Indigenous law and praxis. I hope they will challenge their colleagues when they, unabashedly and unapologetically, attack that which challenges their very ontological claims to knowing and being. I hope they will take note of the ways that BIPOC scholars are policed for their tone, language, wording, bodies, and being but white scholars are often allowed to be inexcusably hostile and violent.

You can take a cue from my colleagues in Switzerland, who kindly told their peer to find a way to engage respectfully or to leave. I mean, if you are hosting a guest or building any kind of collective, why would you allow your community to treat someone disrespectfully? It’s really that simple.

Works Cited:

Ahmed, Sara. 2018. Refusal, resignation, and complaint. Feminist Killjoys blog. https://feministkilljoys.com/2018/06/28/refusal-resignation-and-complaint/

C——, Nathanial Adam Tobias. 2014. “Why Isn’t My Professor Black?”. http://www.dtmh.ucl.ac.uk/videos/isnt-professor-black-nathaniel-coleman/

Mihesuah, Joshua K. 2004. “11. Graduating Indigenous Students by Confronting the Academic Environment”, pp. 191-199 in Indigenizing the Academy, Devon Abbott Mihesuah and Angela Cavender Wilson, editors. University of Nebraska Press.

Rankine, Claudia. 2015. Citizen: An American Lyric. Graywolf Press.

Zoe Todd

Zoe Todd (Métis/otipemisiw) is from amiskwaciwâskahikan (Edmonton), Alberta, Canada. She writes about fish, art, Métis legal traditions, the Anthropocene, extinction, and decolonization in urban and prairie contexts. She also studies human-animal relations, colonialism and environmental change in north/western Canada. She holds a BSc (Biological Sciences) and MSc (Rural Sociology) from the University of Alberta and a PhD (Social Anthropology) from Aberdeen University. She is an Assistant Professor of Anthropology in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Carleton University in Ottawa, Canada. She was a 2011 Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation Scholar.

[Entire article — click on the title link to read it at anthro{dendum}.]

[frequent-phases]

Heart - Part 10

| Last Part | Masterlist |

After parent-teacher conferences, Stiles was royally pissed at Scott for saving Allison and not his dad, leaving me to be the messenger.

With a heavy sigh, I pulled out my phone as I walked into first period.

Thing Two:

Stiles still isn’t talking to me. Can you please tell him I’m sorry... again...

I rolled my eyes and moved to the empty seat in front of a pouting Stiles.

“He just said he was sorry again. I think this is officially a million times.”

“I don’t care, I’m not talking to him.” Stiles said, playing with his pencil, refusing to look up at me.

I have known Stiles literally my entire life, and he has been this angry only twice. The first time was when his mom died, he wouldn’t let anyone close to his and he drifted away from Scott and I. The second time is also what brought us back together, I was being bullied by Jackson and his clique, a regular occasion, but I didn’t want my boys to worry, so I never told them. One day it was really bad and I was backed up against the lockers, Jackass and his friends were taunting me, I don’t remember what they were saying, all I remember is that I was crying and when I tried to get away, I was slammed back into the lockers. But that’s when Scott and Stiles swooped in and saved the day, Stiles calmed me down, while Scotty scared them off. Since then, the three of us have been practically inseparable, until today that is.

I came back to the real world and glanced at the door to see Scott starring and Stiles with sad eyes before glancing at me, I responded by shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head. Scott hung his head and moved to sit behind Stiles.

“Still not talking to me?” Scott asked leaning towards Stiles, but Stiles just kept staring at the board, his fingers twitching on his pencil. “Okay, can you at least tell me if your dad’s okay?”

I opened my mouth to tell Scott that Sheriff was just fine, but Stiles sent me a harsh glare and I closed my mouth, apparently, he really wanted Scott to suffer.

“It’s just a bruise, right? Some soft tissue damage? Nothing that big-” Scott cut himself off and Stiles’ mouth dropped and he looked around like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “You know I feel really bad about it, right? What if I told you that I’m trying to figure this whole thing out and, and I went to Derek for help?”

Somehow, this comment made Stiles even madder, “If I was talking to you, I’d say that you’re an idiot for trusting him. But obviously, I’m not talking to you.”

“Well, I am talking to you. What the hell were you thinking?! You’re seriously taking control lessons from Mr. Creepy? I don’t care if you’re a werewolf, I’m gonna kick your ass to next week.” I said, leaning closer and closer to my dumb-ass best friend, about to hop out of my seat and inflict as much pain as I could, but Stiles stopped me and pushed me back down into my seat.

The bell rang and everyone dug around in their bags to get what they needed for class, except for Stiles and me. I was still turned around in my seat when I saw Stiles’ face twist into defeat as he hung his head before spazzing around in his seat.

“What did he say?” Stiles asked and Scott just smiled.

I walked out of first period, trailing behind Scott and Stiles.

“Wha- he wants you to tap into your animal side and get angry?” Stiles asked Scott.

“Yeah.” Scott said like it solves all of the world’s problems.

“Alright, well, correct me if I’m wrong, but every time you do that, you try to kill someone and that someone’s usually either me or Liv.” Stiles said, glancing back at me and I nodded in agreement.

“I know,” Scott groaned. “That’s what he means when he says he doesn’t know if he can teach me.”

“How’s he gonna teach you?” I said and Scott turned around and gave me a shrug.

“I don’t know, I don’t think he does either.”

“Okay, when are you going to see him again?” Stiles asked, flailing his arms.

“He told me not to talk about it. Just act normal and get through the day.” Scott said, totally avoiding the question.

“Scott, when?” I asked him as I grabbed his shoulder and made him stop to face me.

“He’s picking me up after work at the animal clinic.” He said simply.

“After work. Alright, well, that gives us until the end of the school day then.” Stiles told us, looking around before his eyes landed on Scott.

“To do what?” I asked, per usual, completely lost as to what was going on in the Stilinski boy’s head.

“To teach him ourselves.” Stiles replied before grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind him.

I walked into the cafeteria, I smiled and waved at Lydia who was on her way out and flopped down next to Scott who was hunched over, attempting to hide behind his history book. I rested my head on Scott’s shoulder as Stiles hit the book.

“I think the book’s making more obvious. Besides, she’s reading anyway.” Stiles said and Scott moved his book slightly to the side so that he could see both of us.

“So, did you come up with a plan?”

“I think so.” Stiles said, taking a bit out of his apple and I just shrugged.

“Does this mean that you don’t hate me now?” Scott asked, with hope written all over his face.

“No. But your crap has infiltrated my life, so now I have to do something about it. Plus, I’m definitely a better Yoda than Derek.” Stiles stated with confidence.

“Oh, please, if anything, I’m Yoda.” I said, giving Stiles my best offended look.

“What? Why are you Yoda?”

“Because I refuse to be Leia. As much as I love her, I would not be able to pull off a slave bikini.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, Stiles made a disgusted face and Scott’s head whipped towards me, his jaw basically on the floor, obviously having no idea what we were talking about.

 “So, uh, are you going to teach me?” Scott asked Stiles, trying to focus on his crisis.

“Yeah, I’ll be your Yoda.” Stiles said and I could see his struggling to hold in his inner fanboy.

“Yeah, you be my Yoda.” Scott said, still having no idea that we were referencing Star Wars.

“Your Yoda I will be.” Stiles said, in the best Yoda voice I had ever heard, causing me to bust out laughing, but Scott’s face was completely blank, so Stiles tried to explain. “I said it backward.”

“Yeah, I-I know.” Scott said, still completely clueless.

“All right, you know what? I definitely still hate you. Uh-huh. Oh, yeah. Come on Liv.” Stiles said as he gathered his stuff and stood up.

“But I didn’t even get any food.” I complained, my heels clicking loudly as I stomped behind my spastic best friend.

“Okay, now. Put this on.” Stiles said, waving a heart monitor in Scott’s face.

“Isn’t this one of the heart rate monitors for the track team?” Scott asked as he took it and examined.

“Yeah, we borrowed it.” Stiles said and I rolled my eyes.

“You mean stole.” I said, earning me a glare.

“Temporarily misappropriated.” He said to me before turning to Scott, “Coach uses it to monitor his heart rate with his phone when he jogs, and you, are going to wear it for the rest of the day.”

“Isn’t that Coach’s phone?” Scott asked, pointing to the phone that I didn’t even know he had taken.

“That I stole.” He blatantly stated before I slapped him upside the head, earning me another glare.

“Why?” Scott asked us.

“All right, well, your heart rate goes up when you go wolf, right? When you're playing lacrosse, when you're with Allison, whenever you get angry. Maybe learning to control it is tied to learning to control your heart rate.” Stiles explained to both of us. Scott’s eyes got wide and I could see the excitement bubbling behind them.

“Like the Incredible Hulk?” He asked.

“Kinda like the Incredible Hulk, yeah.” Stiles said, trying to humor Scott.

“No, I’m like the Incredible Hulk.” Scott said with childlike wonder in his eyes. I grabbed the duct tape and patted Scott’s shoulder, leading him out to the middle of the field.

“Scotty, the Incredible Hulk is big and green when he gets angry. If you want to be a superhero, then you can be Wolf Boy.” I told him as I began to wrap the tape around his wrists.

“You just made that up, didn’t you?” He asked, his voice weary.

“You betcha.” I said as I ripped the tape and walked back to Stiles.

“This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my free period!” Scott shouted to us as Stiles started setting up the balls.

“Alright, you ready?” Stiles asked him.

“No...”Scott whined in response.

“Remember, don’t get angry.” I said and Scott grimaced.

“I’m starting to think this is a really bad idea.” Scott said to himself as Stiles put the ball in the net of his stick-thingy.

The first ball hit Scott right in the stomach and he hunched over, muttering to himself. Stiles giggled at Scott’s pain before grabbing another ball and launching it. This continued for a little bit before Stiles held out a ball to me and a wicked grin spread over my face.

“How could I resist this?” I laughed and grabbed the ball, quickly setting up and lobbing the ball right at Scott’s chest, hitting it perfectly and Stiles looked at me, mouth agape.

“Where did that come from?” 

“There’s a reason the Softball coach always wants me on the team.” I said with a huge smile that Stiles returned before he continued to let out his anger on our best friend.

“You know, I think my aim’s actually improving.” Stiles said with a small laugh and Scott cringed as another ball flew his way.

“I wonder why.” Scott groaned and Coach’s phone started to beep a little faster.

“Ah, don’t get angry.” Stiles chided as he threw yet another ball at Scott.

“I’m not getting angry.” Scott said to himself, bouncing up and down and preparing himself for the ball that Stiles had picked up. 

I noticed Jackson hanging out behind the bleachers just as the beeping from Coach’s phone started to get faster. I glanced down at the noisy object before quickly walking over to Jackson and turning him around so that he wouldn’t see Scott wolf out.

“What are testicle one and two doing?” Jackson asked as he glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s payback for something, probably a bet.” I said quickly, trying to change the subject. “So, I never got a chance to thank you for sticking with me and, uh, you know, making sure I didn’t get ripped to shreds the other night.”

Jackson’s head whipped around to me. “Why would you thank me for that?” 

“Because of my whole defective heart issue. If you weren’t there, I would’ve been in too much pain to think to hide, and ultimately would have gotten viciously murdered.” I awkwardly nodded as looked down at my feet, not exactly knowing how my long time bully would handle my gratitude. 

“Well, uh, if I hadn’t done anything, Lydia would probably have ripped me a new one, and, you know, probably cockblock me for the rest of eternity,” Jackson said with a nervous laugh.

“Olivia!” I poked my head around Jackson’s shoulder to see Scott and Stiles waving me over, so I patted said shoulder and meandered over to my best friends who were giving me a questioning look.

“Next time we want to test Scotty’s wolfy powers, let’s not do it in the open where ANYONE could see.” I said with a very sarcastic tone, gesturing to Jackson.

The bell rang and I took my usual seat behind Scott as Coach kept urging us to take our seats. I looked up to see Allison looking like someone had killed her puppy as she gave me a pleading look. With a smile, I grabbed my stuff and got up to sit in front of Stiles.

“Scott!” Coach shouted, causing both Scott and me to look at him, “I said take a seat, not get up from it!” 

“Uhm, you see, I was giving my friend here my seat so that she wasn’t just standing there when you started class.” I said, completely talking out of my ass as I took the empty seat in front of Stiles with Scott glaring at me the whole time. Coach just rolled his eyes and started to write the lesson plan on the board.

I was focused on getting out all of my supplies and going over my notes from the reading we were supposed to do when I was startled by Coach shouting at Scott.

“Thank you for extinguishing any last flicker of hope I have for your generation. You just blew it for everybody. Thanks. Next practice you can start with suicide runs. Unless that's too much reading.” As Coach shouted, I could hear the beeping of the phone in Stiles' hand slowly became faster and faster to the point where I was fully prepared to dive under my desk at any moment. Then the most unexpected thing happened, it started to slow down, I looked over at Scott and followed his arm behind him to where his hand was intertwined with Allison’s.

I smiled when I realized that Scott’s initial theory was wrong, Allison doesn’t make him weak, she gave him the control that he needed.

| Next Part |

[funnythingshere0-blog]

Fallout from Michelle Wolf's jokes at the White House Correspondents' Dinner

New Post has been published on http://funnythingshere.xyz/fallout-from-michelle-wolfs-jokes-at-the-white-house-correspondents-dinner/

Fallout from Michelle Wolf's jokes at the White House Correspondents' Dinner

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At the 2018 White House Correspondents’ dinner, comedian Michelle Wolf delivered a number of racy jokes. Her main target seemed to be Press Secretary Sarah Sanders. USA TODAY

Whether you think Michelle Wolf went too far during her roast or she hit the nail on the head with her punchlines, read what both sides are saying.

Michelle Wolf had the audience howling and wincing as entertainer for the 2018 White House Correspondents’ Dinner on April 28.(Photo: Tasos Katopodis/Getty Images)

The aftershocks of Michelle Wolf’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner monologue continue. The evening, planned by the association, typically includes playful roasts of the administration and the news media.

Sarah Quinlan, contributor for RedState: “At Saturday night’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner, comedian Michelle Wolf tore into the news media, Democrats and Republicans alike —  but it was her jokes regarding White House Press Secretary Sarah Sanders that drew the most attention —  and criticism.

Wolf’s joke that Sarah “divided (the press corps) into softball teams” clearly alluded to a disgusting and inaccurate stereotype that softball players are masculine or unattractive. This joke was unacceptable and insulting. If it wasn’t her intent to insult Sanders’ appearance, why even include that line? 

Gendered insults are inappropriate regardless of the target’s politics, words or actions, and it’s maddening how often both sides lob them at each other. Not only do gendered insults lack substance, they contribute to the reinforcement of negative gender stereotypes, which hurts all women. Furthermore, they overshadow legitimate criticism. The joke didn’t target the White House’s misuses of power or Sanders’ role in defending and excusing such behavior.

At the same time, it seems disingenuous that Trump supporters are truly offended by the remarks when the president has engaged in similarly disgusting insults — not to mention Trump’s insults didn’t occur during a roast.

We should have higher standards for the president of the United States than we do for a comedian.

For those upset on behalf of Sarah Sanders, why not extend that courtesy to Trump’s targets — and vice versa? Yes, many of Trump’s targets are powerful — but so is Sanders, as White House press secretary. And as White House Press Secretary, she has defended insults: When Trump implied female Senator Kirsten Gillibrand (D-N.Y.) was willing to “do anything” for donations, Sanders told reporters their “mind is in the gutter” for arguing it was sexual. When the president retweeted a fake video designed to defame Muslims, Sanders refused to talk about the video and told reporters they were “focusing on the wrong thing.”

Every single one of us needs to stop treating bad behavior as acceptable so long as we dislike the targets. Wolf’s joke was over the line. Trump’s insults are unacceptable. I am not defending or excusing either but criticizing both and calling for the return of decency and consistency.

Enough is enough. Let’s end the hypocrisy.”

The debate over Michelle Wolf is stupid and boring and everyone is playing their role predictably and I’m going to burn my birth certificate and social security card in a bonfire and walk into the forest to live out the rest of my days in solitude. Maybe I’ll get eaten by a bear!

— Olivia Nuzzi (@Olivianuzzi) April 29, 2018

Jen Chaney,  Vulture: “Life in Washington will move on from this, too. But before it does, I want to pause and make sure it’s clear why I and others reacted the way we did to the backlash against Wolf’s speech. It wasn’t because the White House Correspondents’ Dinner is so important to our nation — I’m guessing most of the country, if not the vast majority, has no idea it even happened last night — or because Wolf is the most brilliant comedian who’s ever lived. I thought she was pretty funny, but that’s not really the point. The issue is that those who expressed shock about her performance could not see the obliviousness and hypocrisy in their responses.”

*whispers* The real reason so many are big mad at Michelle Wolf is that she accurately called out complicity in oppression & did so in a way that means other white women can’t ignore her or pretend innocence.

— Mikki Kendall (@Karnythia) April 29, 2018

Adam Conover,  The New York Times: “Some people noted that Ms. Wolf’s routine was poorly received in the Hilton ballroom itself. But watching her at home I recognized exactly what she was doing. Every performer who has done comedy on television knows that the people in the studio don’t really matter. They’re uncomfortable, they’re tense, and they have to be polite because they’re sitting 6 inches away from Chris Christie. You’re never getting a real laugh out of them. Instead, you focus on the audience that counts: the folks at home. And the folks at home don’t want comedy that’s polite and tasteful, and secures them access to an interview next Wednesday — they want comedy that stands on the rooftop and calls out hypocrisy and deceit at the top of its lungs.”

Abortion is not something to joke about or cheer for. I was disgusted by tonight’s comedic routine at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner and, as a member of the White House Correspondents’ Association, will no longer be paying dues to the organization.

— Gabby Morrongiello (@gabriellahope_) April 29, 2018

The Editorial Board,  Wall Street Journal: “Much — not all — of the press corps has responded to Donald Trump’s surprising victory not by trying to understand it, much less report on it with any balance. Instead, they have treated it like an alien invasion that must be repelled, and anyone associated with it as deserving disdain, ridicule or worse. Any reporter who doesn’t follow this herd of contempt is expelled from polite media company. Ms. Wolf was merely putting a cruder face on what she reads every day. All of which plays into the hands of Mr. Trump, who didn’t attend the event but did indulge in some Twitter gloating afterward.”

I’m afraid all the debate over whether Michelle Wolf was too mean to Sarah Sanders is going to overshadow this juicy bit of media criticism in her #whca monologue: pic.twitter.com/uDP3HMVejH

— Paul Farhi (@farhip) April 29, 2018

Maribel Perez Wadsworth,president of the USA TODAY Network and publisher of USA TODAY: “Our ethical code as journalists demands better of us. Therein lies my deeply held conviction that the White House Correspondents’ Dinner has lost its way. This evening is meant to be a celebration of journalism and the First Amendment. And in keeping with that tradition, on Saturday some very important and impactful journalism was honored. Student journalists were celebrated.

What followed was not reflective of our highest ideals as journalists. It served only to undermine our credibility. It amplified a growing, dangerous narrative that the news media are biased and unworthy of the public’s trust. Our families, yours and mine, know personally how vital a free press is to protecting our democracy. And so, we must be unwavering in our commitment to safeguard our credibility and journalistic integrity.”

Jill Lawrence,  USA TODAY Opinion: “I gather the WHCD was a big win for Trump and company. I’ve been to enough of them to know this was 100% predictable. Remind me again, why do we still do this event? The entertainers bomb nine times out of 10. The president often is handing out awards to people who have nailed him (and maybe someday her) to the wall. The competition for guests is ridiculous. The attention goes to the celebs, not the journalists. And the journalists have to pretend it’s normal to hobnob with people they are supposed to cover with a critical eye. The only saving grace is that sometimes the actual presidents, who have good comedic timing and professional joke writers, are funny. But Trump wasn’t even there Saturday night. The whole thing is weird, and very expensive for an industry that’s increasingly dependent on the kindness (or other motivations) of rich outsiders. Maybe a nice luncheon or dinner for honorees is the way to go, with a VIP speaker from the world of journalism.”

Watch the monologue:

[embedded content]

Readers debate:

Let me get this straight, President Trump can brag about grabbing p—y, make fun of a disabled reporter, say a journalist was bleeding from “everywhere,” call world leaders names, consort with Russia, allegedly cheat on three wives, fire or have forced out more than 20 Cabinet members, but Wolf was inappropriate? That’s rich.

— Alee Goob

Wolf’s humor may have been appropriate at some nightclub act, but given the venue it was nothing more than mean and vicious — not even jokes.

— Charles Weber

She’s a comedian, and Sarah Huckabee Sanders is an easy target. These White House reporters are going to condemn Sanders being roasted because they like access to the White House. Why don’t they complain about this president not attending this long-standing event to celebrate our free press?

— Jeff Huffman

What did they think they would get by inviting a comedian to roast people? She was insulting as a comedy act. Trump insults people daily on Twitter and he means it.

— Pete Manning

I thought Republicans hated political correctness and loved brutal honesty. That’s why they elected Trump, right? I thought they loved locker room talk, too? Go figure. 

— Sandra Brown

I’ve been a member of the press for nearly 40 years. Why on earth do we insist on giving people like Trump free ammunition? I’ve always tried to remain polite and proper while dealing with news sources, though often writing extremely critical and sometimes career-ending stories about them. The correspondents’ dinner is an inherently stupid idea that just solidifies every bad impression many hold of the press.

— Edward Martin

To join the conversations about topics on USA TODAY, email letters@usatoday.com, comment on Facebook, or use #tellusatoday on Twitter.

Read or Share this story: https://usat.ly/2rbgSaO

[1989dreamer]

We Got Together Because of the Dunk Tank

Disclaimer (applies to ALL stories I write or post here): Do not own. Thanks.

Summary: During the high school’s annual sports fair (when the sports teams, especially the lacrosse team, raises funds for the next school year), Derek decides to actually do something brave his junior year (not that he doesn’t have the support of his best friend Boyd and his older sister Laura, stop laughing) and ask out his longtime crush Stiles Stilinski. . . . It could have gone better.

Rated G

“Bilinski, go switch with Martin,” Coach says, and Derek tries to pretend he didn’t just hear Coach shattering his well-laid plans of spending all his saved allowance and lawn mowing and babysitting money (a staggering $300.00) by moving Derek’s crush away from the one area where it wouldn’t be weird to spend all his time (and money).

Stiles himself is blissfully unaware of Derek’s plans (and hopefully his crush even though it’s in the embarrassing proportions, like notebook-name pairing embarrassing—not that Derek’s written his name as Mr. Derek Stilinski a million times. He hasn’t, stop laughing, Laura) and merrily bounds away from the kissing booth relieve Lydia Martin.

Perfect, pretty Lydia Martin who, in the hour and half that she’s been sitting in the dunk tank, hasn’t been dunked once.

No one asks him to, but Coach explains why he’s making the change. He says, “Martin’s pulling in all the cash at the dunk tank but Bilinski’s got nothing going at the kissy-booth. Martin will still be bringing in the bucks while people line up to dunk Bilinski. It’s a win-win situation.”

Derek frowns at him while Boyd keeps a restraining hand on his shoulder.

Stiles skips off to the dunk tank, and Derek follows (at a not creepy distance, thank you, Boyd) and waits by the tank while Stiles changes from his maroon track suit into a white BHHS t-shirt and a pair of maroon swim trunks. Then, Stiles climbs into the dunk-seat. Before Derek can hand all his money to Harley, who is running the pay-stall, to keep Stiles safe, Jackass Whittemore steps up and slaps a dollar into her hand.

“Ready, Stilinski?” she says as she hands Whittemore three softballs.

Whittemore doesn’t wait for Stilinski to say anything before he chucks the first ball. Stiles makes a loud splash when the seat drops him into the water.

Derek’s heart stops and he clutches sat Boyd’s arm until Stiles resurfaces and starts resetting the game. Whittemore waits until Stiles is seated again before he lobs the second ball.

Boyd pries his fingers off one tat a time while Stiles resets the seat again.

Whittemore laughs as he winds up and throws the last ball. Angry, Derek steps in front of the button and takes it square on the chest.

It hurts and he falls down because Whittemore threw it with all his strength.

Distantly, he hears someone gasping for breath, and oh, okay, it’s him and he’s not breathing.

This is not how he wanted this day to go.

He’d woken up and decided today was the day he’d admit his big, undeniable (Stop laughing, Laura!) crush on Stiles—especially because Stiles couldn’t run away from him if he was assigned to a booth.

Instead, here he lies dying and no one except Boyd (and Laura) will ever know that all he wanted from life was to kiss Stiles silly (not that Derek has any experience kissing anything except his arm—STOP LAUGHING, LAURA!).

“Hey, Hale, you okay there?” Coach’s face materializes in front of Derek, blurry and out of focus, kind of like how Coach always is if stared at directly.

Coach is not the last thing Derek wants to see in this life. He tries to tell him that, but he still doesn’t have any breath to spare.

“I think,” Boyd says, just loud enough to be heard over the clamoring of the growing crowd, “that Stilinski should administer mouth to mouth.”

A wet slap echoes in Derek’s ears, and then suddenly, there is a drenched Stiles hanging over him. Derek blinks up at him while he drips on him.

“Hi,” Derek whispers. His chest still hurts where the ball hit it.

“Hi,” Stiles says back. “You doing okay? No CPR needed?”

Derek shakes his head. “I think that would make it worse,” he says. Stiles laughs.

Then, Boyd shoulders Stiles away to help Derek sit up. As soon as he’s able to stand up, Derek limps (leaning heavily on Boyd) to a bench near the dunk tank. Boyd offers to hunt down the school nurse and Coach declares that Derek should get checked out at the hospital.

“I’ll take you,” Stiles offers. “I feel responsible.”

“Why?” Boyd asks. “Derek was the idiot who got behind a fastball.”

“But why would anyone do that?”

Boyd looks meaningfully at Derek, and if Derek didn’t think it would hurt him more than it would hurt Boyd, he would smack him to get him to stop.

“What?” Stiles asks. “What does that mean?” Frustrated, he grabs Derek’s arm and tugs gently. “Stop communicating with your eyebrows. Not everyone is fluent in eyebrowlese.”

“Would you like to be?” Derek asks before he can think too much about it. He still cringes at the absolute cheesiness of it.

“What?” Stiles says. “What does that mean?”

“Are you dense, Bilinski?” Coach demands. “Even I know Hale’s trying to ask you out. God knows why. I mean, you’re hyperactive, you don’t really do well with focusing. You’re—”

“You’re perfect,” Derek interrupts.

Stiles stares at him, mouth agape. “What?”

“You,” Derek stutters, “you’re perfect.”

Stiles’ face sets in a mask of fury. “Oh, hardy har har. Sure, mess with a guy’s feelings. Don’t be such an asshole, Derek.”

“You know my name?”

“Why wouldn’t I? We’re in three classes together this year. Derek, we went to kindergarten together. Tell me again why wouldn’t I know your name?”

“You always walked away from me or ignored me outright, like you didn’t want to deal with me,” Derek explains. It should have crushed his crush (heh) but really had only made Derek more determined (even if Boyd—and Laura who likes to eavesdrop a lot—was the only one he ever confessed that to).

“Yeah, duh,” Stiles says, a dagger in Derek’s heart. “I’m really fond of ignoring a problem until it goes away.”

“I’m a problem?” Derek whispers. His chest aches from more than just the hit from the ball now. “You were ignoring me because I was a problem?”

“Yep,” Stiles says. “Pretty sure that’s what I just said.” He sounds so happy, proud of himself.

“I’m sorry I was such a problem,” Derek tells him as sincerely as he can. He thinks he might start crying soon, and he looks to Boyd for help.

“Shut up, Stilinski,” Boyd says, surprisingly sharp. Stiles stutters to a stop.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m taking my friend to the hospital.”

“Hey, no, I said I’d do it.”

“I don’t care. Right now, I need you to get as far away from us as you can. Go back to your dunk tank.”

“Seriously?” Stiles grabs Derek’s arm. His fingers are like ice, the cold piercing through the skin, leeching the warmth from his veins. “What did I say that’s made you so mad at me?”

“You called Derek a problem and admitted you’ve been ignoring him. I know his crush was obvious but you could have been kinder and actually talked to him instead of this.”

Stiles lets go of Derek’s arm and gapes at him. “You have a crush on me?”

“Had,” Boyd emphasizes. “Until you ripped his heart out. Now go away so we can leave.”

“Seriously, you have a crush on me? On spastic, unfocused me?”

“Seriously?” Boyd mimics. “Shut up, Stilinski before I rearrange your face.”

“Now, see? This is why I can’t believe the crush thing. You never told me before today—”

“Because you always ignored him!” Boyd shouts. “Have you even been paying attention to the conversation? I’ve had to listen to him pine over you for years and you wouldn’t even give him the time of day. The only reason we’re here at this stupid fair is because he finally had the guts to approach you again after last time.”

“What was last time?”

“Prom,” Derek mutters. “I tried asking you to prom and you wouldn’t even look at me.”

It had been embarrassing to approach Stiles in the middle of his group of friends (the only time Stiles wouldn’t actively walk away from him) only for Stiles to never acknowledge him even when Scott, Stiles’ absolute best friend in the world, and Harley, his second best friend, kept saying Derek’s name and pushing him in front of Stiles. He gave up when the warning bell rang, and both Scott and Harley apologized in their next class.

Stiles frowns for a long moment before his face clears. “Is that what you were trying to do? I thought you were saying something about beating me up for asking Cora to prom.”

“Cora went with Allison Argent,” Derek says confused, wondering what his sister has to do with Stiles outright ignoring him.

“Yeah, well, Allison’s parents are conservative to say the least. Cora went with Allison after we got to prom. Why didn’t you talk to me then?”

“I didn’t go,” Derek admits. “I didn’t want to be there if you were.”

“Dude, it would have been the perfect time.”

“No it wouldn’t have been,” Boyd says. “You keep forgetting, brushing off and ignoring Derek meant he was dealing with rejection. What did you do the week after Lydia Martin told you that you would never have a chance with her freshman year?”

“I moped,” Stiles says. At least he finally looks like he understands just what Derek is going through. “Did I really just spend three years ignoring the person with the hugest crush on me?”

Derek shrugs while Boyd nods.

“I’m an idiot,” Stiles sighs. Then he freezes, a startled look of realization on his face. “I just called you a problem,” he says softly. Derek flinches away from the hand he offers.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispers. “I promise, I’ll leave you alone. You’ll never have to ignore me again.”

“No.”

“No?” Derek repeats.

“No. You shouldn’t change anything about yourself. Now that I know what to look for, I’m going to—”

“No,” Boyd interjects.

Stiles turns to him, an eyebrow quirked. “No?”

“Leave Derek alone for a week. One week. After that week, if Derek seeks you out, give him your answer. Alternatively, if after a week of reflections—and trust me, you will be reflecting—you decide you want to pursue a relationship with Derek, you can come find him. One week, Stilinski, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees easily. “Why one week?”

“Because it will give you both time to think through the revelations today without feeling pressured.”

“Bilinski, get back on duty. Behemoth, get Hale to a hospital ASAP. You’re all damn lucky I haven’t called an ambulance yet.”

Stiles stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. He stares down Coach. “Hey, Cupcake, my name is Stilinski, as in the Sheriff’s son. Call me by my actual last name or I swear to God, I’ll bring the entire wrath of the lacrosse team down on you.”

“My name is Boyd,” Boyd adds. “I’d appreciate it if people could call me by it.”

Coach waves a hand dismissively. “Get your friend to a doctor, Boyd,” he says. “And as for you, Stilinski, back to the dunk tank.”

Stiles starts toward the tank before he stops short and turns back to Boyd and Derek.

“I will talk to you in a week, but I want you to know, how I feel right now isn’t going to change.” He raises his eyebrow like a triumphant statement.

Derek feels the bit of hope he’d stupidly let grow again shatter as his heart sinks. “Oh,” he says, subdued. “Okay.”

“You idiot,” Boyd says. And Derek glares at him. Stiles can make whatever decision he wants to, even without taking the week to think about it.

“What?” Stiles asks, looking at each of them in turn. “What did I say?”

“You said no,” Boyd answers.

“I did?” Stiles frowns. “I meant to say yes. Derek, I’m sorry. I meant yes.” He throws his hands up. “There’s no way you can misinterpret this.” He leans in, grabs Derek’s face, and presses a light kiss to his lips. It’s small, chaste—perfect. Derek touches his lips when Stiles pulls away, feeling a buzzing underneath his skin that starts at his mouth and travels down all the way to his toes.

His chest hurts for an entirely different reason now.

Slowly, Stiles leans in again and Derek watches as he gets closer. At the last second, he stills and hangs there breathing the same air as Derek. His eyes are half-lidded, the amber-brown cast in shadow. It makes heat pool low in Derek’s stomach

“I’d like to kiss you again,” Stiles whispers. Derek nods, barely, afraid that he’ll bump their heads and ruin the moment.

Stiles moves forward and their lips meet. It’s just as perfect (and chaste) as the first one, even if the angle puts Stiles’ nose uncomfortably close to his eye.

When Stiles pulls back this time, Boyd pushes between them. Derek’s hand rises to his mouth.

“I really need to get him checked out and you should get back to your station before Coach gets mad again.”

“Okay. Hey, I’ll see you in school, okay Derek?”

Derek nods, still feeling his lips—Stiles kissed him—twice!

Boyd shakes his head, amused. “At least you can save your money for a date now,” he says, as much a blessing as it is a reprimand.

“I’ll still wait the week, if you want me to,” Stiles offers.

“No, I don’t want to wait a week,” Derek says, grabbing the opportunity with both hands.

“Pick you up at 7:00 today?”

“Today?” Derek squeaks. Boyd covers his mouth.

“Today is fine, Stilinski. You know where the Hales live. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” Stiles promises before he heads back to the dunk tank where, surprise, Jackass Whittemore is waiting to throw his interrupted third ball.

Boyd hustles Derek to the parking lot before he can something stupid again, like stepping in front of Whittemore’s throw again. He shoves him into the front passenger seat of his mom’s minivan.

Then, Boyd climbs into the driver’s seat and peels out, heading for the hospital.

“I have a date with Stiles,” Derek says at the first stoplight.

“Yep.”

“He kissed me,” Derek continues.

“I saw that.”

The light turns green and Boyd presses the accelerator.

“He kissed me again.”

“I saw that too.”

“Are you mad that we’re not waiting a week?”

Boyd takes one hand off the wheel and claps Derek on the shoulder. “I am not mad that you’re ignoring my advice. I’m happy that you found the courage to talk to Stiles and that it worked out. Now, call your mom and let her know that you’re being checked out at the hospital. Also, you might want to let her know about that date you’re going on tonight.”

Derek grins, touching his lips again. “I have a date with Stiles!”

Today could not get any better.

(Except, of course it does get better because he’s released after a quick checkup—turns out Whittemore has great aim, poor speed—and Mom is happy that he’s finally going on a date that she doesn’t lecture him about stepping in front of errant balls (Boyd wisely stifles his inappropriate snort of laughter). And Stiles kisses him again and holds his hand and is polite and sweet and kind and kisses him again. So yeah, the day gets way better.)

 ~ Fin ~