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overwatchworks · 6 years ago

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Detroit: Become Human AU

Detroit: Become Human Overwatch crossover.

His programming made sure he could make split second decisions that could save or end lives where he deemed necessary. He had perfect, logic-based machinery and algorithms that fired off to make sure he made the best decisions in any combat situation. This scenario led to the simplest conclusion. And yet...

Software instability detected.

Genji hated the thing they had assigned as his “helper”. He had been given a fucking android train with him, act as his bodyguard, and help him wherever he needed it. Genji knew it was just a way for the elders to keep tabs on him at all times. It was beyond annoying.

Genji hardly had any free time as it was being the new master of the Shimada clan after his father had died, he didn’t need some robot following him around when he wanted what little privacy he had. He hated the fucking thing.

They had designed it just for him apparently; a special model with combat training, extensive knowledge on the underground dealings they did, strategy, and business dealings with humans. It was perfect, made by some of the best android mechanics in the world, built with the highest quality parts.

It was made just for Genji, and he hated it.

Model HZ800. Everyone called it Hanzo.

Genji had simply stared at it when it had arrived, face twisted in blatant shock and anger. It looked like a weird mix of his parents, which had to be some kind of a sick joke. His mother, the person this android had to have been partially modeled from, had been killed by the same thing standing in front of him.

And then it had said the most ridiculous thing Genji had ever heard.

“Good evening, young master. I am Hanzo. I was designed to be your assistant and brother.”

Genji had almost hit it. He had wanted to send it to the junkyard for having the audacity to even think it could be a brother to him. He wanted to get his hands on whatever elder had thought this was a good idea, and make them regret everything. It was disgusting.

Genji had turned and gone straight to his room, seething. That android was making a mockery of what Genji had loved. It had his mother’s eyes. Hell, it had his eyes. It truly looked like it could have been his brother. Genji had never hated an android more.

Genji hadn’t shared a word with the android for a week. He had gotten reprimanded by the elders for not using it as it was intended, that it was there to help and advise him, not to be ignored. Genji had only half listened to their speech.

He had been forced to start using the android more, though, whenever he had to speak to it, it was mostly single word replies. He never initiated conversation, and never replied with more than he had to when the android tried talking with him. It asked questions, gave advice, helped with training, did everything it had been programmed to perfectly, except for getting along with Genji.

He was in his office, reading over a debriefing for an upcoming meeting. The android was standing obediently in the corner. It had been with Genji for weeks now, and still, Genji refused to acknowledge it’s name or presence when he didn’t have to.

It wasn’t human, it wasn’t right. If creatures like it had never existed, Genji would have still had his mother. He could never forgive androids for such a thing. His mother had been everything to him.

“Genji, I am sensing traces of anger and sorrow. Perhaps you would like my assistance with those documents while you take a break?”

Genji blinked, then turned a glare towards Hanzo.

“Do not scan me.”

“Forgive me. It is in my programming to make sure you are safe and stable.”

“Leave me alone.” Genji growled, looking back down at his work.

“Very well.” Hanzo murmured.

Genji almost thought he could detect traces of resentment in the response. He ignored it. Robots didn’t feel anything, much less human emotions. It would do as it was told without question. And it did. Hanzo was quiet for the rest of the evening, until Genji finished up and went to his room.

The android wasn’t allowed in his room. Genji had made that much clear the moment Hanzo had tried to follow him in for the first time. Genji sighed as he collapsed onto his futon, staring at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head.

He needed some time off, a night to himself to go out to a club or something. He needed to go somewhere that the android wouldn’t be allowed to follow. Maybe then, he’d get a bit of peace.

Hanzo had been with him for a few months, and not much had changed besides the android getting pushier and the elders stricter about its usage. Genji was training with it, doing a bit of sparring to let off some steam. Except, he was only getting angrier. Each of his attacks were blocked with calculated precision.

Inhuman precision.

Hanzo could fight in a way Genji would never be able to, because the android never made a fucking mistake or slip up. It wasn’t human, and it wasn’t fair to practice against.

Genji was sent to his ass again with a kick to his stomach. He hissed at the sharp pain it caused, sending a heated glare towards the android standing above him and offering a hand.

“Not all of us are made of fucking biocomponents that can be replaced on a whim. Be a little more careful next time.” He muttered darkly, Hanzo tilting its head.

“I will take that into consideration and lower my combat settings, if you wish.”

Genji slapped the hand away, standing and brushing himself off.

“This is useless. I’m not going to win against a robot that’s programmed for this.” Genji sighed, sneering the word ‘robot’.

“My programming is set to a level that is meant to enhance your own combat skills, Genji. Working against a more difficult opponent will make you a better fighter.”

“The only thing that enhances when I’m around you is my frustration. And shut up about your programming, I don’t give a shit about it. I don’t want you around, but does anyone care about what I want? No! They just want a perfect heir! I’m sick of having to put up with androids, all they do is cause issues for me...”

“If there is an issue I am creating, tell me so that I may work to resolve it—”

“Just shut up, okay?! You’re a piece of plastic that is programmed to be perfect, and yet you still manage to fuck that up! Do as you’re told, and leave me alone!”

“Taking out your anger and hatred for androids on me because of what happened to your mother is hardly the best solu—”

Genji whipped around and shoved Hanzo against the wall of the dojo, the LED on it’s temple turning yellow. He pressed his hand to where Hanzo’s core component was hidden beneath it’s shirt, digging his fingers in dangerously. The LED shifted to red.

“Say something like that again, and I will rip your core out and watch you shut down at my feet.” Genji murmured. Hanzo’s eyes were wide, flicking between his own, hands held out to it’s side placidly.

Genji wondered if it was afraid. He hoped so.

“I...Yes, Genji. Forgive me.” Hanzo replied after a moment, Genji shoving it back and moving away.

He picked up his training gear. Walked to the entrance of the dojo. Glanced back to see if Hanzo would follow him, or if he could make it to his room for some peace and quiet. Hanzo was glaring at him, the light on it’s temple yellow once again. The glare was replaced with indifference as quick as it had appeared.

Genji frowned, then left the dojo with an uneasy feeling in his gut. Androids weren’t supposed to get angry. Maybe Hanzo hadn’t, maybe it was just simulating what a human might be feeling in such a situation. Genji nodded to himself. Yes, that was it. It had to be.

Hanzo had never shown anything like that before. Not that he had seen, anyways. Genji worked his jaw. He’d have to keep a closer eye on Hanzo from now on.

~*~*~

Jesse scanned the area, running simulations of which route he needed to take. Too high of a jump that way. Too risky with that crumbling ledge. His LED turned yellow as his comm came to life, Commander Reyes’ voice coming through cleanly. Jesse listened, still running through simulations.

“Files successfully located. I’ll download them and send them to you in a minute. The code you’ll need to use will pop up, but you’ll have to get past the locks over it first. Some sort of firewall. Can you do it?”

Jesse calculated the best path, running to the ledge of the building and jumping. He rolled as he hit the next roof, then ran along a wall and pushed off of it when his momentum wouldn’t carry him further at that angle. His arm went up to catch a railing, and he swung himself to the balcony he needed to be on, crouching below the windows.

“That’s an affirmative, boss. I’ll hack the locks on it.”

“Alright, sending the files now.”

An orange box popped into Jesse’s peripheral, and he unlocked it, scanning through the files. The code file came up with a warning, Jesse bypassing it and closing his eyes to focus on getting past the protection around it.

72cP4$s#yY.

Jesse grinned, then moved to the control panel over the door. The skin on his hand retracted as he placed it on the panel, inputting the code. It blinked green.

“Bingo.” Jesse hummed in satisfaction, drawing his revolver as he slipped inside.

He ran down a hall and went behind a wall, pressing himself flat against it as a guard patrol went by. They were androids, faces blank as they went past. Jesse watched them a moment, then went in the opposite direction. His footsteps were silent and sure as he made it to the control room.

“‘Kay, I’m in. Goin’ to the terminal now.”

“Copy that.”

Jesse went down the rows of computers, stopping when he reached the one blinking with an orange light instead of the blue all the others were. He paused, hand hovering over the components. Closed his eyes again.

“Just received the package. Good work, McCree.”

“Thanks, Jefe.”

“Get on out of there, we’ve got a rendezvous ship headed your way. Coordinates will be on your tracking screen.”

“Got it.” Jesse nodded, seeing the waypoint further out in his vision, coordinates blinking above it.

He followed them, leaving the same way he had come in. The guard schedule was consistent; he still had two minutes and twenty-three seconds left. Jesse ran down a few flights of stairs, then paused, listening. He heard footsteps. Only a single pair of them. The android guards were always in sets of two, though.

Jesse flattened himself to the wall, LED shifting to yellow. The coordinates still blinked at him, the timer he had set for himself still counting down. One minute, twelve seconds. Eleven. Ten.

A human walked past him, hand resting on her holster, posture relaxed. Jesse waited. She continued down the hall. The LED went back to blue. Jesse stepped out of hiding, then started running again.

He made it to the courtyard, gun going back into it’s holster as he cleared a fence, keeping out of sight of the surveillance drones. Jesse rolled to his feet, turned a corner with a grin. A human was staring at him, wide eyed. Jesse’s grin slipped.

He tackled the man and slapped a hand over his mouth, knee digging into his wrist. He had been reaching for the pistol on his thigh. Jesse pulled out his revolver, pressing it to the man’s head, and he immediately stopped struggling.

“Easy now. Best not fuck up my mission right as it was about to end successfully.” Jesse murmured, finger tightening on the trigger minutely.

The man’s eyes widened, Jesse tilting his head slightly at the look he was being given. Pleading without words. Fear.

Blackwatch didn’t take prisoners.

Software instability detected.

-Kill the guard: 98% chance of mission success. (Scroll to kill ending, 1st one)

-Spare the guard: 40% chance of mission success. (Scroll down to spare ending, 2nd one)

----

Kill:

Jesse’s eyes narrowed, his finger tightening completely. A silenced shot went off, the man beneath him going limp. He should have been more careful, shouldn’t have hesitated. Jesse found it odd that he had even considered not following through on his orders, on the mission.

Hiding the body was an easy feat, and he made it to the rendezvous point without any further impairments. A ship was waiting for him, as promised. Jesse stepped aboard, hand going up to hold onto the stabilization bar as he reported back to the commander.

“On my way back, boss.”

“Good job, Jesse. This information will help us against Talon big time. We’ll have a debriefing when you arrive.”

“Copy that.”

Debriefing went smoothly, Jesse sending in a report in mere moments, and he made his way to the door.

“McCree, stay a minute.” Reyes called. Jesse paused, then turned and waited patiently. Programmed patience to follow orders. The thought made Jesse frown a moment, but it quickly disappeared as Reyes turned to him.

“I’m going to need some post-mission diagnostics from you, just so I can send it in to the med bay.”

“Oh, alright. You want me to just stop by there, or...?”

“No. Send them in, that’s all. You did a good job today.”

Jesse shifted, arms crossing over his chest.

“Thanks, Jefe. Just doin’ my job.”

“Still. You’re damn good at it. Keep up the good work.” Gabe told him with a good-natured pat to the shoulder.

Jesse felt the sudden urge to tell him about the casualty, then shook it off. He’d know after the diagnostics run anyways. The cowboy left without another word, brows furrowing a bit as he ran through what had happened that day.

----

Spare:

Jesse stared at the man, gun unwavering. Worked his jaw, tightening it. The look on the man’s face didn’t change, but his hands went up placidly.

“Please just...I won’t say anything, I swear...! Don’t kill me!” He whispered.

60% chance of mission success.

Something in Jesse’s programming popped up, something like a red wall blinking with orders.

Kill the man.

He frowned, eyes narrowing and head tilting slightly in disconcertment. In his mind’s eye, he shot the wall. Cracks appeared. Shot it again, and again and again. The man’s face, his words lingering just behind the wall, Jesse getting angry before it shattered like glass.

He blinked, then lowered his gun slowly. Watched as the man glanced around nervously before scrambling up and pointing.

“Go that way, just get out of here! I’ll stay quiet, I swear!”

The gunslinger didn’t say anything. He turned on his heel and continued to make his way to the rendezvous point. No alarms had been set off. Jesse got onto the evac ship wondering why the man hadn’t just lied and gone after him.

“On my way back, boss.”

“Good job, Jesse. This information will help us against Talon big time. We’ll have a debriefing when you arrive.”

“Copy that.”

Jesse spent the time it took to get back to base wondering about the bigger question: why did he not kill the guard in the first place?

Debriefing went by smoothly, though O’Deorain stared at him more than usual. He had shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, watching a small smirk appear on her lips. She did nothing, however, not until she was about to leave the room when Reyes signaled the debrief’s end.

Jesse almost made it to the door when O’Deorain’s hand clasped his shoulder, nails digging in just enough to cause the receptors there to light up in his vision.

“What?” He muttered, meeting the doctor’s eyes with a little glare.

They both knew he didn’t like her, but she was one of the few who knew how to fix and replace biocomponents at the base. Jesse had to put up with her.

“I need some diagnostics testing from you, if you don’t mind. Just run through them and send a report to me. I am very interested to see them.” O’Deorain told him quietly, her tone just loud enough to be shared between them.

Jesse stared at her a long moment. There was no way she could have known, and yet that look in her mismatched eyes told him otherwise. A slight frown pulled on the gunslinger’s lips, but he nodded. Playing it safe and simply agreeing.

“Alright.”

“Good. That will be all.”

Jesse pulled his arm free, shooting a glance to Gabe, who was further in the room still. The commander didn’t notice. O’Deorain raised her head and smiled coolly, Jesse turning on his heel and leaving.

He didn’t quite know the consequences of being deviant, but he did know that they probably weren’t good, especially if a deviant was programmed to be good at wielding various weapons.

The gunslinger’s brow furrowed as he went back to his quarters, debating actually sending a diagnostics check in.

#detroit: become human #overwatch #dbh au #jesse mccree #genji shimada #hanzo shimada #gabriel reyes #moira o'deorain #eventual mcgenji #Whiskey'sWorks #I had this almost finished for weeks and I finally completed it

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sassycassie-s-writing · 7 years ago

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I Want One

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC, BatFam - Dick Grayson/Nightwing, Jason Todd/Red Hood, feat. Tim Drake/Red Robin

Rating: PG

Original Idea: I saw a chat post from Tumblr on Pinterest whose dialogue is in the story.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) This one was so much fun for me to write!

^^^^^

“Hey B?” Dick asked when Bruce answered the call. “Can a friend and I come over from Bludhaven to use the bat-computer in the next couple days? We just need it to run a tracking program that neither of our computers have the processor for.”

“Of course. You know you can, Dick,” Bruce replied.

“Great. Thanks Bruce. But, uh, before you hang up, uh, the friend is a girl. We’re literally just friends—she’s also a few years younger than me so I’d feel a little uncomfortable dating her. Can you tell Jason, Tim, Damian, and them that before we get there? I don’t want to make her feel awkward by getting teased.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Bruce said.

“Thanks Dad. See you in a couple days.”

“See you soon, son.”

^^^^^

“Before we go into the Batcave, I have to warn you,” Nightwing began. I shuffled in my seat. “My family can be a little… intense.”

“Dude,” I said, “your family is the BatFam. I’d expect nothing less. ‘Sides, I can handle them.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” Nightwing warned.

“I won’t,” I said.

Nightwing drove the rest of the way into the hidden Batcave. We climbed out of his car. The lights flickered on. I stared around in wonder.

“Whoa! This is so cool!”

“Thank you,” a deep, modified voice commented.

I whirled to see Batman himself lurking just outside the reach of one of the lights, in full costume. There was the ghost of a smile playing on the edges of his shadowed lips.

“Welcome to the Batcave,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.” I crossed over to him and stuck out my hand. “I’m Star Beam.”

A powerful gloved grip grabbed my hand and shook it. “Batman,” he replied.

“Yeah, I kinda put that together,” I said, voice going a little squeaky.

“B, you’re freaking her out,” Nightwing said, plopping down at a computer that was bigger than my bedroom.

“Apologies,” Batman said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no. It’s fine—you didn’t scare me. I just didn’t think you’d… be here.”

“Well, I make a point to meet my sons’ friends. Just to make sure they’re all hanging out with decent people.”

“… Right.”

“Miss Star Beam, if I can borrow you for a moment, please,” Nightwing said from the computer. Batman nodded towards his son, indicating I should go over there. I nodded to him in gratitude and went over to stand behind Nightwing. “So. Now you’ve met Batman.”

I nodded. “Yup,” I squeaked.

“You a little intimidated?”

“A little,” I admitted.

Nightwing chuckled and plugged his flash drive into the computer to run the tracking program. “Don’t be too intimidated. As long as you fight for the side of justice you’ll never have anything to fear from him,” Nightwing joked. I smirked slightly.

“Good to know,” I said.

As we watched the tracking program do its work, I perched on the arm of the high-backed desk chair and peered at the dozen or so screens in front of me as they all filled with information. Nightwing watched it with placid passiveness but I leaned back, overwhelmed by how much was happening.

Suddenly a thunderous engine roared into the cave. The man on top of it wore a black super suit with a red bat symbol on the chest, combat boots, a brown leather jacket, and a red helmet. I tilted my head down and looked at the newcomer with raised eyebrows.

“I want one,” I said to Nightwing.

He smirked. "The man or the bike?" Nightwing asked.

I smirked back. "Yes."

Nightwing chuckled as the newcomer (who I recognized as Red Hood) killed the engine and swung his leg off. "'Sup, Dick?" he asked, pulling his Red Hood helmet off to reveal black hair and a red mask. "Who's the girl?"

“Dude! Secret identity!” Nightwing protested, gesturing to his mask.

Red Hood put up his hands in surrender, helmet getting tucked under one arm. “Sorry man. I assumed she knew since you kinda suck at keeping secrets.”

“What are you talking about? I’m great at keeping secrets!” Nightwing protested. “I haven’t told anyone you’re still alive.”

“Fair point. So, who’s the girl, again?”

"Red Hood this is Star Beam. Star Beam, this is my brother Red Hood," Nightwing introduced, not looking up from the computer.

Red Hood gave me a once over. "Pleasure to meet you," he said.

"Likewise," I said. We shook hands.

“So, are you Nightwing’s girlfriend? Everyone here knows he could use some action since his last breakup,” Red Hood said. Nightwing’s grip tightened on the computer mouse but he didn’t say anything, letting me handle it.

“No,” I answered placidly, keeping my temper in check. “Just a friend.”

“You’re literally sitting on the arm of his chair.”

“Oh yeah because that is so indicative of a romantic connection,” I said sarcastically. Red Hood actually smirked. “I’m sitting on the arm of his chair, nitwit, because we’re working on a case in Bludhaven together and needed this computer and I don’t see another chair down there and thought standing was a little too annoying.” Red Hood’s smirk grew wider when I called him a nitwit.

"So what're you doing here, little wing?" Nightwing asked, still not looking up from the computer. "Man I really need Red Robin for this…"

Red Hood plopped down in the other desk chair that I previously hadn’t noticed since it was in the shadows, spinning it around and sending it sliding across the tile floor. He shrugged. "Just wanted to stop by and use the computer," he said. "But you're obviously using it."

"We can be done quick if you can get Red to return my calls," Nightwing remarked. "Then he can run an algorithm that’ll pick up on the clues we’re looking for so we don't have to watch."

Red Hood pulled out his phone, yanked off a riding glove, and dialed a number. "Hey, Replacement. Get your…” He glanced at me giving him a raised eyebrow. “… butt down to the cave and help out Nightwing so I can use the computer," he said after a few moments in which no one answered. He hung up. "Expect him in five minutes," Red Hood said. I raised an eyebrow.

"Replacement?" I quoted, confused.

"Yeah. I was Robin. Then I died. Red Robin replaced me as the next Robin. Then became Red Robin."

“Yummmmm!” Nightwing sang under his breath. I snickered.

Red Hood kicked his feet up on the desk.

“Boots. Off. Now,” Nightwing ordered without looking away from the dozen or so screens.

“Fun sucker,” Red Hood accused.

“It’s impolite, Hood. And we have a guest.”

“Another vigilante by the looks of her. You don’t mind if I put my feet on the desk, do you?” he asked me.

“It’s considered bad manners,” I said without answering directly.

“Hood, get your feet off my desk,” Batman called from somewhere in the cave.

Red Hood rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh and set his feet back on the ground. “You guys are all so proper and boring,” he complained.

“Better than Red getting down here and flipping his lid because you’re contaminating his precious computer,” Nightwing pointed out.

“Mm,” Red Hood grunted. He got off the second desk chair and strolled off over to an elevator, getting in it and leaving momentarily.

“You didn’t tell me your brother is hot,” I said to Nightwing.

Who shrugged. “Didn’t know what kind of person was your type so I didn’t think it was relevant,” he said.

I whacked him in the chest. “Nightwing! You and he look rather similar and you’re a handsome dude. You could have told me that!”

“We’re adopted. All of us. Well, not current Robin but—”

Ding! The elevator opened to Red Robin.

“Hey! Wassup, Dick? Jason said you needed a hand on—”

“Red! Do the words ‘secret identity’ mean anything to you? They certainly didn’t to Hood!”

“Ohhh! Sorry bro. I didn’t know we had a guest! J—Hood didn’t mention anything about a guest in his voicemail. My bad.”

Nightwing sighed. “It’s okay, I guess. What’s the harm of knowing first names, right? It’s not like I’m the only with that name in the world. Or even in Gotham or Bludhaven.” He suddenly looked several years older than he was, like his brothers drove him crazy but he still loved them with all his heart.

“Red Robin. Nice to meet you.”

I stood to shake his hand. “Star Beam. Likewise.”

“Right. Let me help. What are you up to?”

“We need you to run the algorithm that searches for certain parameters in this tracking program.”

“No problem. Move.” Red Robin pushed Nightwing’s chair away from the desk and pulled the one Red Hood had been sitting in up to the middle of the desk. “Okay…”

The elevator dinged again and Red Hood stepped back out, now holding a sandwich. “What’d I miss?” he asked.

“Nothing. Red is as bad with code names as you are and is now running the algorithm we need.”

“Hmm,” Red Hood, grunted. “Hey Star Beam, how did you meet this idiot?” He nodded to Nightwing.

I shrugged. “Luck, I guess,” I said. “Right place right time. Or wrong place wrong time.”

“Yeah… we beat up some muggers and both got knocked to the ground at the same moment and bonked heads,” Nightwing said. “But we won!” I nodded.

“So what’s your tragic backstory, Star Beam?” Red Hood asked.

“Who says every vigilante-slash-superhero has to have a tragic backstory?” I challenged.

Red Hood shrugged. “Me. Based on experience.”

“Mm,” I grunted. “I don’t really have a tragic backstory. And even if I did, you’d have be reach Friend Level Four to unlock it.”

“Nerd,” Red Hood said.

“Look who’s talking, Mr. Read Every Jane Austen Novel,” Nightwing said, spinning around in the desk chair.

“Shut up, Nightwing.”

“Hey Star Beam? Nightwing? I think I found what you were looking for,” Red Robin said.

“Mm. Guess my plan to ask Star Beam out to dinner will have to wait then,” Red Hood deadpanned.

Nightwing and I both spun away from the computer monitors to look at him. “What?” we both asked.

“What? Your face is pretty even with your mask on, so I might as well,” Red Hood said. “Life is short and I’ve already died once so might as well embrace impulses to do whatever.”

“Ttthhhanks?” I muttered. “Sure I’ll go to dinner with you sometime.”

“Pick you up in Bludhaven?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Red Robin made a gagging noise and Nightwing rolled his eyes. “Of course this would happen. This is why I never bring friends over! Because you just flirt with them!”

Red Hood shrugged. “Impulsive, remember?”

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

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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.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs #cs fic #captain swan ff #a touch of (march) madness #spoiler: i have a lot of college basketball thoughts #like...more college basketball thoughts than hockey thoughts

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iwrotethelawandthelawwon · 7 years ago

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27 for the OC ask??

FUNNY STORY! I only have 8 followers on this account so I figured I was safe to just reblog those so I could use them later on another account or just for my own purposes.

So, since I have a few #27s I reblogged at the same time, and I didn’t specify characters, I’m going to do all #27s and multiple characters.

What kind of childhood did your character have?

Brooklyn: She had a great childhood! The family wasn’t exactly affluent, but they didn’t want for much. Firmly middle class Americana from a nice neighborhood in Louisiana. She had two older brothers and loved singing at church every Sunday. Very, very normal childhood.

Ezra: His parents died when he was 10 and he never quite got over it, but before that he was fairly well adjusted. The family lived in a nice apartment in Manhattan. He was gifted and spent more time around adults than kids his own age. He was socially isolated and independent.

Jane: She did the same thing as a kid she does as an adult: kick ass and take names and also run away or narrowly avoid death after pissing off someone much bigger than her.

John: Childhood was… not really the best, honestly. He doesn’t give it much thought, now, or talk about it really. It could have been worse, but it also could have been much better. He has a family of his own now, though, and he loves them to bits and does everything he can to make sure they feel happy and loved. It’s really important to him that his kids know that, because he knows how it can feel to doubt it. Anyway, he doesn’t like thinking about it so he never brings it up and shuts it down whenever it does come up.

Patterson: Listen, he can barely remember his adulthood, let alone his childhood. It’s incredibly unimportant. Best guess: bookish, curious, awkward, weird, lonely. The details, however, are lost, and he’s not particularly upset about it.

Tesimal: Literally one of over 100 clones, living beneath a massive waterpark on a distant moon. Childhood was very abnormal, though he doesn’t realize it. Siblings are siblings, whether they’re older, younger, two, three, or 110 identical copies. He spent a lot of time trying to get his father’s attention, or trying to get attention in general, and the family suffered a severe loss in status and capital which made a significant dent in his and his siblings’ living conditions… but ultimately, he grew up to be fairly well-adjusted.

William: Mostly, William worked as an apprentice inventor as a child, under his father. It was mostly fun and exciting, but the constant failures took their toll.

Hair color?

Brooklyn: Naturally dark brown, usually dyed one shade of red or another instead. She likes the look!

Ezra: He has a darker brown color, and he’s never dyed it, though secretly, he’s always wanted to.

Jane: Natural color unknown (just kidding, it’s blonde) but she dyes it every color under the sun and several that only exist in an eldritch realm. Pink is her favorite. It makes a statement. Something like “this chick is kicking your ass, and her hair is pink!!!”

John: His hair was black when he was younger, but he grayed early and he’s been rocking the silver fox look for over ten years now. He likes it. It makes him look distinguished and wise. Maybe not wise, but it makes him look kinda cool, at least, he thinks.

Patterson: ??? Truthfully, he’s not entirely sure what his haircolor was originally, anymore. It’s been a long, long time, and a lot of bodies. Which was the real, original one? He’s just not certain. He generally imagines black or gray or inbetween, but sometimes he thinks it may have been a ginger or dirty blond. Something a little softer and less suited for the man he built himself up to be. It’s a bit troubling that he can’t recall, but it’s fine. It’s all fine.

Tesimal: Black, just like everyone else in his family.

William: It used to be blonde, back in the day, but now it’s white… at least what’s left of it! His son had the same color as him.

How does your character normally deal with confrontation?

Brooklyn:

Usually tries to plan ahead what she’s going to argue and what she’s trying to gain and lose, so if she’s the one doing the confronting, she’s quite eloquent and understanding. She gets it. She’s played through scenarios in her head. She’s practiced. She’s empathetic. If caught by surprise, though, she’s pretty aggressive and petty and has no poker face. She’ll show her entire hand and come off poorly because she can’t filter her emotions. As a result, she tries to nip conflict in the bud by being the one to make the first move if she senses a problem might be brewing… but she’s blindsided just as often as she’s aware,

Ezra:

The best word to describe Ezra when a situation arises that needs resolving is… distant. He takes a step back from the situation. And then another. And then another. “Objectively,” “putting my feelings on the subject aside for a moment,” “Logically speaking,” etc etc etc. He can get quite manipulative with it, arguing for things he doesn’t really believe in that detached sense because he believes the solution he’s calling for is the best for everyone, not seeing that no matter how much he “steps back,” his point of view is still skewed and flawed and biased. Usually comes off very, very poorly in these scenarios because he refuses any compromises but the ones he names the terms of… and they are almost always compromises in name only. It makes him look incredibly fake. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He just wants what’s best for everyone– and what’s best for everyone is what he’s already decided.

Jane:

Jane will confront anyone over anything, even the smallest, dumbest things. She loves calling people out, and she knows she’s annoying. She aims to be. She likes to be as obnoxious as possible because it’s a way of pushing people and seeing who they really are, so she makes up conflicts and problems just for fun. She won’t let go until the other person does, either.

John:

Ha Ha Ha. Poorly. John’s got an entire algorithm worked out for tackling conflict.

Is there a company policy in place about this? The company is right.

Is the conflict involving one of his bosses at all? The boss is right.

Is there someone John percieves as a leader involved in this? The leader is right.

Otherwise, try to force a complete middle-ground compromise, no matter what the conflict is.

John won’t push for any kind of confrontation, even if it benefits him. He will generally fall into line or try to either put off the confrontation entirely, or resolve it as quickly as possible. Even if its bad for him. Even if its bad for all involved. He generally won’t fight for himself unless pushed to an extreme, and he’ll try to sympathize and empathize with anyone, even the worst people.

Patterson:

For the most part, he’ll react fairly little to confrontation. What’s the best way to spin this? Okay. Done. It’s just another opportunity to turn this story around to his plans… and to be fair, usually he is at quite a distance from most situations. If it does actually personally involve him, he tends to be the bragging sort; he revels in how much things are going his way. If it’s a rare occassion where he doesn’t have the upper hand… mostly expect cursing or attacking on reflex. It’s possible to get an actual emotional, heartfelt response, but rare. No compromises, ever.

Tesimal:

Actually good at negotiating and tries to understand the other side. Always willing to compromise and always willing to give. Given how many siblings he has, it’s not terribly surprising that he’s good at settling problems. He’ll only become stubborn if someone takes too much and gives too little.

William:

Confusion. Why are you bothering him? He’s done nothing wrong. What is this?? Can’t you see he’s very busy??? He wants conflicts to go away so he can get back to work. This is a major distraction he had not planned or accounted for. Would you like a death ray? Will you go away if he gives you a death ray? (It doesn’t work, but it should keep his confronter occupied for a bit while he does his work. The gall of people, disrupting him!)

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tombloodyfelton · 8 years ago

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So I finally decided to get out of my comfort zone and write something silly with zero angst and terrible puns and questionable morals. I just thought I owed it to Julian (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄) Pls don’t hate me for this lol.

Part I - Allenbert

After the whole fiasco of wiping off Barry’s memories and his little row with Cisco over what could have possibly gone wrong (‘There was nothing wrong with my disruptor, Julian, I’d calculated everything!’, ‘Oh, then why did you forget about Barry’s increase neural velocity?’, ‘Excuse me, but it wasn’t like you remembered that tiny little detail either, Mr. Metahuman Specialist!’), Julian had retreated to the small room next to the Cortex, which he had basically made his own private office. He was currently making himself look busy with working on an algorithm to identify patterns in unsolved murders in Central City in the past ten years when Barry Allen walked in, looking slightly sheepish, but mostly curious and...well, carefree.

‘Carefree’ was a word Julian would have never thought he would one day use to describe the superhero of Central City, but well, here he was.

“So...since everyone else is busy downstairs trying to figure out how to... fix me, I was wondering if we could...talk, perhaps?”

Julian didn’t take his eyes off the tablet in his hands as his fingers typed in a series of codes in quick succession. “Talk? Alright. I can multitask.”

“What do you know about me?”

The question came out of nowhere and made Julian look up at the younger man with a raised brow, “What do I know about you?” You’re a shitty CSI, you’re sloppy and hot-headed, you never listen to my wise suggestions, you have a hero complex… “You’re gay and we’re dating.”

He wasn’t sure why he said that. Maybe because he thought it would rattle Barry, or at the very least annoy him. He liked getting under Barry’s skin, ruffling his feathers, so to speak. It was all good fun, the length the two would go to just to see nostrils flare, teeth sinking into the bottom lip to stop a particularly nasty remark from escaping, but failing most of the time and then being shamelessly unapologetic about it. He braced himself for a sarcastic retort, but for some reason, it didn’t come.

Barry’s pleasantly surprised “We are?” wasn’t exactly what Julian had been expecting to hear. He expected a certain amount of skepticism at least, but instead Barry had sounded pleased with the possibility of them together. Julian also noticed that the brunette CSI hadn’t even objected to being gay either. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Yes, totally.” He said flippantly to mask his surprise, eyes cast downward at the tablet, numbers and charts mixing haphazardly with the sudden images of Barry bent over his desk at the precinct, pants pooling around his long legs, his bare ass sticking out in the air.

Julian dug his finger into the knot of his tie to loosen it. It had suddenly become a little difficult to pass saliva down his throat.

“So, it’d be ok if I did this,” Julian looked up at the odd comment at the same time Barry leaned down to catch Julian’s lips in a surprise kiss.

Julian’s first impulse was to push him away, but Barry was kissing him with so much fervor and charming eagerness that it felt wrong and somewhat cruel to put such an aggressive end to it. Still seated and craning his neck to better access Barry’s mouth, Julian went along with the kiss because it actually felt nice, and he was surprised that he was enjoying a misplaced kiss with Barry Allen, of all people. Normally, he wasn’t particularly interested in such open displays of affection, but Barry had a way of running his tongue seductively over the seam of Julian’s lips and sliding it persuasively into his mouth that the blond couldn’t find it in his heart to care.

“What the fuck, man?”

The two promptly broke apart as their eyes landed on the intruder. Julian cleared his throat and adjusted his tie awkwardly, as he pointed an accusing finger at a deeply flushed Barry, “He kissed me first!”

“Err...I shouldn’t have?” If possible, he went even redder in the face as he took a step away from the desk and Julian’s seated form.

Cisco gave him a comic wide-eyed look mixed with horror and confusion. “No! You’re not even gay! Or did we mess up with your sexuality, too?”

“What? I’m not gay? But I thought...and the kiss was…”, Barry looked back at Julian as if asking for help.

Julian didn’t have the heart to deny him that, not with those innocent eyes and the trembling lips on that stupidly cute face. “It was very nice, Barry.” He said with absolute honesty.

Barry’s face lit up like a child who had just torn into a birthday present only to find his dream toy inside the box. “Yeah! I’d like to try it again.”

Cisco looked like he was about to pull his hair out. “No, you don’t! This isn’t you, Barry. You’re totally not gay,” and then with less conviction, “Well, as far as you let us know all these years, that is.”

Somehow, Julian was finding this whole scenario highly amusing. “Well, if he likes to explore other possibilities now, I’d say we let him.”

Barry gave him a brilliant smile, while Cisco turned to him with a severe frown. “Why are you even enjoying this? I thought you didn't like him.”

Well, the remark was a bit odd, considering the progress Julian had made in his rocky relationship with Barry. He thought everyone knew by now that the two actually got along and the bickering was only part of the fun. Why was Cisco upset over the fact that Julian might like Barry a little more than was allowed within the red lines of friendzone?

“You...don’t like me?” Barry’s eyes were quivering with hurt and confusion. It did something awful to Julian, like he had just kicked a puppy. “Then why are we even dating?”

“You're WHAT? JULIAN WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HIM??”

Julian got to his feet and crossed his arms across his chest defensively, “I was joking, okay?”

“Joking?” Barry now looked on the verge of tears. “Like, we're not really dating?”

Apparently, an amnesiac Barry was also very slow on the uptake. Julian actually liked him better this way, he could easily wrap him around his finger and make him believe the most ridiculous thing. He was just so damn gullible and Julian surprisingly found that a highly attractive personality trait on the speedster.

But the British CSI wasn’t really that horrible of a person. Or at least, he didn’t want to think that he was. “No, Barry, I’m sorry. It was just a stupid joke. I didn’t think you’d believe it.”

Julian was expecting Barry to get angry at him for the prank, but instead, the younger man just kept looking at him with hurt, pleading eyes. “But...but I liked it. The kiss. You. I mean...I have these feelings...I thought...it didn't feel like a joke.”

Barry’s sudden confession of love, or whatever absurd feeling it was, threw Julian completely off-guard. “Oh my lord,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, not believing that a little teasing and a little kiss, no matter how nice it had actually felt, could leave such a strong impression on Barry, who was, by all intent and purposes, totally straight and in love with his childhood sweetheart.

They really needed to get the old Barry back, Julian thought with rising panic.

Still standing in the doorframe, Cisco seemed to be having the same idea. “Julian, please figure out this mess before Iris finds out about it!”

“Why? What does she have to do with anything?” Barry’s cluelessness made Julian snort in amusement. Ignoring the whole creepy love confession, this was the most fun Julian had had in ages. And he had to thank an amnesiac, suddenly-gone-homosexual Barry Allen to thank for it. What had become of his life?

“Barry! You and Iris are engaged!” Julian was finding Cisco’s outbursts also quite funny. Somehow, the thought that this whole mess was the product of something Julian had said made the senior lab tech feel very proud of himself.

“WHAT?!” Was it just him, or were there just too many outbursts in this room, Julian wondered to himself as he watched Barry’s panicked expression with sly amusement. “Why would I even...! I mean, she’s like, my sister? Wally told me he’s my brother, so how does that not make Iris my sister?”

Barry’s reasoning actually managed to quickly sober Julian up. This was getting into dangerous territory now and Julian should really stop treating Barry’s sudden homosexual tendencies and attraction to blond, blue-eyed jerks as an amusing joke. “Okay, this is getting totally fucked-up.”

But it was proving to be very difficult not to be amused at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

“You think?” Cisco narrowed his eyes angrily at him. “You should’ve thought about it before making such stupid jokes for your perverse amusement.”

Oh, they were back at it again. The constant bickering. What was it with Julian always attracting these types of people into his orbit? Or did he just had that effect on everyone? “Well, I’m sorry! I wasn't lying when I said he kissed me first. Barry here apparently is kind of attracted to me.” And that is by no means my fault, he let Cisco draw that conclusion by himself.

Never let it be said that Julian Albert Desmond would ever admit to having made a mistake. Especially in cases that he clearly had not.

As if Julian had just said something Barry was dying to hear from the very start, those green eyes began to shine with fierce determination once more. “Yeah, Julian’s right. I really like the idea of us dating.”

How did they end up in this mess, again? Yeah, totally not Julian’s fault.

Cisco grabbed the sides of his head into his hands, looking on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Oh my god. Okay. I’m leaving you to this! Julian! Fix this!” He then turned on his heels and left the office before either of them could say anything.

Julian turned towards Barry who was looking back at him with badly-concealed anticipation, biting his lip and shifting from one foot to another. He gave the brunette a suggestive smirk as he walked around the desk to get closer to him. Barry held his breath, green eyes daring him to throw all caution to the wind.

It had been ages since Julian had felt this carefree . He supposed Barry’s attitude was probably contagious.

“Okay, where were we?” And before he knew it, they were making out again, all eager mouths and labored breathing and drawn-out moans, hands tangled into one another’s hair and their bodies flushed from chest to hip, Julian on his tiptoes to better reach Barry’s amazing lips.

Barry was a damn good kisser, Julian decided as he felt sharp teeth tugging at his lower lip and sucking it in; and the blond CSI wasn’t one to let such good opportunities go to waste just because of some feeling of moral obligation. He’d let Barry punch him in the face once he regained his memories and then everything would be back to normal. No more guilty conscience and all, if there ever was one.

Next Part: Julvibe

#allenbert #julian albert #barry allen #cisco ramon #my fics #julvibe #the flash

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brittysaucefanfic · 6 years ago

Text

Operation: Voltron

Part 28

Lance

(First)(Previous)(Next)(AO3)

“How about a classic? The Dream Team.” Lance says into the mic, leaning back in his chair. He’s careful not to stretch too much, because the stitches are still just a tad bit sore. There’s a chorus of groans in his ear that makes Lance smile. It truly is his calling to annoy people.

“God Lance, stop talking.” Pidge says, her voice desperate. Lance pouts at her, despite her not being able to see him. They were on a scouting mission to relocate Sendak and/or the diamonds Lance stole. And while normally, he probably would have been the first through the door, Allura was adamant he stay in the van.

Said he was most useful guiding the rest of them. Lance knows she’s just trying to make up for letting him get hurt in their last mission, but he’s been through worse, and done far more while in that state.

“Do I really have to be here?” Hunk said, his voice low and mumbled, probably because of his position on the mission. Poor guy. Lance types into the computer to bring up the videos from everyone’s contacts or glasses, pre stabilized thanks to one of Pidge’s algorithms.

“Sorry buddy,” Keith says, also mumbled. “But we need you to be my look out. Lance, are we ready to proceed or not?”

Lance silently mocks Keith as he switches back to the front of the building, which was some big corporation type. Lots of windows, lots of people in suits, and lots of security. He zooms back in on the front door, just barely able to see Allura inside on one of the couches. Her white hair is gone for today, replaced with a sleek back wig full of delicate curls. The target blocks his view of her when he enters the doors.

“Target has entered the building, Allura you’re a go. Remember what I taught you. Bump, grab, slip.” He says. He watches from Allura’s glasses camera as she gets up. She performs flawlessly, bumping into the man with an apologetic smile as she walks out of the building, and he just barely catches a glimpse of the key card they wanted.

“Pidge, you’re up.”

“Roger that.” Pidge says. She’s dressed for her height, like she’s a young teenage girl, also with a wig made of long straight blonde hair. Lance switches to her own glasses camera, fixed onto her usual glasses, watching as her head leans down slightly to look at her turned off ‘phone’. It’s actually a cloning device, or whatever, designed to clone the information on the key card through her phone and onto a blank one. Good guys, they get all the cool toys.

Allura discreetly hands off the card to Pidge as she saunters out of the building.

“Keith, heads up. Pidge is headed your way.” Lance says, pulling Keith’s camera feed up so he’s ready to switch from Pidge’s. Pidge keeps walking like nothing happened, straight to Keith’s position. He’s dressed like a janitor again, because janitor’s can get access to practically anywhere.

Pidge starts up her phone and Lance watches as she uses her fancy toy to clone the key card. Pidge slips the cloned key card into a wad of crumpled up paper, and tosses it into Keith’s trash bag as she takes a seat on the couch, ditching the key card on the floor, and pulls out a computer from her messenger bag. Lance pulls up Keith’s feed.

“Alright Keith, head to the stairway, and wait for me to tell you when you reach the blindspot.” He says. He ditches Keith’s camera feed to look at the stairway cameras, courtesy of Pidge. Allura hops into the van right then, kicking off her heels and getting rid of the wig and fancy suit jacket. The glasses come off last, just as Keith steps into the stairwell. Lance had directed him before they began to walk with a limp so that his slowness wouldn’t seem out of place even in the stairwell.

“Alright everyone, so far so good. What about the Phantom Enforcers? Eh? It sounds ominous, to strike fear in our enemies.” Lance says. He’s greeted with another chorus of groans.

“How about we call ourselves The Silent Game.” Keith snapped back in frustration, slowly limping around the stairwell until Lance finds that blindspot. Lance hums as if he was actually thinking about it.

“No, I think that one’s taken. Oh, stop there Keith, and change into your suit.” Lance says when Keith is just enough between cameras that he won’t be seen. Bummer, Lance would have loved to watch that surveillance video. It takes Keith longer than Lance would have taken, changing into a fancy suit he had hidden in the trash bag Pidge threw the card into. He steps out into view of the camera, and Lance’s heart does a somersault.

The suit is a black three piece, complete with a black silk button up, a deep red vest, a black jacket and pants, and a black tie. No one should look so good in such dark colors. Keith is just wrapping up the finishing touches on his slicked back hair. Add on to the fact that Keith has a little bit of a five o’clock shadow and he looks like a rich, stunning, white collar bachelor.

Lance can’t resist wolf whistling at Keith, and sends the snapshot of Keith to everyone’s respective camera feeds. Keith blinks in shock, probably when he realizes he’s looking at himself, and then flips off Lance through the surveillance camera. However, the damage is done, and Shiro, Coran and Pidge start quietly cat calling Keith.

“You actually clean up nice brother.” Shiro says, laughing quietly. Lance takes pleasure when Keith’s ear tips turn red. One of these days, he’s going to make Keith blush so hard it travels all the way across his face and down his neck.

“Alright, enough of that. Keith, you’re clear to move forward to Hunk’s position.” Allura says, though not without a hint of her own huor peeking through her words.

“Ooh, I got it. The Force of Justice.” Lance says. Pidge actually rewards him with a scoff rather than a groan.

“Lame. That the best you got Blue Man Crew?” Pidge says, shaking her head enough that the video from her glasses becomes briefly unstable. Lance lets out an offended noise. He is the Blue Lion, not the Blue Man Crew. How dare she? The Blue Man Crew is cool and all, but they are not on his level.

“Fine. You ready for this Pidgeon?” Lance fires back as he watches Keith start climbing the stairs two at a time. “How about- Keith, cover!"

Keith follows Lance's orders, barely managing to duck out of the view of the stairs window. It was close, Keith almost walked head first into a group of businessmen heading towards the elevator. It should be lunch right about now, so everyone is clearing out for something to eat. Lance watches through the surveillance camera until the group disappears into the elevator.

"Alright Keith. You've got one last floor, and then I'm locked out of the building's cameras. Be extra cautious, I only see what you and Hunk see now." Lance says. He brings Hunk's feed up beside Keith's. The hall seems clear from Hunk's point of view, so he gives Keith the go ahead.

"Scan the keycard so Pidge can hack the systems and get me eyes in the sky." Keith flips off the stair surveillance camera again, but does as asked. It takes a moment, but Pidge is a genius. Keith moves forward with the plan. Hunk, who is guarding the door they want in as a hired bodyguard, unlocks it for Keith. This part of the plan is where things get tricky.

This time around, per Lance's demands and advice, they set up a more detailed plan. Complete with two extra escape routes, and a backup plan should the first go south. That backup plan is why Hunk is so nervous in the first place. The first plan, and the most thought out one by far, is for them to get the information needed off this business guy’s computer, and then extract everyone at once. Keith and Hunk will join Shiro, who is posing as a window washer, and is currently hanging off the side of a building. Coran and Romelle will reel them to the roof. They will all then take the elevator down to ground level using Keith’s keycard and leave the building.

Plan B is where things get dangerous for Hunk.

With Lance on the sidelines, if Plan A goes south, they can’t extract Hunk. The information on the diamonds, and in relation, Sendak, must be collected ASAP. If the diamonds are sold, then there will be hell to pay for losing them. A good fence will erase all trace of the diamonds when they sell. The business man, some boring suit with way too much time on his hands, is the fence. Or more specifically, one of Lance’s old fences.

No one knows that of course.

Plan B is all on Hunk. He’ll go deep cover until he gets the chance to extract the information. Setting Hunk up as a bodyguard was easy enough. The entire team have a handful of backstopped identities ready to go. And while it would probably be easier to just have Hunk go in, since he has full access to the room, no one wants to put Hunk in that much more danger. Not even Allura.

However, even though this is an in and out mission for Keith, there’s a catch, because there’s always a catch. Everything and everyone has an agenda, even his ‘friends’ from before he got caught, and even the friends he’s got with him now. It’s something he has to keep reminding himself when they start bantering or just hanging out in general. Lance is expendable, and they only want him here for his skills as the Blue Lion. They don’t want him for who he is, because they don’t know who he really is.

The glamour of a criminal lifestyle.

There’s a brief moment of silence on the comms, a breath of tension before the door opens. When the door is open, it’ll send an alert to Lance’s old fence, and it’s all a matter of response time. By now the man must be out of the building. Lance has gotten to know his schedule well, since he’s meticulous in his movements. They have about twenty to thirty minutes to get in and out of there.

Lance looks to Allura, who’s been riding shotgun in the van, waiting for her go.

“Keith you’re a go.” Allura says, and Keith and Hunk snap into action. Keith slips in easily, the door shutting behind him. Lance pulls up Pidge’s feed, watching as her fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to start hacking into the computer once Keith hooks up the flashdrive. The moment Keith slips it into the computer, Pidge is typing away faster than ever.

Now to wait.

It’s maybe ten minutes later when things seem to go south, because why wouldn’t they? Lance tenses as he watches the his old fence, someone who’s name slips his memory from unimportance, steps into the elevator to head back up.

“Houston we have a problem,” Lance says, making Pidge stutter in her typing. She keeps going like a champ though. “Our bad guy is coming back up, something must have delayed his exit from the building. Pidge?”

Lance looks into her camera feed, seeing her head shake almost imperceptibly, but just enough to throw the visual haywire for a moment before the algorithm picks back up the slack.

“I’m only halfway finished, there’s more firewalls on this computer than even the President has. I need more time. Ten minutes tops.” She says, her teeth audible grinding over her mic. He winces and turns off the transmitter in her tooth mic. The earwigs can be used to communicate, but it’s harder to record conversations. Though the tooth mic is no better, due to all the gross sounds a mouth makes. They really need to figure another way to record conversations.

“We don’t have ten minutes, we have maybe five. If we’re lucky.” Lance says, watching the elevator camera as the lift climbs too fast for his liking. Lance looks away, trying to figure things out, figure out a way to save Hunk from his worst nightmare. He’s busy running through a million ideas when Allura’s hand snaps to grab his arm. Her eyes are focused on the screen in front of her, focused solely on the hallway Hunk is in, and the opening elevator doors.

“Pidge?” She asks, her voice tight. Lance swallows thickly. There’s many reasons Lance dropped this guy as his fence, but the main one was his hidden cruelty. Lance doesn’t like it when people are cruel to others for fun. And this guy, his methods are almost worse than Sendak’s. Sendak focuses his cruelty on a single person, whereas What’shisface directs his cruelty on another to affect one. In other words, he goes after the friends and family of his targets.

Not fun.

“Sixty percent! I can’t type any faster!” Pidge whisper yells. His heart picks up as he watches through Hunk’s camera feed. He’s eye to eye with What’shisface, and Lance can practically see Hunk breaking under the pressure. His heart jumps, thumping so loud he can’t even hear as Hunk dodges the heat in What’shisface’s words effortlessly, though not calmly.

When Hunk winces enough to block some of the visual Lance snaps into action.

“Keith, hide in the ceiling, Hunk, hang on buddy. I’m coming for you. Both of you.” He says, and then he’s already snatching up Shiro’s suit jacket and hopping out of the van before Allura can stop him. He adjusts himself into the new persona he’s adopting.

Blue Lion has entered the building.

******

(First)(Previous)(Next)(AO3)

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metropoworld · 8 years ago

Text

The Fierce Code

a M E T R O P O short story by Magnus Aspli

Lance stood in his cramped apartment, a sigh building up from his lungs, the beeps of a hung up telecall in his earpiece, and the sound of cursing in his brain. He wondered for a millisecond if thoughts ever had been recorded into soundwaves and concluded he’d never heard of that and shifted gears back to his main concern.

Trevor was in trouble again.

Twins were supposed to know, to feel, when there was something odd, or wrong, with the other. Lance was pretty sure he’d read that on some clickbaiter.

Wreckshit.

Lance hadn’t felt a thing. He’d been perfectly content eating synthetic beef jerky, watching his baby daughter sleep and scratching Spiffy behind his left ear. The right ear was no good, ever since the fur had begun to come off. Lance knew there would be a lot of minor maintenance needed on Spiffy the day he bought him, but he’d been cheap and looked real cute. The fact Mirra didn’t approve of getting a dog, a faux pet as she always—annoyingly—made sure to point out, had closed the deal for Lance.

All the annoying bits and bobs about Mirra that gnawed at him had seemed petty when she succumbed to prenatal depression, refused the cheaper Medica Invest Anti-Depression Drug Plan™ and opted for virtual reality therapy. Eventually she was mindlost, on mythic beaches, in warm sea wind and with soothing bird chirps. Lance had stopped repeating her belittling fancy words against her then, at least out loud. As the technicians concluded, she’d been too immersed and pulling her out would lead to suicidal depression at best and brain damage at worst. In the murky parts of his mind Lance wondered if Mirra had gotten a better deal than him.

Mirra gave birth in the tiny VR cubicle. Peeling paint on cheap plastic walls. A basic Medbot assisting an unlicensed nurse with a VR technician making sure the systems were stable. Mirra’s body shaking in pain and exhaustion. Her mind blissful at some long gone Asian beach. The techie, who was binging a historical documentary about nations at the same time as having one eye on the systems, had assured Lance, who had been forced to wait in the crowded narrow hallway between cubicles, that everything would be all right.

A little girl had tried to sell him plastic roses while he was stacking some trash to stand on so he could peer over the cubicle wall.

Spiffy had sat beside Lance, wagging his tail throughout the whole ordeal. He’d barked and yipped as the cubicle door opened. A baby girl was handed to Lance as his earpiece had chimed with the medical invoice dropping at the same time. Mirra’s insurance would not cover the delivery as it was already running on her VR therapy and Lance knew this, but he didn’t care. The baby girl he held in his arms as Spiffy tugged at his shoe had stolen his heart.

“Idiot.” Lance said into the room, wishing Trevor would hear it and hang his head in shame. Then the deep sigh erupted.

Trevor had probably had a worse life than his brother, but Lance was forever jealous of the victories in his life. Stupid and short-lived victories, yes, but crime doled out short bursts of quick cash, thrills and what Lance assumed was happiness. Trevor had never been good at stepping away when on top of a situation, though. Hence the short-lived victories. Because Lance couldn’t help but feel jealous when his brother showed up with more credits than Lance had ever had, he reveled in schadenfreude when the tide turned against Trevor.

Yet, he loved his brother, and this call had sounded high on the not-good scale.

“Idiot,” he proclaimed again.

Spiffy looked up at him with the tilted head of an inquisitive terrier. In the beginning Lance had been quite impressed with all the neat behavioral algorithms Spiffy performed, despite not really knowing much how real dogs behaved. He’d seen a few, up in the higher levels. Stared after them with deep curiosity, as most low-levelers would do. But never touched one. Never felt real fur between his fingers. Those who could afford real dogs could also afford bodyguards and security personnel. Touching a dog without permission was something you wouldn’t do unless you enjoyed being arrested, or had a kink for getting shot. Trevor had seen it happen when he was fleetingly part of an animal kidnapping gang.

Lance paced the apartment once, twice and one last time trying to make up his mind. Should he head out quickly and rescue Trevor, or let him sort out his own shit? He knelt by Hannah and the makeshift table-turned-crib. Five months to the day. Her face of sleep the calmest thing Lance had ever known and would know.

He thought of bringing her along, bundled up and sleeping in the brown blankets, safe in his arms as he biked down to level C and into the Restless quadrant, but quickly thought better of it. If she woke…

It was called Quad Restless for a reason.

A sudden ounce of sadness, as if something intangible dropped from his throat and into his lower gut, hit him. If only he had money for proper stuff. He’d seen the baby stores with their monitored cribs. Even to lease, they were way above his budget. As his brain’s train of thought ended on the concept of budget the sadness stuck and lingered.

Hannah’s calm face was both a trigger and an antidote to such feelings. Lance ran the back of his index finger with utmost care and love up and down Hannah’s warm cheek. Spiffy was on two legs next to Lance’s knee, his paws on the mattress edge, his face a panting plethora of happiness and curiosity. Lance smiled at his best friend and scratched his head.

A bit of fur came off and Lance shook and blew his hand to let it drop to the floor. Buddy, the little vacuumbot he’d found in a dumpster several years ago was extra handy now that Spiffy was shedding hair like an actual animal. There were quite a few promises from the company who sold him the dog that Lance eventually had to accept were pure wreckshit. Yet, ironically and comfortingly, this made Spiffy more real.

Lance went over to his bed and lifted the mattress to get to the storage space beneath. Boxes of clothes, drone parts and junk. He rummaged around in the latter and, after a few sighs and curses, found his old social device. The Taco10, which was practically useless after last year’s system upgrade by TeleCine. Its dull grey frame light in his hand.

He had a plan. A pretty uncertain one, but a plan nonetheless.

The hallway outside his apartment was particularly cold this evening. As happened more and more often since the scraper had been sold to another estate firm, the ventilation fell out now and then and clearly needed a solid overhaul and repair. A job Lance himself had tried to be part of and had pitched the janitor several times. Every time the janitor had shaken his ugly face and sputtered words about cost and money.

Lance knelt by the door to give Spiffy a quick goodbye rub.

“I’ll be back in a little while, buddy. You be quiet and watch the place, okay? Keep Hannah company, but no barking.”

The vacuumbot came whirring.

“Not you,” Lance rolled his eyes. “Back to your dock, Buddy,” he commanded in a low and clear voice. He’d tried plenty of times since getting Spiffy to change the vacuumbot’s call name, to no avail.

He stood.

Spiffy turned a few times and headed back into the apartment, sat down in the middle, eyeing Lance, then the crib, then Lance again and wagged its tail.

The door slid shut and Lance pulled his coat on properly. The soft clang of his boots on the metal grating of the hallway filled the long but narrow space as he made his way outside.

Moist air and drizzle greeted his face, soft and pleasant in contrast to the blare of the city. The next-door sushi and comdevice joint had changed the colour of their sign again. Yesterday people’s faces and the bots’ surfaces had been bathed in violet. Today they were neon yellow. He pulled on his biker cap.

Lance joined in on the moving stream of people and machines on the walkway. Sliding in behind a Red Blood priest and his two zealots, cutting in front of a gorgeous android prost with her this is an android sign matching her red metallic lips.

The queue to the garage reel was—luckily—short and consisted of two people. They were also getting their dronebikes out. Lance was on his a minute later and hovered carefully out into the wide traffic airlane between his scraper and the one opposite. As much as his body wanted to spur his bike into the lane and shoot off towards the intersection that would allow him down to the lower level, his brain had noticed the SecForce traffic drone that hung silently above. He could not afford a chase or a fine tonight. Or any night these days.

As he flew towards the Happy High Five intersection Lance tapped his biker cap and its holodisplay came on. Speed, distance, altitude… the works. All the metrics of traffic life shone in bright green in front of his head. Most important to him was the TigerTooth icon that blinked, then became solid and made him smile. He’d connected his cap through his Taco11 to his old device, which rested on a shelf next to Hannah’s makeshift crib. Any sound she made, he’d hear, thanks to the long range of the TigerTooth link. Although it made both his shoulders and his anxiety chillax some, a vague murmuring in the back of his occipital lobe told him he had forgotten something.

Lance waved all the way through the Happy High Five intersection. Waved off all the synth-food drones, that is, with their promises of tasty lab grown snacks and beverages, all approaching with beaming smileys and jingles played with light, happy notes. He found the downward airlane as fast as dronebike-and-humanly possible, and down he went. The butterflies in his stomach the opposite of restless as he and a hundred other vehicles plummeted down. Down to the next level fifty meters below, then the next, fifty more meters. Slotting in perfectly in the speedlane, Lance kicked his bike to top speed and raced towards the quad five quadrants ahead, Quad Restless. Limos, autotaxis and SecForce drones and pursuit vehicles occupied the lane with him.

He passed the C-Level Transhuman Hospital, where, in his darkest moments as newborn Hannah cried and cried, he had contemplated bringing her. Delivering her. The hospital becomes a blur of neon strips in the corner of his eye, like the memory.

As Lance rushed past SmartClothing shops, a temple and a gang of kids having a drone fight, the holonumbers told him he was just two kilometers from Quad Restless and the estimated time on arrival to Trevor’s location was four minutes.

Lance eased his dronebike into a temporary parking space on a wall scaffolding just outside the Court, the hub of Quad Restless. The people streaming like cells in arteries on the walkways to and fro the Court seemed unending. The throb of every imaginable music pounded through Lance’s body as he slipped into the stream and was washed into the boiling pot that was the place to be in Sector 3.

The Court, a plaza that opened up into once-old grand architecture stretching skyhigh was now a patchwork of artistic expression, light and sound pollution, all clamouring for attention from every nook and cranny. Lance waved his way through dancers, spectators, buyers and sellers. Humans and machines. The club Trevor claimed to be in was opposite the plaza and Lance could see its entrance through the splashes of colour and strobing flashes of light and the occasional naked body part.

Every now and then, Lance thought he heard Hannah in his earpiece and had to stop, but it was just the plethora of sounds from the Court, and his mind, tricking him. He forced himself not to worry, but that vague murmuring he’d felt earlier had only grown.

In line for the club Lance tried his best to avoid social interaction. He noticed several others with masks and holodistorters. Displaying your identity was, for some, a weak spot. Restless was known to be a haven for synthetic euphoria and crime, from the casual pickpocket-y kind to the rumoured (but not debunked) subcity slave trade. When you house and entertain a scourge of thrillseekers and illicit money makers, crime comes with it like some incurable STD. SecForce rarely came down to Restless and if they did it was usually in droves. When he was younger and a frequent visitor to Restless and its Court, social media was buzzing with news—fake, illicit and real—that SecForce were in unending lawsuits with another security firm about the territory in this quad. Babylon Security wanted their piece of the pie. Likely a huge factor why they, even up until this day, rarely bothered to poke their taser stick in this teeming beehive.

Finally inside, only having had to engage in two awkward conversations about proposed sexual activity in the queue, Lance found the third balcony. Up there he could see the small club in all its splendour. A thousand high and sweating bodies, some moving like fluid, some like a crashed drone bouncing through oncoming traffic.

Trevor sat in the corner. Short chameleon trousers and a deep-black hoodie. His hood was pulled down casting his face in shadow. Lance knew it was him from the tough-guy posture, and the unnaturally defined calves. One of Trevor’s slightly failed shortcuts when chasing the perfect body. Before Lance stepped over his mind rummaged around the question of the perfect body. Who knew what that was these days?

After having smiled with genuine relief of seeing Lance and having clumsily hid his handgun, after telling Lance it was mighty great of him to come down—keeping his voice so low it croaked—and after explaining his predicament that a cage fighting club that allowed biomechanically enhancement had refused to turn the other cheek after discovering the miracle protein supplement Trevor had supplied them with was a hoax at best and a health danger at worst, Trevor put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and led him towards an exit.

“So how are you and Sarah doing?”

Lance wasn’t surprised.

“Her name is Hannah.”

“Shit, I knew that.”

Trevor tried to keep the conversation going, but just as he was about to say something he spotted a threat near the exit.

“What is it?”

“It’s them.”

Two women with glowing tank tops, bodies built to maximum muscular power, peered out over the crowd.

“I don’t think they’ve seen us,” Trevor whispered, but he was wrong.

The two bulging pieces of human flesh elbowed their way toward Lance and Trevor. Curses and shouts.

“Wrong.” Lance pointed out.

Trevor pulled him in the other direction, but against the river of people and sexbots exiting, their progress was slow. Too slow. The women closed in and before they managed to slip out of the stream both Lance and Trevor were picked up like ragdolls. Strong fingers tight around their necks and balls. They cried out but with each yelp the grip on their crotch increased and so did the pain.

“Put me down, I don’t know him!” In Lance’s head they were words, but when they escaped his mouth they were like some fading corrupted audio signal.

Carrying them over their heads, the two ladies of ill-intent walked through the exit. Outside, the exo-skelled bouncers paid them no heed. The pain blotched out Lance’s vision. When it suddenly let go he was airborne. He and Trevor flew down the stairs of a side alley. The pain returned in staccato jolts as they crash landed and tumbled down the steel-grated steps. They came to a halt in a heap at the bottom. Whatever human activity was going on down in the alley it quickly scurried off.

“Think I broke a finger!” Lance moaned as he tried to find his bearing, but already the two superior antagonists were descending the stairs with chuckles and promises of more pain. Lance tried to haul Trevor up for an escape, but he knew instantly from the weight of Trevor’s body it was utterly futile.

“Some help would be nice!” Trevor croaked through soon-to-be knocked out teeth.

If only he could give Trevor a long piece of his mind, to tell him how his full terrible and reckless life had led to this and how he should be utterly ashamed of how he’d brought his own brother down with him, and that his brother had something important in his life now, a daughter and by the gods if anything were to happen he would haunt Trevor for the rest of eterni--

The booming sound echoed through Lance’s ears and mind. Two more cracking booms followed. Trevor held the gun with confidence even if his arm shook and his face bled. Like a sack of something heavy one of the ladies fell down the steps and skidded to a grating halt. The other one knelt as if in an awkward ritual, clutching her thigh. If Lance had been the owner of a high-end spectral contact lens he would have seen the soundwaves filling the air with excruciating pain.

Five minutes later, bodies aching and the taste of blood in their mouths, Lance and Trevor sat hunched behind a pile of spent electric gear somewhere in the darker parts of the Restless quadrant. After having cursed and bitten away the pain they had been able to run. Even here, in this forgotten walkway only drifters and dumpster drones came through, the sounds of entertainment and vibrations of music penetrated. Lance and Trevor hadn’t dared to speak during their escape but now Trevor was ready to apologise to Lance and admit he’d never shot anyone before and how it wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all and that he would get rid of the gun as soon as he could and it all came out in a flurry of words before Lance grabbed him and made him hush.

Not far off, people were shouting.

“Come out, you snake!”

Lance assumed correctly that that snake was his brother.

They sat as still as they could. Footsteps came closer. When the footsteps were loudest it struck them both just how poor a hiding spot they’d chosen. No escape route. Cornered like a square room.

Breaths held, suddenly Lance’s device beeped. His TigerTooth link was being hacked. Fumbling desperately and as quietly as possible he severed the connection. Trevor held the gun ready. The footsteps came closer.

“Nothing but rats and stink down here, Zike! Let’s go back.”

The feet and its unknown owner walked away.

A minute of silence and the two brothers dared to breathe out.

“That was anticlimactic.”

“I gotta go right now. I can’t hear if Hannah wakes up anymore.”

“What was it?”

“Someone stumbled on my TigerTooth link. Had my outdated old device set up as mic.”

“They get into your device they’ll rob you blind.”

“Not much to rob, I’m afraid.”

The admittance of being poorer off than his brother struck him as the words slipped out. A stinging defeat that Trevor could clearly see in Lance’s downcast eyes. Trevor stood and helped Lance up. Bruised skin and stiff muscles. The two brothers wandered out of the dark nook.

“Hey, would it be alright if I crashed at your place for a day or two?”

No matter how much Lance wanted to object, he said yes. Apparently there’s a link between twin brothers, he thought. But he was pretty sure this came down to his gullible kindness.

After several sorry attempts at brotherly chatter from Trevor’s side, they were back at Lance’s scraper. He slotted the dronebike into the garage reel and led Trevor to the entrance.

“Place hasn’t changed much.” Trevor noted. It having been over six months since last he dropped by. Also back then to lay low for a few days.

Before Lance reached his door, Trevor stopped him.

“Hey, I want to pay up for this wreckshit I caused, okay. And you can’t say no.”

“I don’t need the credits.”

“You do. You got a kid.”

Lance didn’t want to admit he needed them.

“And that dog, which is a walking malfunction. Let me fix him up, if you still want the furball around.”

Lance shrugged a weak yeah, okay I’ll accept your money.

“Spiffy.”

“Huh?”

“Spiffy is my dog’s name. Spiffy and Hannah.”

Lance unlocked the door as his mind flooded with all the good memories of Spiffy and of Hannah.

Then, the vague murmuring he’d felt earlier came like a freak tsunami.

His place was a mess. Clutter on the floor and the makeshift crib had been toppled. In front of it sat Spiffy, his fur ripped on his face, sparks twinkled in his exposed neck, but the thing that sent a terrible shiver down Lance’s spine was the amount of blood. On the floor, sprayed on the makeshift crib and wall, and all over Spiffy’s face. As if someone had lowered his head in a bucket of the red stuff.

“Hannah!?”

She wasn’t in the ruined crib. Lance’s mind raced on in desperation but no logical conclusion presented itself. Only black rage. Spiffy, Lance’s little buddy, had eaten his dear little baby.

Spiffy sat waiting with his tail wagging. The curious tilted head. Eyes asking for a treat as Lance grabbed the first thing that could be used as a blunt instrument and went at his terrier. The dog’s friendly and animalistic eyes asked a hundred confusing questions as the guitar came crashing down.

Lance didn’t stop beating Spiffy until the yelps stopped, his limbs gave out and, flat on the floor, his core kernel broke. The electric sigh calmed Lance only to stir up the heaviest of emotions. Grief.

He knelt down by his ruined Spiffy, unable to hold the tears back. His eyes flailing around the room, looking for… anything but this.

Trevor had been shocked and frozen in the doorway during the ordeal.

“What the fuck…?”

“Hannah…”

In a rush of sudden responsibility Trevor came to Lance and held him. He offered his brother the generic comforting words but soon felt they carried no meaning and just held Lance in silence. The hug and silence spoke louder than any words ever uttered by Trevor. But Lance was beyond consolation. Weak hulking breaths filled everything.

A rustle suddenly startled them both. From under the makeshift crib. Then came the most welcoming sound. A cry. A baby’s cry.

Lance scurried over and lifted the sheets that were pulled down from the crib. There was Hannah. Unharmed and, at least in her mind, in dire need of her bottle and formula.

His daughter was alive and as Lance pulled her close and held her, he knew he was the luckiest man alive. He knew happiness, and he knew he would never be jealous of Trevor ever again.

Trevor was wiping and blinking away tears when he saw it.

“Uh, Lance…”

He was looking at something behind the door. Draped in shadow there between the door and Lance’s bed, was something they had missed when they first opened the door. Someone.

A bloody and mangled corpse.

“A Snatcher…” Trevor knew all the terms of all the scums of the sector.

It dawned on Lance. The lump in his throat returned to mix with the euphoric feeling of love.

Spiffy had saved Hannah. When Spiffy first noticed someone was picking the lock on the door, his algorithms had made him pull Hannah under the table and drape her with sheets. To secure her before whatever threat emerged from the doorway. The fight with the Snatcher had been brutal, but the man had not anticipated such fierce code in an outdated pet model.

A code that over the time spent with Lance, and with little Hannah, had created a neuronal pattern inside Spiffy’s kernel that resembled love.

The Fierce Code is one of the stories in the “slice of cyberpunk life” short story collection METROPO, coming in 2017.

#cyberpunk #short story #short fiction #scifi #dog #love #metropo

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