#captaindiscipline

"Wait, what?"

11. My muse is trying to teach yours to swim, but shopping for swimwear ends up being the biggest challenge

"No. Tony. No."

Tony looks down at the skimpy red thong in his hand, and then back up at Hardison. He gives it one last little questioning shake, which is met with a vehement head shake before he tosses it down and grabs for something else.

"Man, I got a damn swimsuit. I don't need some $400 butt floss."

He looks up from the rack he's digging through, shaking another thing. "$700." It doesn't seem to help to correct the math. Hardison's expressive face just goes deeper into a frown, arms crossed over his chest. "We could just go to the nude beach."

They say the numbers will tell you when you meet The One. Your one true love. The person who is supposed to be absolutely perfect for you. The one your heart beats for. It's a story Tony has heard all his life, one he has done his best not to feed into. (Because his mother's numbers ticked on until Tony was in grade school, which was all he needed to know about his parents.)

He's jaded, completely against the idea of love. But Tony turns 18 and there are still massive numbers painted against his skin. Same with 21. 25. 30. Half of Tony's life is gone, and he's still counting down. 

Always with long sleeves, he tells the voracious media that he doesn't buy into the idea of the one, won't show them his countdown. No one needs to know when it's going to happen. He doesn't want to risk the moment being screwed up by some blowhard with a camera. 

Tony turns 35, and he's still got numbers ticking down. He's been married twice, divorced twice and has been a firm believer in the power of the pre-nup, and less in love. 

There's a charity concert, a few days before the new year. Tony can't help the way his heart skips a couple of beats when he does the math in his head and realizes this is it. This would be when he'd meet the so called One, probably after the concert.

Would it be some old money hag? A debutante with her eye on the prize?

00:30:00

The concert ends with a violin solo, by a kid with incredibly talented hands and his eyes closed the entire time.

00:19:22

The standing ovation takes over ten minutes, roses littering the stage.

00:09:00

The checkbooks are out, charities flowing. Tony leaves his assistant to cover his hefty donation. He's pacing, if he's honest with himself. Nervously tugging at the cuff of his jacket. 

00:05:00

The benefactor who set this all up asks Tony if he wants to go in the back and meet some of their stars. Tony knows he agrees too quickly, but he can't help it.

00:01:00

He's talking to a beautiful redhead about being a flutist, resisting the urge to make a stupid joke, when he glances down to look at his wrist. It wasn't her. 

00:00:10

The benefactor calls his name and Tony sucks in a breath before he turns. 

00:00:00

To be introduced to 15 year old Alec Hardison, the violinist with the incredible solo, who had his dark fingers laced tightly with a pretty little blonde. 

Tony can't see his wrist, and honestly he doesn't want to. 

Fate was a bitch. 

He shakes with his left instead of his right, to hide the stalled numbers, and tries to ignore the way his heart clenches painfully at the smile he gets when he compliments the kid. 

Tony walks away without ever mentioning it. 

He puts the kid through college, puts down the down payment on his house when Parker gets pregnant. Tony is named the godfather to their child, and he never once says a word.

It had been almost an year, almost an year since she had been in that place, since she had seen them and she did wondered how they would react to see her again. It was funny how during the first year they were so against to work with each other and yet they had become this dysfunctional family that wouldn't allow any harm come to each other. Paying the cab the door opened, the first seeing was seen was a high heel boot before the woman fully exited the cab. Hair a bit longer, straight, a warm black coat, a pair of jeans making the look sophisticated and casual at the same time. Sophie looked around the brew Bar, nothing had changed and that alone had brought a smile to her lips. Sophie had arrived to Portland the previous day, she had stopped in her hotel first to rest and of course to unpack, a bit of a jet lag that had been why she had decided to stop by the bar the previous day.

She was thankful that it wasn't raining, a smirk played in her lips as she remembered how many times in the past year she had complained about the rain and yet she had missed this place but they needed to leave in order for the other three to take things on their own. She made her way to the entrance, the only sound been her heels against the ground, gently he pushed the door opened and stepped inside, the bar was empty, no one around not even Amy but once again the familiar place made her feel at home, made her feel welcome. Walking further in the bar the sound of her heels on the wooden floor made almost an echo and for a moment she thought about heading to the backroom see if someone was there but that was no longer her place.

[He's trying to be sympathetic. Honest to God, he is. But Hardison's expression is making it impossible.]

[Damn it, Hardison.]

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

“There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It's like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction--every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it's really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and excitement at about a million miles an hour.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar