#would you bring a field hockey stick to an ice hockey game? absolutely fucking not

[darkwood-sleddog]

tbh i do feel like a lot of sport dog or general dog people's confusion regarding why certain gear not made for specific sports does not work for that said sport comes from a general lack of people who do not have a lot of personal experience wearing sport equipment or doing sports themselves.

Obviously people not having that experience is not a bad thing, we all learn and grow and it's great imo that people want to do active things with their dogs (any little bit you do is positive in my eyes). But it's just a fact to me that when you, personally, have experience with how YOU feel in different type of sports equipment, that knowledge certainly transfers to animal sports as well.

[welllpthisishappening]

A Biscuit in the Basket

Several weeks ago, I posted this, said something about how it was totally Blue Line!Killian Jones and then @shireness-says​ messaged me and it took on a life of its own. That life is now some AU of Blue Line??? Where Will and Belle adopt a kid and said kid is just...adored by everyone else on this roster. I waxed poetic about it a bit here and have already written another quick one shot about it here, so apparently this is a thing now.  

Or: Will Scarlet deserves to be the best dad in the NHL. 

Also tagging @optomisticgirl​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​ who were into this idea.

-----

Three games. 

Nine periods of hockey. 

One-hundred and eighty minutes. Plus mandatory TV timeouts. And cleaning the ice. So, more than those minutes, really, but Killian’s head throbbed and every muscle in his body felt like it was stretched too thin and knotted too tightly, all at the same time, an ache and a disappointment that lingered at the base of his spine and—

That was very melodramatic. 

Still, a three-game losing skid was….stupid. It was stupid and annoying and he couldn’t quite pinpoint when things had fallen off the rails, but it might have been right around the time that Will started punching that Cyrus guy behind the net. 

They hadn’t even been losing that badly yet.

There was no rhyme or reason to it. Just bad hockey and turnovers in the neutral zone and Killian had no idea how Will kept moving his right arm that quickly. Like a blur. An angry, fist-prone, blur of game misconducts and Arthur’s white-board smashing fury. 

“So, uh,” Robin said, dropping onto the bench in front of his locker, “that was something, huh?”

Phillip made a noise in the back of his throat, wide eyes and gritted teeth. “Should we be worried?”

“About Scarlet?”

“About, like, I don’t know—court-mandated anger management classes.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Killian grumbled. He tugged his jersey off, tossing it towards the pile a few feet away and it didn’t really make it all the way in, but he figured that was just how the rest of the night was going to go and he wanted to go home. 

Robin clicked his tongue. “Are you kidding me, Cap?”

“It wasn’t. That was—“

“—As bad as its been. In years.”

“He’s fine,” Killian promised, but the lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He didn’t have to turn around to hear Robin’s eyebrows jump. “It’s just, you know…we’re all stressed out and playing like shit.”

“This is not your best work.”

“I’m not in the mood for motivational speeches, that’s why.”

“Is that because of your inability to stick handle tonight?”

“Hey, c’mon, I’m not—“

“—The one who got a misconduct,” Robin said softly, and that was fair. “And maybe we should be, Rook. I am because it’s—ok, so Scarlet’s always been kind of a goon when he had to be, but he’s not an idiot. He’ll probably have to talk to the league about that one punch.”

Killian hissed in a breath. Because part of him knew that Robin was right and part of him had already talked to Emma about that vaguely hollow look in Will’s eyes during the skid and he didn’t want to spend much time gossiping about possibility, but all of this felt like some kind of potential riptide and Cyrus had been bleeding when they pulled him off the ice. 

“Seriously, though, when could it have been worse than it was tonight?” Phillip asked, disbelief hanging off every letter. Killian’s shoulders sagged. 

He nearly hit his head on the front of his locker. 

That would have been a level of melodramatic he, simply, was not equipped to deal with. 

Three games. 

They were getting progressively worse at playing hockey, he was positive. 

Arthur had already cancelled practice. 

Something about no point and the tabs were going to have several metaphorical field days with that and—

The footsteps sounded like boulders. Impressive, since Will clearly hadn’t taken his skates off yet, but every step forward was heavy and even more angry and Robin kept trying to catch Killian’s eye. 

“Bad,” he muttered. 

Will threw his gloves. They flew across the half-empty locker room—Arthur presumably still dealing with that metaphorical field day or maybe even the league, every one of Killian’s thoughts getting progressively worse the longer he watched Will stalk forward. 

“At least he’s maintaining his balance,” Robin continued softly, and Killian glared at him. 

It didn’t do anything. 

And Will didn’t stop. 

“I can hear you, you know,” he snarled, another piece of equipment thrown like he was actually a professional baseball player. Phillip stood up straighter. As if that would make their inevitable intervention that much easier. 

Robin hummed. “Yuh huh and—“

“—Were you talking shit, Locksley?”

“Excuse me?”

“Shit,” Will repeated, spinning quickly enough that Killian was genuinely impressed with the physics of his knees. He didn’t know enough about physics. He never finished college. “Talking shit. About me and—“

“—Your game misconduct?” Phillip suggested.

“What the fuck is your problem, Rook?”

“Me? Is that supposed to be a joke? Where’ve you been, Scarlet? Talking to Arthur or getting ready for your disciplinary hearing?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, scathing. You going to beat me up now, too?”

Will’s eyes narrowed, no more than slits and somehow even more threatening than he’d been on the ice, shoulders rolling until he was practically looming in front of Phillip. Who did not blink. In any other situation that would have been impressive. 

As it was, the whole thing was like balancing on those blades of Will’s skates, one false move leading to more blood and cuts and contusions and—

“Don’t talk to me right now,” Will growled. 

Robin laughed. Loudly. Uproariously. He threw his head back and wrapped an arm around his middle and Killian had to pinch the bridge of his nose so he didn’t do something drastic. 

Like punch all of them, at once. He did not have enough hands for that. 

And he still wanted to go home. 

Except. 

There was something. Something big. Something important. Just on the edge of Will’s voice and the slight tilt of his head, an emotion that wasn’t anger or disappointment, was something far deeper and vaguely familiar. 

Loss. 

Killian heard his lips pop when his jaw dropped. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Robin asked, laughter still clinging to his voice. “I just—we’ve been on skids before, right? Shit, Cap has never been good in the neutral zone and—“

“Thanks for that,” Killian mumbled. 

Robin swatted at his chest. “You’re ruining the flow of this. I’m serious, Scarlet. This is—you trucked that guy and for no reason. It was like…your sanity snapped or something.”

“Also not your best work,” Phillip murmured. Will’s eyes had not returned to the correct size. 

A muscle in his temple kept jumping. 

“There’s got to be a reason for it,” Robin shrugged, “because it doesn’t make sense for Scarlet to act like a Neanderthal on the ice when we could still win this game and—“

“Fuck the game,” Will shouted. He was out of breath. Impressive since he wasn’t skating or throwing things anymore, but every word sounded like a challenge, a gasping breath between syllables that made his chest heave and his eyes bug and Killian pressed his lips together tight enough that his teeth threatened to dig into both of them. 

Will exhaled sharply, gaze flying anywhere that wasn’t the three people standing in front of them. 

It was a bit, Killian thought, like a flat tire. 

Not fast. 

Not slow. 

Just…inevitable. 

Will’s whole body sagged, knees bending awkwardly underneath him and he didn’t fall so much as he collapsed into Killian, arms around sweaty equipment and a head falling forward and—

Will Scarlet cried. 

The sobs racked his body, shoulders shaking with the force of them as his hands hung limply on either side of Killian. He gasped for air, like he’d just skated forty-seven blue lines at the start of the preseason, digging his forehead into Killian’s collarbone and it didn’t end. It felt like it lasted forever, an odd familiarity to it that made Killian’s chest clench and his stomach jump. 

Robin didn’t blink. 

Phillip’s brows furrowed, confusion in the pinch there. 

Killian understood. 

Loss. And regret. And mourning something that hadn’t ever happened. 

Will sniffled, another quick inhale and even more shuddering exhale, leaning back so he could drag the heel of his hand across his cheek. It didn’t seem to help much, just angry red streaks on his skin and blood-stained eyes and—

“Shit,” Will breathed. “That’s…I’m—“

“What happened?” Killian asked, careful to keep his voice soft and without any sense of accusation. 

He knew it didn’t work when Will’s lips twitched. 

“That obvious, huh?”

“I’m big on context clues.”

Will barked out a laugh, no humor in the sound, and his tongue flashed between his lips more than once before he answered. “I, uh—you think that guy is concussed?”

“Absolutely, yeah.”

“Damn.”

“Why?”

“Why is he concussed? I punched him.”

“Several dozen times. That’s not what I meant.”

Will took a deep breath, another swipe of his hands and fingers that pressed almost too had into the side of his jaw. “It’s—shouldn’t you be going home?”

Robin rolled his eyes.

Phillip didn’t move. 

And Killian didn’t pull his gaze away from Will, half-lifted eyebrows and his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. Will sighed. “Don’t give me that face,” he grumbled through a few more sniffles. ‘I’m not your kid, you can’t ground me. There are not actually any kids involved in this and—“

He cut himself off. Abruptly. Suddenly. And the last piece of the puzzle dropped into horribly depressing place. 

It was an exceptionally ugly picture. 

Will dropped onto the floor. 

Cross-legged. 

Like he couldn’t bring himself to even walk to his locker. 

And Killian was only a little worried about the location of Will’s skates.

“We found out a couple days ago. It’s—I mean, you know, there are other options, I guess…just not the one we’ve been trying and—“ His head fell to his hands, another round of tears and unsteady breaths. None of them said anything. “I just,” Will whispered, “fuck, I’m so jealous, Cap. Of you and Em, and Locksley and Gina and it’s—Belle would be such a good mom and I can’t—“

Silence. 

Goddamn deafening, fucking silence. 

Killian’s mouth felt very dry. 

His right knee cracked when he crouched down, Will’s jaw clenching when he curled a hand around his shoulder. 

“Those kids are so good,” Will continued, “and everything you guys do and I’m not—

“—They think you are the world, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, but…”

“I know.”

Will sighed. “We’ve been talking about it for years. After the Olympics and it was…God, like this thought that kept gnawing at the back of my brain. Could have beens, and possibility and I love those kids.”

“I know,” Killian said, and it was a frustratingly cynical conversation. 

“And we kept talking. Planning and thinking and the idea grew and it’s just been—this maybe kind of thing that never happened, but would and now it’s…not.”

Killian didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Knew there were no words, no promises or guarantees that would make any of it better, erase the loss of that something that hadn’t ever happened. 

And Scarlet hadn’t tried to do it for him.

So, cyclical. Or, whatever. 

“I’m totally going to get suspended,” Will muttered. “That was—I wasn’t even thinking. It was, like, some bullshit out of body experience and—you really think that guy is concussed?”

Killian nodded. 

“Shit.” He ran a ragged hand across his face, rubbing his knuckles against his forehead. “We’re going to try some other stuff. The doctor gave us a whole list of options, but I’m—“

“—Pissed,” Phillip finished. 

“Thanks, Rook.”

Will’s eyes flitted up towards Killian, still silent, still ignoring the questionable pain in his right thigh when he stayed crouched halfway towards the floor. And neither one of them said anything else, but Will’s mouth quirked up again and Killian flipped his hand up. 

Will took it. 

And there was a meeting with the league offices, phone calls to that Cyrus guy and apologies made, both public and private, and Arthur made several pointed threats to the entire locker room about fixing this shit before the Rangers won their next two games. 

So, it went. More games and more wins, more losses and a few fights because that was the game and the life and—

Will asked Robin and Killian on a Saturday. 

He stared at his feet the whole time. 

“Just, you know—it doesn’t have to be that long. A couple paragraphs. Promises that I’m—well, mentally fit an physically fit and—“

“—Physically fit?” Robin balked. “That can’t possibly be right.”

“You’re a beacon of support you know that?”

Killian chuckled, dropping further into the corner of the couch he was sitting in with a kid draped across his chest. Will groaned. “I’ll make sure to point out how much you can deadlift, for sure, Scarlet.”

“I’m going to ask other people,” Will promised. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure you are. When do you need this by?”

“Weeks from now. So I’ve got plenty of time to find better character witnesses.”

Killian saluted. 

And he wasn’t ever entirely sure that Will didn’t ask other people, but he had a very strong suspicion that other people just started sending letters, character witnesses and guarantees that Will and Belle should be able to adopt a kid, and Ariel was personally offended that she hadn’t gotten the initial request. 

“I named my kid after you, Scarlet!”

“Just like…his middle name.”

“And is this confirmation of that?” Killian quipped. 

Ariel glared at him. “Shut up, Cap. I want to wax poetic about Scarlet’s father-like tendencies.”

“I mean, maybe don’t use the phrase wax poetic in your letter.”

She stuck her tongue out. 

And it didn’t end with Ariel. 

The letters kept coming. In droves. Killian didn’t use that word out loud. Emma wrote one. Regina wrote one. It was four pages long. Anna hand-delivered hers to the Garden and Elsa’s had an addendum from Liam that Will spent at least twenty-six minutes mocking from a corner booth in the restaurant. 

Jefferson wrote one. Phillip wrote one that came with additions from Aurora, her curly writing even more obvious when it was in a different color ink. Ruby sent a video. Matt typed his. They were practicing typing at school. Peggy’s was mostly, just a sheet of paper covered in stickers and sparkles, but Killian saw Will fold it carefully and stick it in his back pocket. 

Mary Margaret’s letter had the added bonus of cookies, which they all ate in the restaurant, and David offered to talk to the judge in person. 

“In uniform, if that’ll make a difference,” he added. 

Belle blinked. “I’m not sure it will, but—“

“—Well, whatever’ll help.”

She nodded slowly, like she couldn’t quite process those words, but those words became some kind of theme at some point and whatever’ll help wound up downtown with two different, hand-written letters from Mr. and Mrs. Vanklad. 

Bell gasped when she saw them. 

Will’s eyes glossed over. 

It kept going. For weeks and months and there were lawyers and hearings and Arthur’s letter also arrived with the promise that if anyone outside of this team finds out I did this, I will beat you with several thousand whiteboards, got it?

“Got it,” Will grinned. “Thanks, Arthur.”

“Shut up, Scarlet.”

Killian never knew if the judge did see all the letters or read all the promises, but he was positive every letter was filed away in that apartment on the East Side and that kid got her very first stick two days after she arrived in the same apartment. 

“Thanks, Cap, this is really helpful,” Will groused, already looking a little exhausted in the corner of his living room. 

Killian hummed, an arm around Emma’s waist and her head on his shoulder. “Payment in kind, huh?”

“And let us know if we can help with anything else,” Emma aded. “We’ve got—just so many hockey sticks.”

Will scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll make sure to request more equipment when we need it, ok?”

“Got to start practicing that wrister early.”

“Ah, she’s going to be a defender, Swan,” Killian objected lightly. Will grinned. “Keeping the tradition alive or whatever.

“The whatever really seals it.”

Will’s laugh didn’t shake out of him, far to aware of the baby sleeping on his chest, but it rumbled slightly and the baby stirred just a bit and—“Do not bring anymore sticks here,” he muttered. “Thanks for setting ridiculous parental examples, get out of my apartment.”

Killian kissed Emma’s hair. “Sure, thing Scarlet, but seriously—“

“—If I need a babysitter, you two will be the first on the list.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Will beamed. 

“Deal, Cap.”