#vulcaniser

[nsemkekanews]

Three injured after explosion at vulcaniser shop in New Nkusukum - Nsemkeka

Three injured after explosion at vulcaniser shop in New Nkusukum – Nsemkeka Three individuals have sustained serious injuries following an explosion at a vulcaniser shop in New Nkusukum, near Volta Bar in the Mfantseman Municipality of the Central Region. The victims are currently receiving treatment at the Roman Hospital in Mankessim, with one of them, identified as Richard and believed to be…

[vieuxmetiers]

Vulcanisation, Alès, Gard

[aardvark-123]

~Fallout 4 Companions React to a Pair of Hunter™ Original Red Wellington Boots~

Ada would be delighted to have some high-quality rubber to cut up and use in various projects. A marksman's stock, stealth lining for armour, a generator and some power pylons... Oh, the possibilities!

Cait would be mildly amused. "Well, aren't those cute?" she'd chuckle, and then go and do something else.

Codsworth would be quite chuffed. "By George, is that a genuine pair of Wellingtons, made by the Hunter Boot Company of Edinburgh?!" he'd exclaim. "How splendid to see genuine British craftsmanship still thriving in this day and age! Why, it was nearly impossible to acquire Hunter footwear in the years before the war, thanks to the Chinese government shutting down all their factories..."

"Ah, tres bon! It is most important to 'ave ze protective footwear if zere is contaminated water around," Curie would remark. If she was in her Miss Nanny form, that would be all. In her synth form, on the other hand, she'd ignore them because she's already wearing protective shoes. (Yes, those combat boots included with her Flannel Shirt and Jeans™ are actually chemical-resistant, heat-resistant, suitable for agriculture, industrial work, laboratories, bird-watching and professional kitchens.)

Paladin Danse wouldn't care about the boots at all. Not one bit. However, he'd be very concerned about the Commonwealth gaining access to Vulcanised Rubber. The thought of raiders or civilians learning to heat up naturally-occurring latex until it becomes a firmer, tougher material would keep him awake at night.

Deacon would smile mysteriously and tuck the boots away in his bag. "One step closer to my Wonder Woman costume," he'd declare, already thinking of where to find gold paint and a craft knife.

Dogmeat would use the £135.99 pair of wellies as chew toys unless you stopped him.

Porter Gage would laugh at the wellies. "Looks like something one of the Pack would wear!" he'd guffaw. This belies the fact that Gage would absolutely wear them if they were yellow.

"Look at those stupid things! You wouldn't catch me in anything that garish," Glory would laugh. "But let me know if you find a pair of Chore™ Adjustable Tall Boots by the Original Muck Boot Company, okay? Black or camo, not pink."

Hancock would be mildly amused. "Well, aren't those cute?" he'd chuckle, and then go and do something else.

MacCready would be reminded briefly of the mole costumes they used to have in Little Lamplight, and how, after two hundred years of wear on generations' worth of feet, the boots always leaked. Then his mind would start racing, thinking of all the historians and eccentric collectors he knew, and who would pay the most for a genuine, mint condition pair of pre-war wellingtons. Sydney and Emaline, maybe? Or Sierra? They're red, so he could probably convince her they were Nuka-Cola boots...

Nick would be kinda ticked. "Well, aren't those fancy?" he'd chuckle, and then mosey along to his other business.

Old Longfellow would be quite underwhelmed. "Too short," he'd sigh. "They're better than nothing, but they won't keep the waves out for long."

Piper would be absolutely delighted. "Look at them! They go so well with my coat!" she'd laugh, dancing around with the wellies on her feet. "Nat's going to be so jealous... Wait, but what if this encourages her to wear shiny red boots in a reckless manner?! I-I can't be a bad influence on my little sister! Should I give them to Ellie instead, or...?"

Preston wouldn't really know what to make of the boots. "Er, those are quite nice," he'd say noncommittally. "Not really my colour, though. Er, is there any reason you're showing me these? It's so random... Oh, yes! Speaking of things that are red, we've had reports of a Yao Guai stalking around near Oberland Station..."

"Ah... Thin red buckets!" Strong would declare. "Too fancy compared to normal buckets. Strong can't carry much Milk of Human Kindness in these," he'd add before tossing the boots over his shoulder. They'd land in some unseen location with a crash of breaking glass and the anguished screech of a cat.

Z6-88 wouldn't react. He wouldn't betray the slightest thought or emotion regarding the wellingtons. If, on the other hand, you were wearing them, he'd peer down at your red rubber-clad feet for just long enough to unnerve you, and then speak. "You are aware that the Institute makes its own rubber boots," he'd declare. "Far superior to those antiques. Unless, of course, you enjoy blisters and chafed calves."

[faithdeans]

not gonna lie, i got confused about the vulcan exhibitionism. temporarily forgor about star trek and was like. haha vulcanised rubber amiRight ladies (gn)

SCREAM NEWT

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Missing Puck

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Little hurt/comfort because Quinn isn't perfect, but he has good intentions and it's a fluffy end

Summary: It's the Hughes Bowl...and you're missing your usual warmup puck from Quinn. You think he's forgotten, he most definitely has not, but he didn't think this through. Fuck.

Notes: Sequel to The Collection

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Another home game for Vancouver meant another puck ready and waiting for you fresh from the ice. Or it should have.

You were waiting glass side for the teams to come out for warmups, today the Canucks would go face to face with the Devils and like always you are both excited for Quinn to get to see his entire family and sad that at least one of the Hughes brothers has to lose tonight's game. You expect to see Quinn make a beeline for you like he always does with a puck to throw over the glass for you. When it doesn't come and he skates past you with a smile to go warm up you just assume he'll pick one up for you nearer the end of warm ups, not too bothered at first by the missing puck that should have already been in your hands. Even fans around you gave you a look, so familiar with the ritual that was Quinn Hughes giving his girl a puck.

When the puck fails to come at the end of warm ups, when you watch him skate off the ice at the end of warmups without passing you your puck, the puck he's given you every single day since the very first game you attended, you try to justify it as he's distracted. The Hughes' Bowl, as people called it, was a high stress time for Quinn, the desire to win competing with the desire for his brothers' to win, mixed with concern that either of his brothers might get hurt by his own teammates. It was natural for him to be a bit distracted, for him to forget. It was just a puck.

You try not to let it ruin your night, to not distract you from the game, but you can't help it. You just feel...sad, forgotten. Quinn has never forgotten to get you a puck. In the 135 games that you've watched, he has never forgotten to get you a puck. Even when it's an away game you can't come to he's always come back with a puck from each, a thought about you that he's had written on each, sometimes arriving back to the apartment with 6 or 7 pucks in tow.

You try your best to watch the game, cheering when either the Canucks and Quinn score or Jack or Luke do, you can't really help but support your boyfriend's brothers, even if you want Quinn to ultimately win the game. Still, your cheers are definitely lack lustre and there's a heavy feeling in your chest that just won't disappear.

Even the Canucks' win doesn't make the feeling disappear and you berate yourself all the way to locker rooms about it. it's so silly to be worked up over a puck of all things, you've got over a hundred of them, what's one less? It's not like he forgot your birthday or left you at an event, forgetting to take you home. It's silly that you feel so upset about something so...so unimportant, or that's what you tell yourself anyway.

Deep down you know it's not silly to be upset about it. This was a ritual, a special thing that the two of you had been doing long before you were official. He'd never forgotten to give you a puck before and the idea that there would be a gap, a game missing from your collection? A day missing from the story you'd been cataloguing in bits of vulcanised rubber? It wasn't silly to feel forgotten. It wasn't silly to be happy for Quinn's win while deep down feeling like he'd let you down.

He actually hates it. Watching the way your face falls when he simply skates past you with a smile during warmups, he hates the way you stay right up at the glass the entire time, biting your lip, like he might remember in a minute...As if he ever even forgot.

It's hard for him to focus on the game, to be perfectly honest, for the first time in a while he can't keep from searching for you in the crowd. He can't help but hate the glimpses he gets, the way you cheer half-heartedly after his goal, the way your shoulders are slumped. He feels like an asshole and maybe he could have planned this whole thing better? Maybe he should have given you two pucks rather than waiting, waiting, waiting to give you the one...he just hopes that you forgive him for the torture he's put you through and forgive him for being a complete and utter idiot about it.

He really didn't consider that by planning to give you the puck after the game you'd feel forgotten, he didn't consider that he'd always given you a puck at the start of warmups, never at the end, never after and certainly not after an entire game. Yeah, he was an asshole and he thinks he'll be lucky if you give him the answer he wants tonight. It makes anxiety buzz so hard in his stomach that he feels sick for most of the 2nd and 3rd periods.

He doesn't waste time getting off the ice once the game is through and he doesn't even get out of most of his gear in the locker room, just his skates, gloves and bucket. He's rushing as he picks up the puck he scored with that night, but tries to calm his shaking hands when their rookie, Sasson, passes him a metallic gold pen to write across the puck's surface. There's both a deep need to be quick, to find you as soon as possible, and a deep need to do this correctly, to take his time. Not write a scrawling mess across it that you won't even be able to read.

He almost walks out the locker room without the final piece to the whole thing, but it's Kiefer that tosses him the little black box from his things before he embarrasses himself even more than he already has that night. He barely hears the good lucks from the rest of the guys, so focused on what he needs to do and trying to salvage this whole situation.

You look so small in the hallway outside, arms crossed over your chest as if you're trying to protect yourself from the world, eyes downcast to the ground. You feel small, a heavy weight of disappointment on your shoulders that doesn't ease much when you hear footsteps across the carpet and look up to see Quinn rushing towards you.

He's still in most of his gear, hair tousled and messy, moistened from sweat. His cheeks are flushed red and he's practically stumbling over his words the moment you're in ear shot, rushing towards you like a runaway train.

"I'm so sorry, this is not how this was supposed to go and I completely didn't think about how you'd feel an-" He's talking so fast that you're simply filling in the blanks, of course he's apologising for forgetting the puck and the one in his hand is clearly one from after the game. It shouldn't disappoint you more, it should make you feel better, that he's remembered now, even if later on in the day.

"It's okay, Quinn...it's just a puck..." You try to reassuring him, but he's shaking his head. Quinn's eyes go wide at the realisation that you think he forgot when he most certainly did not and he is not having you think he forgot when this was all part of the plan, a fucking stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless.

"That's not...I didn't forget the puck, I promise, I didn't forget the puck, baby." He sounds so absolutely desperate, so horrified that you believe him. Even, if it confuses you even more.

"But...but you always give me the puck at the start of warm ups?"

"I know...I...I thought if I did this after the game it would be better and I could have it all prepared, but I didn't really think about the fact you'd be expecting it at warms ups and I'm fucking inconsiderate asshole..." Half of what he has to say is a rambling mess that you can't really comprehend, so you latch onto the last thing he says that rockets your anxiety through the roof because giving you a puck later in the day is certainly not something which makes him an asshole even if it set your anxiety off and made you sad.

"Quinn, you're not an asshole, it's okay!"

"No, not it's not! Because...because I've messed this up so bad and if you don't want to say yes I completely get it..." Quinn almost looks ready to cry and he feels like it, in his head he's catastrophising. You're going to say no because he was too big of an idiot to think about the routine he'd made with you, the expectation you would have, the anxiety he would be putting you through for 3 hours.

You stop for a minute, processing his words as he stares at you horrified, scared, worried, all of the above and every synonym for them under the sun. The silence is so dreadfully loud and broken by the softest whisper of your voice, "Say yes?"

Quinn's scared, certain he's going to have a heart attack in that moment but still he forces his hands to move, toss the puck in his hands lightly to you and watch as you twist it right side up.

He has to stop himself from rambling further as he gets down on one knee in front of you, shaking hands opening up the little black box Kiefer had given him. The ring inside is perfect for you, the right gem, the perfect colour, the correct metal and shape. The epitome of someone knowing exactly what you'd find most desirable in a ring, but you're not looking at it, your eyes are fixed on the puck in your hands.

It's the usual beat up puck, although not a warmup puck this time but an official game puck, a goal scoring puck. Across the surface in gold lettering Quinn's handwriting stands out. The date is scrawled across the surface and underneath? Oh, underneath might be the most beautiful sentence you've ever read in your life and you can't help but feel tears well up in your eyes as you read them.

'Will you marry me?'

It all makes sense now. His rambling on about you not saying yes, his insistence that he'd messed up. He's scared, you can understand it now. That this absolutely amazing, wonderful man, thinks that something as simple as not giving a puck to you earlier is going to make you say no. When in reality very few things could ever stop you from saying yes, saying yes felt as natural as breathing.

"Give me a pen..." Your voice is wobbly and quiet as you request a pen, puck shaking in your hands as you look up at him and he's certain you're going to say no to him, so certain he takes a moment to process what you've asked for. Blinking at you blankly.

"Pen?"

"Give me a pen, Quinn." You reiterate until he seems to process your words and then he is scrambling, fumbling around as if he even has pockets in his gear which he doesn't. He almost drops the ring in the process and it is so utterly endearing to see how absolutely he wants to make this right and please you, as endearing as it is heart wrenching that he seems to think you'd ever say no.

He stumbles around, forgetting he's left the pen in the locker room, cursing this whole mess until Jack is leaning over his shoulder dangling it between two fingers with a soft smile. Luke just stood off to the side behind him. He supposes it would be par for the course for his brothers to be present for his imminent rejection and humiliation. Better them than anyone else.

He passes you the pen with shaking hands and can't take his eyes off you as you write something underneath his own words.

When you toss it back to him he's so certain that he's going to see a big no underneath that it takes him a minute of staring to actually comprehend what he's seeing, the puck shaking in his hands. Your handwriting lays so neatly underneath his, but its the unfathomable word that hits him with warmth and a bright spark of happiness straight to the chest.

'Yes -`♡´-'

Quinn's eyes pan up to you slowly, wide and bright as his lips part in shock. Glancing back down and up again as if he has to read the word a few more times to just make sure.

"Of course I'll marry you, you absolute idiot...why would I not?" You're smiling at him through the tears that slip down your cheeks, happy tears this time, not the disappointed ones you had supressed earlier in the evening. These tears are a combination of every feeling of affection and love you have for Quinn and the hopes you have too.

"Be..because I...I mess it all up..." He looks so utterly startled, so taken off guard and it hurts that he can't understand why one mistake wasn't really the end of it all. He's overthought the whole thing, just like you did. Two peas in a proverbial stressed out pod.

"Quinn," You close the remaining distance between the two of you, hands reaching up to cup his cheeks softly. Palms pressing against scratchy stubble as he looks down at you so softly, "I love you...messing up a little bit isn't going to change that, not when your intentions were so so sweet, baby..."

"So...you'll marry me?"

"I'll marry you." You confirm, grinning up at him as his mind works so hard behind green eyes. Little by little the doubt, confusion, starts to fade away to joy, to love, the way it should be after a proposal.

"You're going to marry me." You nod your head in confirmation, thumbs brushing across his cheeks in soothing circles, "We're getting married."

"Just put the ring on her, you idiot!" Luke calls from behind Quinn's shoulder and your gaze shifts to see the younger man grinning at the two of you, hands in his pockets and shaking his head. Jack is grinning equally as hard, the two brothers watching their older brother lose that calm, capable edge he always seems have. Both knowing they're never going to let him live this down. Ever.

"Shit!" He fumbles for the box, passing you the puck as his hands shake as he takes your left hand in his and slips the ring on your finger. It fits perfectly and it's beautiful, truly, what you imagined your engagement ring would one day look like.

He can't really comprehend it, that it's the ring he's given you on your finger, that he hasn't completely fucked this up. That you're going to be his wife.

It's you that pulls him close, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his lips. It's so soft and sweet that he isn't really sure what to do with himself for a moment and just stares down into your eyes.

"I love you, Quinn Hughes." You mumble against his lips, you're still grasping the puck in your right hand, even now. If anything your grip on the physical memory of this moment has grown tighter, scared it might fly away if you don't grasp it tightly.

"I love you too...thanks for saying yes." He sounds a little dumb, endearingly dumb.

"Quinn!" You lean back with a laugh, but don't get vary far before Quinn's arms are wrapping tight around your waist and pulling you back into his body. The closeness is appreciated not just because of the giddy high you're riding but because of how much distance there had been in the confusion of the day and Quinn's proposal.

"Am I not supposed to say that?" He grins down at you for the first time that night and it's the first moment where it feels real. He just asked you to marry him and you said yes. You're going to be Mrs Hughes.

"You generally don't thank your fiancé for agreeing to marry you, no. But you're welcome." You smile into the kiss he presses to your lips, losing yourself in the scratch of his stubble across your cheeks and the soft but firm press of his lips against yours. You let yourself just enjoy the feel of Quinn's hands gripping your hips and forget for a moment that you're in a corridor, a public space with your fiancé's brothers stood nearby.

"So drinks?" You're pulled away from the moment by the sound of Jack's voice chipping in. You pull back from the kiss, forehead pressing into Quinn's chest with a groan as he snaps at his brother lightly.

"Jack!"

"What we've got to celebrate right? Quinny can go get all cleaned up and then we'll go to a bar and celebrate this one becoming our new sister!" When you look up Jack and Luke have matching grins on their faces, cheeks pulled so high you're certain their faces must be hurting. Jack's grin is the more mischievous of the two, no doubting wondering how drunk he can get Quinn tonight, no doubt planning on using the special occasion to get Quinn to break from his health kick this season.

"Ugh, I forgot I'd be getting you two in this deal...can I change my mind?" You pretend to be put out, pouting at the two boys who you'll end up calling your brothers in short order.

You and Quinn turn to face them, Quinn tucking you under his arm and close to his side. He smiles down at you with what can only be called loving stubbornness.

"Not on my life, baby, you're stuck with me and stuck with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, sorry!"

"Hey!" "We're great!" The two protest and in that moment it all feels like the first day of the rest of your life. The man you love giving you his name in the sweetest and most chaotic way possible. The two men in front of you becoming your brothers in name not just actions. The moment when it is cemented firmly that you're not going anywhere and neither is Quinn. That you're stuck with each other.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

When you get back to the apartment that night, after a few drinks, Quinn avoiding being drawn into unruly behaviour by Jack, Quinn watches from the bed as you pull the familiar and now incredibly full box of hockey pucks out of the closet and place the new entry right on top. He smiles as you pat it gently before putting the box back away where you'll reach for it when he's away on his next roadie.

Watching you in that moment Quinn thinks he's the luckiest guy in the world to get the girl who still said yes even as he stumbled through a proposal that should have been perfect, but was far from it.

A girl that forgave him for a missing puck.

[dumbass5202]

vulcanisation of rubber is cool but have you heard about the DEvulcanisation of rubber its even cooler dude. They break the crosslinks dude. DUDE. you arent listening to me dude do you even fucking WNAT to know dude.

[cameron-possibly]

having art block again, so boom - another shield i always liked in the maps of middle earth that one little illustration in the misty mountain for smaug: the red wyrm-looking thing above the mountain. it says so much with so little. so that's why, when making an insignia identifying ranculos, i went for a typical heraldry dragon design on a shield that... i think i was going for half scorched fabric, vulcanised rock and with the yellow lineart... a branding iron? just a whole bunch of fiery motifs. like something you'd see on an old tapestry or something

[apas-95]

the hoarfrost settles on my skin. I am finally quiet. not the noisy silence of life, screams and words unsaid tearing through consciousness, but the gentle, peaceful quiet of the snow, and the rain. in the concrete-walled yard, my eyes stare blankly towards a chain-link fence, streaks of weather flitting past a yellow sodium-lamp atop. a few hours from now, a police car will roll slowly past, crunching snow onto salt beneath its vulcanised-rubber tubeless tires. a light will shine from the cab, warm breath condensing as a sleep-deprived twenty-seven year old calls me in on the radio. until then, I am still. the hoarfrost settles on my skin, and I join in the peaceful quiet of the snow, and the rain.

[virtualgirladvance]

are

Red vines meant to feel like eating vulcanised rubber?

[gilliagandy]

Everyone LOVES talking about how a Dorito or EDM/Dubstep would kill a Medieval peasant.

LAME! Old news. We've been Over This.

Some weaver named Gerdrut in a fucking 14th c. Silesian duchy has context for crunchy carbs, cheese, and spices.

Dubstep? EDM? Do you think that would kill Anchier the Fishmonger? HAHAHAHA. My man would simply bust a move.

So what would cause a 13th c. European to flip their shit? It's not furry porn, it's not monster energy, and it's not skibidy fucking toilet. For your contemplation...

The Rubber Band:

Once I whip this baby out, Ulrich's not gonna know what to do with himself.

He's never seen RUBBER. He doesn't know elasticity like this. This ain't your Grandma's smocked shirt; this is the combined fruits of the Columbian exchange and vulcanisation.

[wmnylander]

kinda sad kinda empty kinda numb kinda heartbroken i don’t get to watch my guys chase after a piece of vulcanised rubber in about an hour hbu

[andmaybegayer]

self vulcanising bondage tape

[axl-ion]

As much as I do think period accuracy is important, sometimes you just get an idea that isn't too period accurate but cooler than the period accurate option or you can't find a similar thing.

So here's how to bullshit period accuracy, explained on examples:

Use only if you really must.

1. Think of the materials.

You can't give your 1820s fisherman character rubber boots. Vulcanised rubber wasn't invented/patented untill 1839. How do you achieve the look of the rubber boots? You consider available materials.

You can do leather and describe it as very very shiny. You can say the fisherman applied oil to the boots to make them more water resistant, which while maybe not something people actually did, is possible. Search the materials and material combinations! If you know your materials well enough, you can bullshit effectively.

2. Keep shapes in mind!

If you want your character to read to the modern reader as a goth, but the period is 1920s, YOU DON'T SNATCH THE WAIST! Instead you look at the popular silhouettes and build from there. 1920s silhouettes were very rectangular so you keep the rectangular dress and add little things that make it more goth - black colour, lace, pearls. All in moderation tho, which is the next point:

3. Hold yourself back!

It's very easy to put patterns on a design as a source of interest. It's easy to put a bunch of accessories on a guy to signify wealth or status. HOWEVER it's not a good choice! It will look very tacky and unless your character is very tacky, you don't need to do it. Pick 1 or 2 period accurate accessories and maximum 1 pattern unless the period does have this grandiose and maximalist thing going on. Put it front and centre. Then bullshit.

4. Keep in mind the technology!

Alastor's fucking undercut is actually possible, since razors were a thing in 1930s. What does make him read as period inaccurate is the shape of his hair, but again, the undercut is actually possible.

However this is the route you shouldn't really take, because like... If it breaks any point above it will be a punch to the eye. It will break the immersion. So maybe just don't UNLESS you REALLY KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. The arguably best way to preform this bullshitary is on low notice things.

For example if you want to give a character said bob... Actually reconsider that haircut is so ass. However having a character with greased hair before the invention of hair gel... Have them use natural wax.

5. Use ignorance to your advantage!

Let's be honest, trying to bullshit Victorian fashion is hard, because there are so many Victorian fashion nerds, you may actually come across someone nagging at you like "ehem, that's the wrong shade of arsenic purple colour!" to set an example. Meanwhile if you try to bullshit like renaissance style clothes and accidentally put in some references from classicism... Depending on how big, it may actually be overlooked.

It's kinda like the lighter vs. match where it may seem at first that the matches were made first, bur it's actually the lighter. Sometimes stuff just looks old enough and that's kinda it.

AND LASTLY

6. Figure out why!

Why does your punk coded character have ripped pants in the 1940s? He's clumsy as fuck and trips all the time.

Why does this character have so many frills on them, that's not how these dresses usually look! She's a magical girl.

Have fun with the explanations, but make them plausible for the setting.

[colonellickburger]

Andrew Esiebo. Vulcanisers’ tools laid out artistically on a chequerboard. Lagos, Nigeria

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Puck-cident

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Blood, vomit, injury, hurt/comfort

Summary: You are the unfortunate soul that takes a puck to the face during one of Utah's games, Clayton sees the whole thing and demands to be let off the ice.

Notes: By popular demand I have finally gotten around to this fic ☺️This turned out to be like 5.5k so...enjoy?

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Everyone always knows there's a risk involved with sitting in the audience at an ice hockey game. The announcers at every game never fail to remind people that pucks can travel at well over 80mph and can go into the audience. Always reminding people to keep their eyes on the puck. But, no one actually ever thinks it'll hit them. You've seen your fair share of pucks caught in the crowds, you've never seen someone get injured.

You've been to so many ice hockey games that maybe you've been lulled into a false sense of security, a sense that nothing bad could possible happen to you, not when you're sat in the stands to watch your boyfriend play. Not when you're wearing his jersey, Keller plastered across the back, number 9 bold and clear. Not when you feel so at home in that space, so secure. Turns out you're terribly wrong.

Normally Clayton's eyes wouldn't have followed the puck as it went out of bounds, normally he'd have sighed and moved to the new faceoff circle, caring very little for what fan had managed to catch it. Normally, he'd be more concerned with the fact that they were in a two goal deficit. But, something made him stop on the ice today, something made him follow the puck with his eyes to its end destination. Eyes widening in horror as the scene started to play in slow motion while he was utterly helpless on the ice, stood there with his grip slacking on his stick.

Clayton never imagined that it would be dangerous for you to come to one of his games because fans getting hit by pucks? Getting genuinely hurt? That seemed like such a fluke incident and you'd never been hurt before, not in all the years you'd been coming to his games. Even before you were with him you'd gone to ice hockey games, not once had you had an issue. But, it sinks in, the reality of it, that it does happen and can happen to you. That it's happening to you right now and he can't do anything to stop it.

The piece of vulcanised rubber that had flown off the stick of the opposing team flies over the glass into the stands and he watches like some sort car crash, a sick slow motion view as the puck finds you, like your name was written on it. It's hard to tell from this distance how hurt you are, or where you were hit, but he can see the crowd writhing around you, the panicked yells telling him enough.

Enough that Clayton's skating towards the bench as fast as he can, shrugging off teammates and referees who try to insist he stays, who keep asking him what's wrong and where he's going. His coach tries the same, stepping in his path, confused as to where Clay's off to in the middle of a game as the captain of the team.

"Keller, what do you think you're doing?"

"Respectfully, Bear, my girlfriend just got hit by a puck going nearly 90mph. I'm going to see if she's alright." His tone is short, clipped, trying to be respectful of his coach, a man he does respect and admire. But he's made up his mind and nothing and no one is going to stop him from going to you right now. He'd sooner quit hockey entirely than play a whole game unsure if you're alright after being injured.

"Keller, the game..."

"Fuck the game, you've got enough players. I need to see her, coach." Maybe it's the wild look in his eyes, the way panic stands out stark and clear. Maybe it's the tense set of his shoulders or the fact that his stick creaks so hard under his grip that it sounds like it may crack. Whatever it is, he isn't yelled at like he expects, no one tells him to go back out on the ice.

Instead Tourigny steps aside letting him past as Clayton storms down the tunnel, passing his stick off to someone. He's barely aware of the fact he takes off his skates, shoving them in someone's arms before he's running out towards the entrance to the stands in just his socks, the only thought on his mind being you and whether you were okay right now.

It's hard to describe what goes through your head when you see the puck coming straight for you, a blind sort of panic that has you freezing in your seat, not that you had anywhere to go to avoid it, not at the speed it had come at you. You're in such shock that you don't really feel much after the initial impact, head buzzing and dazed, neck hurting from the snap of your head backwards, ears ringing as people around you start fussing over you. Someone has you up out of your seat, your arm around their shoulders helping you out of the stands. The feeling of wetness glides down your temple and you raise a hand to your face that comes away red, noticing almost numbly that you're bleeding, blood running down the side of your face, upset because it starts to drip on Clay's jersey, the white one he'd lent you. The fabric being stained, ruined.

"Keller has left the ice, rather abruptly, we're unsure if it's related to the fan in the crowd who's taken a puck to the head or not." Someone has the game station on, clearly enjoying having the commentators speak during the game, the crowd is so loud as you're all but hauled up the stairs to the exit of the stands. You have just enough awareness to wonder if Clayton had seen you get hit or whether he'd been hurt on the ice himself or wasn't feeling well.

You feel like you're going to be sick as you're helped into the main entrance of the arena, lights blinding you, head pounding, the numbness starting to fade in favour of such blistering, aching pain in your head that you can't help but start crying. You feel pathetic, scared, panicked and in pain. You just want Clayton but he should be playing a game right now and the realisation that you couldn't have him with you only makes you cry harder.

It turned into full on sobs when your dizzy, double vision locks on to Clay who's running in just a pair of socks towards you, frantic, helmet being tossed behind him to someone. There's two of him, your vision going in and out but you're so happy to see him that it doesn't matter. So happy that he's here that you can almost ignore the pain, the nausea, and the blood.

He's got you in his arms before you can even comprehend reaching for him, whoever had helped you this far taking a step back to let him take over. He's petrified, you look horrific, blood coating the side of your face and neck, red clotting around your temple. Your eyes unfocused, the white of his jersey bloodstained, tears streaming down your face and he knows someone's calling the first aid team, but it doesn't reassure him when you look like that.

Clay's hands cup the sides your face, your blood is sticky against his palm and he knows he shouldn't be, knows its not anyone's real fault, but he's irrationally angry. Angry at the other team for sending the puck off into the stands, angry at you for always insisting you sit like a normal fan rather than in the box for family and friends, angry at himself for not insisting, angry at Tourigny for trying to stop him from coming to find you, angry that he wasn't with you when it happened. Angry because the alternative is fear and he's not sure he's ready to feel that right now, not sure he can, needing to keep it together for you because you're still crying, clutching onto him like he's the only thing that can bring you comfort right now. He can't help the way he grips you back tightly, trying to reassure himself that you're okay, even as blood keeps flowing from the split skin of your temple.

"You're going to be okay, baby, I've got you...It's okay." It's not, fuck, it's not, but he's trying to stay calm for you, a blank mask on his face rather than blind panic as he watches a stretcher be wheeled towards you. Runs his fingers through your hair in an attempt to soothe you and himself at the same time, he knows his hands are shaking so fucking badly and he hopes you don't notice, hope you feel reassured by him, feel like he's steady, stable.

"We need her on the stretcher, Keller, so we can have a look at her." Clay's attention goes to the first aiders behind you, the stretcher pulled close enough that all you have to do is step back and jump up.

"It hurts, Clay..." You're sniffling into his shoulder, blood getting on the jersey he's wearing, not that he cares. The equipment team are used to getting blood out of things. Two bloody jerseys is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

"I know, baby, oh, I know...I'm just going to give you a little boost up, okay? We're going to get you sat up here, okay?" He talks you through each step as his hands find your waist, helping you jump up onto the stretcher. The movement makes you dizzy, nausea filling you to the point where you know you're going to be sick, desperately trying to keep it in, being unable to. You can't help it when you're sick...all over Clay, head leaning forward between your legs as you vomit over his legs, whimpering as you do so.

"I'm sorry...I've got blood on your jersey and now..." You're crying harder now, embarrassment and shame added to the whole issue because you've just vomited over your boyfriend's expensive hockey gear after bleeding over 2 different jerseys. But, Clay doesn't flinch, hands stroking your hair as you lean forward to quell the dizziness. Is it gross? Oh, totally, does he actually care? Not really. It's testament to how much he loves you that the grossness doesn't matter, he'd let you vomit on him a million times so long as he can look after you in the process.

"It's okay, baby, I need you to lay back, okay? They're going to check on your head..." His hands are gentle on your shoulders, pushing you back while helping you swing your legs straight on the stretcher. Clay's fingers brush back your hair as he looks down at your hazy gaze, "I need to go change real quick and I'll be right back, sweet girl."

When he goes to step back you're grabbing his hand with the precision of a star goalie, even with the double vision and haziness you manage to find his hand. The grip you have on him is so tight, scared for him to leave you, scared you'll be alone like this. Even as you know he's covered in blood and vomit and needs to change, deserves to change.

He's right back to stroking your cheek, backs of his fingers gentle on your skin like he's afraid you might break, "I'll be right back, you're not going anywhere without me."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He tells the medical staff not to go anywhere with you without him. The fear of coming back to find you gone roiling in his stomach, not really wanting to leave you alone but knowing he can't stand here covered in sick. He's so quick, running down the corridors to the locker room to limit how long he's gone. The speed with which he takes off the vomit soaked clothes and sweat stained uniform is probably record breaking and despite the smell of sick he doesn't even contemplate a shower, just throws on some old sweats and a t-shirt, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers before bolting back to where he left you. He can take a shower later, once he knows you're okay, once you're both back home.

You're lying back on the stretcher with one of the first aiders, Clay thinks his name is John, leaning over you, shining a torch in your eyes to check for a concussion when Clay returns. He can tell already that you have one between the dizziness, vomiting and the way you seem to wince at any and all light. It doesn't take a genius to realise the puck to the face has rocked your brain a little too hard.

The middle age first aid looks up at Clayton as he finishes checking you over, Clay coming up on your other side to grab your hand again. The way you look at him, so trusting, so happy to just have him back makes his heart skip a little even as it breaks at how tired and in pain you look.

"She has a concussion and needs stitches, we're not allowed to do them here as she's a member of the public, she needs to go to hospital. It might also be a good idea to get an x-ray, make sure she's not got a fracture or anything like that." John turns to Clayton, pocketing the flashlight. It's not what he wants to hear, Clay would rather hear that you're perfectly fine, but it's obvious you're not. Still panic closes his throat at the thought that you might have something even more seriously like a fracture or worse.

"Does she need an ambulance or can I drive her?" Either way Clayton's coming with you, whether in the back of an ambulance or in the driver's seat of his car. He'll deal with the aftermath of leaving the game later, but right now? You're his priority and he's not leaving you.

"Probably quicker for you to take her yourself, Keller. I can help you wheel her to your car?"

"Thanks, that'd be great, John."

"No problem."

Clay has your hand in his, walking alongside the stretcher as John wheels it down to the parking lot. You're dazed and slightly giddy, laughing at each bump despite the pain and that's more concerning to Clay than the crying. A cloth has been put to your head, held there by your free hand, knuckles tight like you're working off instinct just to keep it there. He's not sure you'd be able to release it with how tight your grip is. He knows head wounds bleed a lot, but that doesn't make seeing the cloth already red with blood, any easier or less worrying.

Clayton's decided he has a new appreciation for how you feel whenever he gets injured on the ice. It's...God, it might be one of the worst things he's ever had to go through.

He's proven right, that you can't seem to let that cloth go when he helps you down from the stretcher and to his car, your hand doesn't move, cloth pressed to stem the flow of blood even when you stumble. He has you in the passenger seat and buckled in as quickly as possible and maybe he breaks a few traffic laws on the way to the hospital, but anyone would. The way you're barely there next to him, so dazed that he's worried the concussion might be something more has him pressing a little harder on the accelerator.

The blood is enough in the emergency room for you to be fast tracked to a doctor and a bed, struggling to sit upright he makes the decision to get up on the bed with you. You rest between his legs, leaning back on him heavily, Clayton the only thing keep you sat upright as the doctor, Dr Pandya, pries the cloth from your hand and assesses the wound.

You shy back into him when the doctor wipes away at the large cut with antiseptic to clean away the blood, only for more to come spilling forth. Clay's arms wrapping tight around your waist, linking your hands with his to give you something to grip onto.

"You need stitches, it's not going to close on its own."

"Okay..." He can tell you're trying to be brave, breathing suddenly heavier, fingers tightening around his until his own start to go numb, but he doesn't complain. Just lets you lean on him, seek support from him.

You're brave throughout the 14 stitches it takes to close up the cut on your temple, more stitches than you've ever had to have in your life. But, you don't complain, don't ask to stop, don't hiss, just let it happen as you grip onto Clay with everything you have. The warmth of his back behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder, pressing kisses to your neck, helps. Having him with you helps.

"All done. You have a concussion and need to rest for at least 2 days before you do anything. Avoid bright lights, loud areas. Keep those stitches dry for at least a day, so no washing your hair just yet unfortunately. If it starts to bruise, ice it."

The doctors turns to Clay this time, "If she starts to seem confused, keeps vomiting or just doesn't seem to be getting any better then bring her back in. But she should be tired for the next few days but start to feel better soon."

"Thank you," You're quiet but polite, not wanting to be rude when someone has taken the time to help you even if it is the doctor's job to do so.

"Thanks, Doc."

There's a quick sort of turn around in which Clay fills out the necessary paper work, financial details, insurance and the like before he's helping you up and out of emergency room.

All you want is to sleep, curl up in bed with Clayton and hide from the pounding in your head, the bright lights and loud sounds of the outside world only making it worse.

He's calmer on the drive home, no more traffic laws being broken even if he grips the steering wheel a little tight and keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, assessing. Some of the panic has eased, but not all. You're still hurt. Concussed, stitched up, definitely going to bruise and swell, and in need of rest. Rest he can't be there for the entire time because of his job. He might have gotten away with leaving the game tonight, but he knows he'll be expected at practice tomorrow, knows he'll be expected at the home game the day after and that means hours of time in which you're alone. He hates the idea of it, already running through a mental list of people he could call.

"I got blood on your jersey..." You're sniffling again when he pulls the car into the driveway, putting it in park. He turns in his seat, leaning an arm on the headrest to watch you. You're staring at the blood stains on the jersey you're wearing, tears dripping down your cheeks and it's...it's so silly and so sweet that some of that panic eases further.

"It's okay, baby, the equipment guys can get the blood out."

"Really?" You look at him so hopefully, so innocently happy. He hates that your reaction is like that because of your injury, at the same time finding it amusing, a small smile reaching his lips for the first time since he saw you take a puck to the face.

"Yeah, baby, they're great at that..."

"Oh..."

There's a beat of silence where you just blink at him, sighing out each breath like even that's too tiring right now. There's blood crusted around your stitches that he knows you're going to get annoyed with while you can't get water near them, bruising starting to pop up around that side of your face, swelling beginning to show and make you look a little lopsided.

"Let's get you inside and into some comfy clothes, yeah? You tired?"

"Really tired..." You blink all slow at him, eyelids feeling supremely heavy and he knows you're going to be out like a light the moment he gets you into the bed. That's reassuring in a way, that you'll find it easy to rest, at least tonight, before the aches fully settle in.

He's tries to be quick getting round to your side of the car but he's starting to feel just as tired. A combination of playing half a game of pro-hockey, the anxiety, panic and worry over your wellbeing, being thrown up on, going all the way to hospital and back, all working to make Clayton feel like dropping where he stands. But, like always you're his priority.

His hands reach for yours, tugging gently to pull you from the car, "Okay, out you get, baby." You go willingly, letting him guide you from the car and through the house. Letting your brain shut off because he's got you. You trust him to guide you around obstacles, through doorways, a level of trust that Clayton can't help but feel honoured by as you let him sit you on the edge of your shared bed.

You blink up at him all slow and sleepy, shoulders slumping and he's certain if you laid down you'd be out in seconds.

"Arms up, baby." You don't question him, don't hesitate, arms straight in the air with the sort of sluggishness that tells him even doing that feels hard right now.

Clay's careful of your hair and your stitches as he pulls the bloodstained jersey over your head, throwing it in a corner to take back to the rink to salvage. You leave your hands up as he helps you out of your undershirt and replaces it with one of your favourite big comfy t-shirts. You don't drop your arms until he tells you to, the sort of obedience you fall into around him because he takes care of you so well that you trust him more than you trust yourself.

"Wanna shower..."

"You can't get your stitches wet yet, sweet girl, tomorrow night I'll help you shower, but not tonight, okay?"

"Okay..." He knows you hate it, your routine is like clockwork. Every evening you shower, washing the dirt and grime of the day away, and breaking that is upsetting to you. But, you trust him. You listen without protest and let him lay you back so he can wriggle your jeans down over your hips and off your ankles, socks coming with.

"Up for me, baby." You reach for him from the first word, arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his chains as he lifts you to your feet, keeping an arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls the covers back.

He settles you in against your pillow, swinging your legs up and pulling the covers up to your waist as you cling to him. Your fingers don't detach from his chains, holding tight to him so that he can't pull away, hovering over you.

He's so handsome, maybe it's the concussion talking, but he's always so handsome. Your free hand reaches for his cheek, tracing the skin beneath his eyes and he can't help but smile at you, at the soft way you're gazing up at him. Still dazed, but oh so loving.

"You okay, baby?" He huffs a laugh down at you, teeth peeking out and you love that smile, god it makes him so pretty. So, so pretty. Even prettier when one of his hands cups your cheek like that, long finger stroking the skin gently where your cheek lifts from grinning up at him all dozy.

"Mmm, you're really pretty."

"I think that's your concussion talking, sweet girl." His fingers graze the swollen skin by your stitches lightly, not hard enough to hurt or sting, but a reminder to himself that you've got 14 stitches right now. That right now you're brain is a little scrambled.

"Nuh uh...you're always pretty...I got really lucky." You might be concussed but you know it's true. Clayton's so handsome you spend half your time wondering how you managed to bag him because he could have any woman he wanted and instead he chose you. This handsome, beautiful, kind, caring man, a pro-athlete, and he chose you. Normal, little old you.

"Wrong way around, I'm the lucky one. You took a puck to the face for me, that's pretty hardcore, baby." The blood around your stitches is dry and flaky, proof that today wasn't just a dream or imaginary. Proof that his girlfriend had taken a puck to the face, survived and only vomited once, pretty hardcore.

"Didn't mean to..."

"I know...it worried me though, just glad you're okay."

His fingers caress your skin as silence over takes the two of you, just gazing at each other as each of you feel the other under your fingers. To feel the way you graze the tip of his nose, how you tug a little on his chains to bring him just an inch closer. It's grounding to have you in his hands like that, to feel your warmth, to know you're going to be fine even if he'd been scared today. The whole thing has just solidified in his mind how much he loves you, how much he'd be willing to do for you, to give up for you. That you're it for him whether you realise that or not.

You take a shuddering breath, eyes shifting away from his like you're embarrassed by what you're going to say next even as your fingers tighten around his chains and keep him close. His blue eyes fixed on you, attention unwavering and loyal.

"I was...I was scared I'd be alone...just wanted you..." Your head isn't quite as fuzzy as earlier, but you can remember it clearly. Feeling the panic at the thought that you wanted Clay but he wouldn't be there...then the joy at seeing him, the relief as he ran out in full gear except skates, socks only on his feet.

"You thought I wouldn't be there?"

"You had a game...a-and I didn't know if you'd seen it happen...thought you'd still be playing." It's like you're ashamed for thinking he wouldn't be there, and while he hates that you did, he understands why. There was no guarantee he'd have even know you were hurt, it was just by some fluke of luck, by sheer chance that he'd actually watched the puck fly into the crowd for once. Even then, in some arenas would he have even been able to tell it was you?

"They'd have had to chain me to Schmaltz to keep me on the ice, baby. Always going to be there for you, no matter what. You first. Hockey second." He means it. Hockey has been his life since he could put on a pair of skates, and he'd worked hard for it, always having to do 10 times what the bigger guys did and do it 10 times better. But, you? You're it for him you'll be it for him when he retires from hockey, when he can no longer play and that? That's worth more than a game, even a game he loves. It's practically a proposal in itself, a promise to you because he never wants you to think he'd pick the game over you, especially not when you're hurt.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." The smile you give him is blinding, so full of love that he wants to bottle it, memorise it to keep for those bad days. For the days when they've lost a game, for the times when he needs a reminder to keep pushing, to keep going.

"Come to bed?" You try to tug him again by his chains but he unfurls your fingers gentle, one by one, smoothing over your knuckles in reassurance.

"I've got to shower, baby, but I don't want to leave you alone..." The idea of taking his eyes off you, of not being able to see that you're okay for even a minute makes him feel sick.

"You smell like vomit..." You wrinkle up your nose, scrunching your face like you've only just realise that he smells. Your hands pushing on his shoulders a little, moving him away rather than closer and he can't say he blames you. Even he's over the smell now.

"That's your fault, baby."

"'m sorry..." You mumble, warmth flooding your face at the memory of throwing up on him, his hockey gear taking the brunt of it rather than the floor.

"It's okay, I'll go shower, but you'll okay if I leave you for a few minutes?"

You nod your head gently, carefully because nodding too much hurts right now. Clayton presses a quick kiss to your forehead, avoiding the swollen areas of your face before leaving you.

He's no nonsense about it all, washing with a precision and speed that would make the army consider recruiting him. He's thorough, however, skin scrubbed down until he smells like your vanilla body wash and not vomit.

Clay doesn't faff with clothes, just shoves a pair of boxers on and curls up next to you, you're already asleep, mouth open slightly, the tiniest hint of drool at the corners. Endearing. He wraps an arm around your waist, dragging you gently closer until he can curl around you like that might keep you safe from any further puck based incidents.

Clay doesn't sleep...not well at least. He spends half the night just watching you breathe, scared that if he closes his eyes something might happen. A total of 3 hours is all he gets, so when the doorbell rings shrill and loud at 7am all he can do is groan loudly and burrow his face into your shoulder.

The doorbell rings again and he's swearing under his breath because if it's a sales person or a cold caller he might actually commit a crime. All he wants is to stay curled up with you, maybe get some more sleep now you seem a little perkier, eyes blinking open and more coherent than they were yesterday.

"Clay...the door." It's your worry about ignoring it that has him groaning, stretching and shoulders popping as he stumbles out of bed.

"I know, baby...stay here."

He doesn't even bother putting on clothes, just walks to the door in his boxers. Your head might still be fuzzy but you can't help the way your eyes trail over his back, the way his arse looks in his boxes, the thick set of his thighs. You're almost certain he puts an extra little saunter in his step because you're watching.

He kind of hopes whoever has disturbed his rest with his injured girlfriend gets the shock of their life seeing him open the door in just his boxers. Unfortunately, it's just Kesselring, who has seen him in his boxers more times than he can count, completely unphased.

"What're you doing here, Kess?"

"Came to check on Mrs Keller and brought a gift," The taller man holds up a little gift bag and as much as Clayton wants to slam the door in his face he doesn't, just stepping aside to let Kess in.

He leads him to you, where you're wrapped up in all the bed blankets, making yourself a little cocoon and your face brightens at seeing one of your favourite members of his team. Kess is only your favourite because he lets you go round to see the cats whenever you want, whether he's there or not. Or that's what Clayton says to ease any of that ugly little jealous side he has that occasionally rears it's head. Even knowing that Kess treats you more like a sister than anything else.

"For you Mrs Keller," Kess hands you the gift bag even as you swat at him weakly. He'd been calling you that ever since Clayton announced you were dating...the alternative wasn't much better, referring to you as the team mom because Clayton was the team dad.

"Thank you, Michael," You pull out a wad of tissue paper, unfurling it to reveal the last thing Clayton ever wanted to see.

"You brought the thing that nearly killed my girlfriend into the house?" He's actually irrationally angry at the rubber. The black has been cleaned, not a speak of your blood on it and the edge has been covered in white stick tape. In black sharpie, 'the puck-cident March 2025' has been written in Kess' chicken scratch handwriting.

"Kells, it's a puck."

"It nearly killed my girlfriend. It's evil." He sneers at the inanimate object in your hands.

"Clay," you're laughing at him, giggling at the way he glares at a piece of rubber, "It's sweet...Michael, it's very sweet." You turn to the taller man, smiling up at him because it is thoughtful in a weird sort of hockey logic way. To bring you the puck that gave you 14 stitches, like it was some gaming winning puck you scored with.

"Well, figured you might want a souvenir from your puck-cident," Kess grins at both you, the pun so bad that Clayton and yourself are both groaning at him.

Clayton pointing to the door, this time with humour in voice, head shaking, "Out! That was so fucking bad, man!"

"I'm going, cap, Jesus! A guy can't do anything nice these days! What a pucking crime!"

"Kess!"

[zeldahime]

Highway to Pail Day 26

[Day 1] [Prev] [Next] @do-it-with-style-events

February 26: Local museum has a new dinosaur exhibit. Don't know if it'll be popular. Remains to be seen.

Crowley thought he might as well go see the thing, since he was getting a commendation for it. He had no idea why—he saw the note saying one of his temptations was paying off in a big way with a quote direct from one of his memos, but he couldn't figure out what it was for the life of him. But hey, a commendation was a commendation.

It was just: He stayed away from the bone stuff, as a general rule. He thought it was, he didn't know, unsportsmanlike, or something. A cruel joke. Plus, he just didn't like misleading natural scientists; he liked them too much.

The Times had said the bones were a "diplodocus" from Wyoming in America, with a helpful map showing that Wyoming was both very far inland and much larger than Great Britain. Apparently they'd been discovered by a bloke named William Harlow Reed and gifted by a Scottish immigrant to America called Andrew Carnegie to the King. He'd checked and double-checked his memory for Reed and Carnegie's names, or references to America, or to the bones: nothing. The only thing that came close was an assignment he'd passed off to Aziraphale for some stuffed shirt at Yale, tempt him into some academic intrigue. He had a weird name though, like Orpheus Bog or something, not William. It couldn't be the philanthropist, because he hadn't gotten credit for capitalism: It had kind of invented itself, and by the time it was obvious it was sticking around, it was too late to file the paperwork.* It definitely wasn't the king, because Bertie had a soul like vulcanised fucking rubber. No matter how many mistresses he took or how much money he gambled, the sin bounced right off him. If Crowley didn't know better, he'd suspect God of playing favorites.**

So off Crowley went to see Dippy the Diplodocus.

It was a great big beastie, taking up the entire new Reptile Room, tail sweeping across the ground. The bones they'd found really did seem to fit together more or less the way they'd been arranged, although Crowley hadn't been involved in the biology project really. The humans' explanations were immensely convincing, grounded in the physical laws they'd discovered so far. If Crowley hadn't been an eye-witness to Earth's baptism and Time being turned on six millennia before, he'd fully believe what they were saying about these great lizards.

Like he said: he didn't like getting involved in the bone stuff.

As he looked around at the crowds gathered to marvel at Dippy, he didn't see anything worth their HQs getting worked up about. There wasn't much sacrilegious, there wasn't much holy. Although if he were here, Aziraphale would argue with that, say that there was always sanctity to be found in the wonder of the Lord's Creation. That wasn't a company line, either; Heaven didn't go in for that puff. It was something the daft bastard really believed.

Crowley missed him horribly.

He took another loop around the hall, wondering at all the human creativity and scientific inquiry and plain hard labor that went into these plasters of a mean-spirited Divine prank. Wondering how they'd already been setting up the humans long before splitting up into two camps. He wondered whether the angels who'd put the bones in the ground were in Heaven or in Hell. Or if some of them were in both.

To be honest: He really thought that there were some in both. The first Heaven-Hell collaboration, long before he and Aziraphale took the plunge on their Arrangement.

And he still had no idea what that commendation was actually about.

--

*Aziraphale had worked quite hard at the invention of philanthropy, once capitalism had become obvious even to the most introverted of angels. Heaven hadn't given him any credit for it, at least as far as Crowley knew. He and Aziraphale weren't really speaking.

**However, Crowley did know better. God's favorites usually got prolonged bouts of suffering and grisly, horrific deaths, not women and wine and kingdoms.

--

Author's note: I had to write this twice because Tumblr LOST MY DRAFT that I wrote on the bus. 😭😭😭😭

Quick note on King Edward the Whateverth, known as Bertie: I don't actually have the first clue about whether or not he was like, a good person or whatever. I just thought of jokes I wanted to tell and he was a well-known 1) adulterer and gambler and 2) affable good-natured friendly guy. This sounds close enough to someone who could be "vulcanised fucking rubber" that I went for it.

SO: Dippy!!!!!!! I couldn't not talk about Dippy! I fucking love Diplodocus, okay, it's one of my all-time fave dinos, and Dippy is The Diplodocus, like Sue is The T-Rex and Aziraphale is The Southern Pansy. The species Diplodocus carnegii was described by Othniel Marsh, who I had Aziraphale tempt in Bonus #1. The basic story of the bones is as I described above. Dippy's a composite skeleton, made up of at least six individuals. In 2015 or so, scientists studying it discovered that most of the skull was actually a Galeamopus and some of the toes and stuff were actually Camarasaurus, but Dippy is still remarkably accurate for a composite discovered and assembled in the 1890s.

Original Dippy still resides in the Carnegie Museum of Natural History in Pittsburg, which is one of my bucket list trips. He was cast in plaster and those casts gifted to natural history museums around the world, including the British Museum. Londoners will now be yelling at their computer screens, but listen: the Natural History Museum didn't separate from the rest of the BM until 1989. Aziraphale probably still calls it British Museum (National History), including pronouncing the parenthesis somehow. Dippy (London) stood from 1905 until 2017, except during WW2 when it was packed into boxes and stored in the basement so it didn't get Blitz'd. It toured the UK for a while and now stands in a museum in Coventry.

The Diplodocus that is in the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington DC isn't a Dippy, btw. It's a Diplodocus hallorum, which is even bigger.

And here are some pics of Dippy (London) from Wikipedia:

1905

1922

2018, while it was on tour, National Museum Cardiff, Wales.