Home is a ghost town

Harvey Richards and Lateef Ade "L.A." Williams have a lot in common. They both grew up reading comics with aspirations to work in the industry one day. They both ultimately nabbed roles on the editorial staff of DC Comics in the 1990s.

And they are both Black men who say they never achieved their full potential at DC Comics because of their race.

There are differences in their stories — notably, the time periods. Williams exited his role as an assistant editor in 2000 after six years without a promotion, while Richards spent 22 years at the comics giant with just one promotion before he was fired in December 2019.

But the similarities that cut across those two decades are striking and speak to how little has changed for Black editorial staffers at DC Comics and in the comics industry at large.

Richards was the only Black staffer in the main DC editorial department at the time of his exit in 2019, which included about 15 people, he said. He added that DC had since hired a Black assistant editor. DC declined to comment on personnel matters.

DC, which is home to Batman, Superman, and other iconic characters, is much larger than its comics editorial department, with around 200 employees on the publishing side. But the small team of editors shape the comics and characters that inspire lucrative movies, video games, TV shows, and merchandise.

"You need [Black] editors to help nurture talent to foster diverse characters," Richards said.

Besides being the only Black editorial staffer at the time of his exit, Richards felt stymied in his own career, he said. In his 22 years at the company, he was only promoted once. He began as an assistant editor and 12 years later, in 2009, he was promoted to associate editor.

L.A. Williams can relate.

"My personality and work style is different than Harvey's, who is different from every other name I could rattle off," Williams said. "But no matter how different our work styles or personalities are, the reality is that every one of our stories ended up the same. When it keeps happening year after year, person after person, you have to ask yourself what all of these people have in common."

A Latinx former assistant editor, who exited in 1999 after five years without a promotion, shared similar concerns with Business Insider about a lack of a career path forward at DC and a sense that her work was undervalued.

The stories of these three former DC editors are also similar to that of Charles Beacham, a former Marvel editor who spoke with Business Insider in July. Beacham was one of two Black editorial staffers Marvel had employed in the last five years and quit in 2017 because he felt his voice wasn't heard.

For Richards, there were many instances during his time at DC when he felt he was treated unfairly. He recalled specific instances with Paul Levitz, the DC publisher at the time, like when Levitz told Richards he had "grammar problems," and when Levitz told him "some people think you deserve this" when Richards won an award. Richards was never promoted while Levitz was publisher and president.

Williams also described a confrontation with Levitz, in which Levitz told Williams that he would never be promoted as long as he was publisher.

In response to a request for comment, Levitz said: "I'm not going to comment on decades old incidents. I'm proud of the increasing diversity at DC in my time as an executive there, and while we didn't achieve an ideal balance, I think much changed for the better."

Since Richards' departure, DC has taken some steps to promote diversity and inclusion.

Two women — Marie Javins and Michele Wells — were named interim editors-in-chief after recent layoffs. DC recently hired former Activision Blizzard exec Daniel Cherry, who is Black, as its new senior vice president and general manager, overseeing marketing, sales, and more for the company.

DC is also reviving Milestone, a division of DC that focused on Black characters like Static Shock and was founded in 1993 by four Black men. It ceased operations in 1997 but will return in February.

But for Richards and Williams, it's essential to have Black voices on the editorial front to help inspire change and champion a diverse set of voices and characters.

For Williams, comics were his life. He had written his senior thesis in Afro-American studies at the University of Massachusetts on the history of Black characters in superhero comics.

So when he got a job at DC Comics in 1994, it was a dream come true. But he faced roadblocks that previewed Richards' own experiences in the coming years.

Williams, 51, recalled an instance in 2000 when some assistant editors were given a monthly comic to edit on their own by then-executive-editor Mike Carlin, who is now a DC Entertainment creative director. Williams said the assistant editors of color were set up to fail and given comics that were doomed from the start.

But Williams turned his assigned book, "Impulse," starring a Flash sidekick that had been hurting in sales, into a success.

Carlin wasn't happy. Williams said Carlin cursed him out for getting veteran comics creator Walt Simonson to draw two issues of the comic, and "wasting his time on Impulse when he should be drawing other characters like Superman."

Carlin did not return a request for comment. DC declined to provide a comment on his behalf.

That sense of not being valued even when he succeeded was a hallmark of Williams' time at DC, he said.

After a white associate editor was fired, Carlin offered Williams to take over that editor's books, which included one of DC's best-selling comics at the time, "Wonder Woman."

Williams remembered vividly what Carlin told him: "I've had my doubts about you, but you've delivered. Everything is always on time, it sells, and critics like it."

"I thanked him for my promotion," Williams said. "And he interrupted me and said it didn't come with a promotion. I feel so stupid now, but at the time I was so confused and asked why it wouldn't come with a promotion."

More than two decades later, Williams said the answer was obvious to him.

Williams' DC career ended just as Richards' was just getting started.

Richards, 48, moved from Akron, Ohio, to New York City in 1995 and began his comics career with an internship at the original Milestone, which then shut down in 1997. His Milestone connections eventually led him to DC, where he started in the mailroom and then became an assistant editor.

"I was living my dream at this point," Richards said.

In 2001, after four years as an assistant editor, Richards was offered the chance to work on the Superman titles. It wouldn't have been a promotion, but a chance to prove himself (the chain generally went like this: assistant editor, associate editor, editor, group editor, and executive editor).

But Richards was given what he said was the "unusual" task to write about what he "could bring to the Superman books." Paul Levitz, then the EVP and publisher of DC, told Richards he had "grammar problems" after he completed the assignment, Richards said.

"After that, Levitz made up his mind about me," Richards said. "I felt he already had because most people are promoted after four years. But after that, it was over, even if I got a good review or worked on good projects or got company awards for going above and beyond."

Richards won two such awards, called "Carrots," which were given by DC's parent company, Warner Bros. After he won the second time, Levitz handed it to him and said "some people think you deserve this," Richards said.

Richards was finally promoted to associate editor in 2009, 12 years after he was hired, when Diane Nelson took over as president of DC Entertainment.

Richards' time at DC came to an end in December.

He had been put on zero-tolerance probation in August of last year. The document Richards provided Business Insider outlined "poor time management skills and an inability to meet deadlines." Richards said he was being overworked.

The day after he returned to the office from Thanksgiving break last year, he was let go with a six-month severance and told he "no longer fit company standards."

He's still looking for work while honing his digital art skills. He said a potential employer asked him why he was only promoted once in all that time at DC.

"It wasn't because of my work performance," Richards said. "I feel like they blacklisted me."

19 years earlier, Williams had left DC with similar sentiments.

After a confrontation over Williams using the likeness of the Alabama governor in an issue of "Impulse," Williams said Levitz told him: "As long as I am publisher of DC Comics, you will never be promoted. You're welcome to stay here in the role of assistant editor for as long as you like."

Williams thought the timing of the dispute — shortly after he had filed a racial-discrimination complaint with human resources against Carlin — was suspect. He quit shortly after.

"I naively thought that as long as I do good work, the comics sell, and the critics like them, I'm going to do well," he said. "As a Black man in America, I knew I wouldn't be able to make as many mistakes as others. But I thought the solution was, work harder and do better."

Their experiences highlight why editors of color are so important, Richards said. They can help "realize a creator's vision" and promote more diversity in comics. He lamented that he never got that opportunity. And Black editors in senior positions could provide a source of support for ones in assistant or associate roles, he said.

"Ideas came down, they didn't go up," he said. "And I didn't have anyone above me advocating for me."

He hopes the recent shakeup at DC affords marginalized groups more opportunities and he sees more women in comics than ever before. Jessica Chen, who is Asian American, was promoted from associate editor to editor last year, for example. But Richards also noted there is still a lack of Black women in the industry.

"Change is going to come," he said. "It has to."

A harrowing look into DC’s history of racism which, among other things, made Lateef Williams, an editor who helped Impulse book avoid cancellation, to quit.

-Admin

Unraveling at the Seams Pt 26

Genre: Fan Fiction Pairing: Henry Cavill/OFC Warnings: Language, Sexual Innuendo, Possible NSFW Rating: M Length: Multi Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: this is, sadly, the last part to this story. Thank you all for reading, liking, and commenting. I can’t explain how much that means to me. I loved writing this and I am sad to see it end. But! There are some potential tie ins to come ;) 

thank you @flowers-in-your-hayr for the header

Catch Up Here

Back in London for the summer, possibly the rest of the year, except for a few press tours and maybe a small vacation made things a little more relaxed and definitely content. Filming for The Witcher had wrapped in May, a bittersweet moment. Although there was a confidence that Netflix would order a second season, they'd be crazy not to. In the mean time Henry had taken a role for a film centering around the famed Holmes Family. Portraying Sherlock in a story about the great detective's younger sister Enola.

Period costumes were always a treat, despite having a fraction of the control that she did with Geralt; Nell was holding it together. She'd come to like being in charge, who knew it was where she truly shined? Working with Henry was fantastic, as well, they had an excellent team surrounding them and work never felt like work.

Ivan had accompanied his parents almost daily, hanging out with his mother in the costume department, while Henry was on set. The odd day he would ask to stay home, though it was rare he wasn't milling around watching or blushing like a tomato when a certain young lady spoke to him. Poor kid, he had inherited Henry's bashfulness when it came to women.

A rare day off between press and filming, called for one thing and one thing only. Sleeping in.

Nothing short of an Earth Shattering disaster was pulling Henry from his bed before 10am. Ivan had been under strict instructions that if he woke first, take Kal out, then go watch tv or read a book. There were things he could eat without using a stove, he'd be fine on his own for a few hours. If the house was in danger, come wake an adult.

Snuggling into Henry's back Nell sighed and yawned. She'd spent nearly the entire night with her face squashed into his shoulder blades, too comfortable to move. Fighting her eyes to stay closed, she whimpered, it was too early to be awake. The sun was gently streaming through the crack in the dark curtains, wretched thing, casting a light across the room. Scrunching her eyes shut, she wrinkled her nose.

“Too early,” Henry whispered, his voice hoarse and thick with sleep. “Back to sleep, my darling.”

“I'm trying.” Nell groaned, kissing his shoulder. “What time is it?”

“9:45,” Reading the clock beside his head, Henry groaned and rolled slightly not wanting to crush Nell behind him. He'd grown nearly three sizes since last summer, a wall of solid muscle, if he got any bigger Nell would be sleeping on the couch because the bed was only so big.

“Close enough,” She scooted back, her head resting on the soft pillow. Gently pushing a stray curl away from Henry's eyes, she smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. “I don't hear the wild boy and the bear, they must still be in bed.”

“Even if they're up, I locked the door last night.” Henry winked, a lazy smile on his face. Door locks for the bedroom were a fantastic invention, whoever came up with that idea had clearly been a parent. “They can knock and shout, if they need us.”

“You're learning, I like it.” Nell giggled, stretching her arms over her head. Groaning at the feeling of muscles releasing throughout her body. The air in the room slightly cool on her naked skin. “Do we have to get out of bed, yet?”

“Never,” Shaking his head, Henry wasn't ready to climb out of their little bubble yet. “I say we stay here forever.”

“Good, I will take that offer.” Placing a kiss on his soft lips, she smiled. Kissing him again, she wrapped her arm around his neck drawing him in. “I could do that forever, my love.” Gently playing with the mess of curls, Nell sighed feeling Henry's breath on her neck and shoulder.

“I could let you do that forever,” Henry grinned, giving her another kiss. His arms tightening around her back, holding her against him. She fit perfectly against his frame, a tiny detail that he loved.

Laying in bed, Henry smiled lazily, everything about her was perfect. God he loved this woman. Everything about her made his heart swell and – he groaned, at the phone buzzing on the stand beside him. It was a day off. No phones before noon.

“Go ahead.” Nell encouraged, pulling the sheet up around her. “It could be important.”

Reaching for the phone, Henry frowned seeing the text. The name on the screen sent his heart racing, his mouth dry, and his palms sweaty. Reading the text, he felt the tension and fear melt. To think he'd almost missed this good news. Quickly replying, he continued to smile.

“That was Donna.” Henry beamed placing his phone back on the stand. “We have the house.”

“What?”

Not even a month ago they had agreed that London was lovely, but what they really needed was a place to unwind. A permanent residence where Ivan and Kal could run wild and not worry about neighbours or limited space. Somewhere with room inside and out. They'd found a charming farm house, enough room for an office, a spare bedroom, and of course a game room. The gardens were maintained and unlike any garden Nell had seen before – she was ready to offer listing price on the spot, until logic set in.

Ivan and Kal had gone along to see the potential new dwelling the last time Henry and Nell had gone, both of them had seemed happy enough with the choice. Ivan had been talking for weeks, about the things he could do in a place like that. There had been four potential places and the third one had been it. The second they had walked in, they'd fell in love.

They would keep the current house, allowing them to be in London whenever they pleased, as Nell had made the official decision to keep and continue renting out her house.

“We have a few things to tie up, before we can move in of course, but we now own a country home.” Henry repeated the news. “We'll have to set up a date to go and finalize things, but it's been agreed upon.”

“This is fantastic! Oh, our first party can be an engagement party.” Nell beamed, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

“You're serious about that?” Cautiously Henry tip toed around the words. In the past such a notion would have left him brokenhearted.

“I wouldn't have asked you to marry me, if I wasn't.” Nell smirked.

“The phrase we should get married, while catching up on Younger isn't exactly asking me to marry you.” Henry rolled his eyes, Nell stuck out her tongue. “Although, I didn't say no. So...”

It was a spur of the moment. In the moment and now, the morning after, it felt right. She had casually thrown out the idea, ignoring Liza and Kelsey having their millionth catastrophe, grabbing Henry's attention enough that he had reacted with a laugh. When he'd asked if she were serious, Nell had shrugged and told him that it certainly wasn't a joke.

Why shouldn't they get married?

If he declined, she would understand, so long as they agreed to remain together. You didn't need a piece of paper and some rings to prove you loved somebody, but it would still be nice. In an old fashioned way.

“So? I am assuming that means yes. Yes, you will marry me.” Giggling, Nell leaned into him, her fingers dancing across his chest. Small wisps of hair tickling under her fingers. “Do you not want to marry me?”

“I never said that,” Henry shook his head, watching her through hooded eyes. “I would thoroughly enjoy marrying you.”

“Good, because I think I would enjoy it, too.”

“You really want to get married?” Extending his arm, inviting Nell to snuggle in, Henry kissed the top of her head when she laid against his shoulder.

“I do. But, we don't have to discuss this right now. I know it's probably not how you imagined the proposal going, I need to work on timing.” She shrugged tilting her head to look at him. “Henry William Dalgliesh Cav-...”

A banging on the door, as the knob rattled, caused Nell to pause. Damn it. Henry laughed, his body shook and he did little to hide his amusement despite Nell's annoyance.

“Mum, momma, mum.” Ivan called from the other side of the door. “Dad? Dad!”

“What?” Henry called back, shaking his head at their son.

“Kal and I were wondering when we could go to the park?”

“After lunch.” Nell called through the door. Nudging Henry, she gestured to the door. “Why not let them in, if not he's going to stand out there and yell.”

“Fine, but only because it's after 10.” Henry kissed the top of her head, stretching and getting out of bed. Nell watched him pull on a pair of shorts, every muscle in his body moving in unison. Unlocking the door, he stood with it open a crack, looking into the hall at Ivan and Kal. Watching him intently, Kal yipped and Ivan narrowed his gaze. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“I'm hungry. I've already had a bowl of cereal, but I want something else. Kal ate, but I think he's hungry too. Are you going to stay in bed all day?”

“If we do?”

“I'm going to call Granny and tell her. It's late and you should be up, be productive and not a lazy bones.” Ivan chastised.

Behind the door Nell laughed. Tying her dressing gown, she shook her head, watching Henry deal with the lecture. Resting her head against Henry's back, she peek around him to see Ivan and Kal in the hall.

“Mum, stop kissing dad and come make my something to eat. I'm starving.”

“I doubt you are starving, wild boy, besides you were told that we were sleeping in. It's not like we ever get to do it.” Nell rolled her eyes.

“Run along downstairs, well be down in a moment.”  Leaving Ivan and Kal with their instructions, Henry gently shut the door on the pair. Parental life had given Henry a new appreciation for Nell and all that she'd done over the years and was continuing to do.

Dressing gown on the end of the bed, Nell traded it in for her favourite shorts and a well loved tshirt. Ready to semi face the day, she ran her fingers through her hair and watched Henry with amusement.

“Are you sure this is what you want? A lifetime of demands and dictatorship?” Nell teased, rubbing Henry's arm.

“We're in it now. May as well stick around, see how it all plays out.” He kissed her forehead, wrapping his arm around her in a gentle squeeze. “Besides, he'll be gone soon. Only a few more years and we can overthrow him.”

“Ah, yes.” Nell nodded in playful agreement. “I forgot, boarding school. You know, you English may be on to something with that.”

“We're smarter than the average bear.” Henry shrugged. “In the meantime, shall we go feed the beasts? Take them to the park and then tell them our good news?”

“Lovely idea, shall we?”  

To think merely a year ago, they were living separate lives. Had someone told Henry, when he'd arrived in Dublin to visit Ivan, they would be talking about marriage and buying a quaint place in the country – he would have laughed in their face. Nell sighed, rubbing her eyes, feet hitting the last step. Surveying the house, she was satisfied that Ivan and Kal hadn't made too much of a mess. Eventually they would have more space, allowing them to run wild whenever they felt the need.

“What's on your mind?” Henry rested his chin on the top of her head, bumping into her as she'd stopped.

“How fortunate we are. It's silly, but I'm glad that you came to visit the wild boy last summer.” She shrugged, waiting for Ivan to realize his parents were downstairs. “Had he came here...”

“You would have been learning to speak Danish?” Henry laughed lightly, wincing when Nell turned and smacked him in the chest. A little harder than she'd intended.

“Alex is a sweet guy, I won't deny that.” Through the grape vine and instagram, she knew that he'd been seeing someone and was insanely happy. She didn't wish him ill, in fact quite the opposite. Alex was a fantastic person, who deserved everything good in life.  “But, I'm not sorry things worked the way they did.” Nell shrugged, gently rubbing the spot she'd smacked. “I am sorry it took me so fucking long.”

“Hey, no.” Shaking his head, Henry lifted her hands in his. Kissing the back of her hands, he smiled. “It doesn't matter, because that was then. This is now. From now on, we go forward.”

“I like that,” melting into his smile, Nell felt the warmth rising in her cheeks. “From now on...”

“Mum, momma, mum.” Cutting in, Ivan slowly drug his feet across the floor, a frown on his face while he rubbed his belly. “I'm hungry. Can you make pancakes?”

“Can you stop and let your father and I speak, for two seconds?”

“You weren't talking, you were probably kissing again.” He made a disgusted face, stalking off to the kitchen.

Since his mother had moved in full time, the only thing his parents wanted to do was kiss, and whisper things that made each other laugh. Rolling his eyes, Ivan called for Kal, at least he still had one buddy. Adults.

“Shall we feed them, before he decides to call in reinforcement?” Henry chuckled, taking Nell's hand and walking to the kitchen.

“I'm not scared of your mother.” Nell laughed, nudging Henry with her hip.

“Really? I am.” Barking a laugh, Henry snorted. “You're a brave lady, Janelle Stewart.”

“Am I?”

“Absolutely, the bravest. Even better is that you're my brave lady.”

“Okay, alright. I see where this is going. Grab me a bowl, you can flirt with me later.” She winked, going through the cupboard to find the ingredients for Ivan's pancakes. “And go put on a shirt, if you're going to help me cook. Otherwise I get distracted.”

Teasingly mocking her, Henry handed over the ceramic bowl, placing a kiss on her cheek before disappearing to find the required shirt. On his way to find the rest of his clothing, he was temporarily distracted by Ivan and Kal. Watching from around the corner, Nell shook her head and laughed, Ivan was standing on the arm of the couch climbing onto Henry's back. Chattering about his morning with Kal and the things they did, before waking his parents.

Chaos was a constant, though Nell didn't mind. It was what made life interesting, the laughter and shouting would likely piss off a neighbour or two, though Henry didn't seem to care and Ivan had no care in the world. Kal jumped at Henry's feet, yipping, and wagging his tail as he tried to rescue Ivan from his piggy back. Sneaking a photo or two, Nell watched father and son continue on with whatever game they were playing.

This would be one of the personal moments that, eventually, Henry would decide to share with the world. Nell couldn't blame him, Ivan was rather personable and he seemed to enjoy the attention. Who knew Ivan would  soak in the spot light so easily?

“Mum!” Ivan called between his fit of laughter. “Momma, I need help. Mum!”

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” Nell laughed, taking her time to saunter to the rescue. “What's going on in here, hmm?”

“I am trying to train this dragon, but he's too strong.”

“You attacked me, I am simply trying to fight off the troll.” Henry spoke with the most deadpan expression Nell had ever saw.  Raising his brow, he smirked backing up to the couch, Ivan taken off guard yelped when Henry shrugged hard dropping him on the cushions.

“Bad dragon!” Ivan wheezed laughing, trying to avoid Kal who was instantly there to lick his face and make sure he was okay. “Kal! No! Kal!”

“Right, now that I have defeated the Troll King and fed him to my furry beast, shall I grab the queen and we escape?” holding out his hand to Nell, winking, Henry glanced at Ivan still trying to assure Kal that he was fine.

“Is this the part where the queen kisses the dragon, releasing some sort of terrible curse, revealing that he was a handsome knight all along?”

Henry nodded, comically puckering his lips. “It is.”

“Ah!”

“No! No more kissing! You two are disgusting! No, mum stop. Dad, please.” Ivan pretended to gag for the millionth time this morning. Adults were so gross.

“Tis but a peck,” Henry declared.

Nell laughed. “Alright, serious now. Why don't you two get dressed, I will make breakfast, and then we can go out for the rest of the morning.”

“Fine, but no more kissing.” Ivan grumbled, allowing Henry to help him off the couch. Kal on their heels, Ivan asked his father if he wanted to race to the top of the stairs. Thundering up the stairs, Nell watched the two of them disappear at the top. Shouts and laughter trickling back down to meet her.

For a few seconds, Nell stood listening to Henry, Ivan, and Kal playing upstairs. Running around, shouting, and not at all doing what she'd asked. Not that it mattered. They were happy, all of them. Listening to Henry charge across the hall, Nell laughed when Ivan screeched like some sort of mythical creature, causing Kal to bark loudly.

The four of them, taking on the world, conquering whatever came along. Mythical or real. This was life now, this is what it should have been all along. Nell sighed, only forward from now on. She liked that. The past was that, left behind to be a memory all while new ones were made. Over head, Ivan's feet passed, he was running to his parents' bedroom. Kal was behind him, the big dog as excited as the boy he chased.

Henry had a way of instigating the two of them, riling them up, and taking great pleasure in the screaming and shouting that followed in the games they played. Nell smiled to herself, carefully measuring out the flour of Ivan's pancakes.

These mornings were the greatest. Hell, her life was the greatest.

This is how it was supposed to be.

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Soulbound

 Disclaimer: the usual...  I only own my OCs

Word count: 3200+

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Stalking, mentions of self-harm/scarring

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Her chest grew tight again at the detective’s words.  “That case… haunted him,” she gripped the table Arnold was laid out on when her knees wobbled.  “He…  Daddy always called me every night to let me know he made it home.  It didn’t matter how late.  I knew by the tone of his voice if it was a good day or bad, if the case was solved or if it was a rough one.  He hated that the trail went cold on him.”  She winced when her lungs rattled on a breath.  “But he was like a dog with a bone.”

“He wouldn’t let it go,” John nodded.  “Marty and I helped Sam on that case when we could, but a big lead on inSyndicate dropped right into our laps.  Sam tabled his investigation to join me on that raid.”  Haunted hazel eyes met hers.  “I should’ve told him no.”

She shook her head.  “Daddy always did what he wanted, you know that probably as well as I do,” her voice rasped as her lungs constricted.  She patted at her pockets as she pushed the words she needed to say out, “He talked about you... a… a lot, Detec...tive, he thought the w… world of you… and y… your dad.”  Her vision greyed at the edges.  

“Emily, where’s your inhaler?”  Rudy’s voice sounded muffled.  

“She left it on her desk,” John shoved away from the table, jogging to the desk and returning quickly.  “Here,” he uncapped the inhaler before he pressed it in Emily’s hand.

Emily’s hand shook as she lifted it up to dose herself.  “S-sorry,” she rasped out.  “Anx-anxiety is sky-high.”

“Do you have medication for the anxiety?”  Dorian asked, cupping her elbow to guide her to her desk.

She nodded as she sank into her desk chair.  “It doesn’t help.”  She wrapped her arms around her stomach.  “What did you find on our friend Arnold’s ownership history?”

“Three owners have been registered, but I don’t believe the last owner legally acquired him,” the DRN looked over his shoulder at John.  “I’ve sent everything I’ve uncovered so far to you but I need to look at his memory again.”

John nodded.  “I’ll call Maldonado and let her know what we’ve found so far,” he stepped back as he pulled out his phone.  “You gonna be okay?”  He turned back to Emily.

She lifted her eyes to his, surprise flooding her to find genuine concern in his hazels.  She shrugged, “I just need to keep busy.”

He frowned.  “Can you get me a list of the…” he motioned toward her computer, “... uh, product that uses the same type of synthetic skin and a list of stores that carry those things?”

“I was already working on it before you guys arrived,” she twisted her chair to face her computer.  She reached for her notebook instead, not willing to turn the monitor back on if Kennex was still standing behind her.  “I’ll get the list to you before I go home tonight.”

“Thanks.”

When he didn’t walk away she turned her head to look over his shoulder.  “Is there anything else, Detective?”

He hesitated before shaking his head.  “No…  Actually, yes.”

Her brow furrowed as she avoided meeting his eyes.  

“Sam preferred using notebooks to tablets and computers for his notes,” he propped his hands on his hips.  “Always wrote everything down before typing them up for official documentation.”

“He said by writing things by hand helped him retain information better,” she shrugged.  “And typing them up further ingrained the information into his memory.  Sure, he could record the interviews and review the audio and visual later but this way he could jot down facial expressions, make notes on body language, tone of voice, eyes, little details you can’t see clearly when reviewing any recordings of the initial interviews.”

“Huh,” John frowned thoughtfully.  “Never thought of that.”

“Daddy was old school,” she shrugged.  

“And you?”  He motioned to her notebook.

“It’s easier.”

It doesn’t irritate the scarring on my left arm.

She kept that to herself.  “I’m sure you have more important things to do than discuss the merits of archaic forms of taking notes, Detective Kennex,” she tugged at the cuff of her left sleeve when she realized she could see the faint line of an old scar.  “I need to finish compiling that list for you, anyway.”

She waited for him to walk away before she turned the computer screen on.  

“It’s Kennex,” she heard him as he paced away.  “Hey, you remember Sam’s last case?  The Community U murders?  I need everything we got on that case.  We’ve got a new lead.  That android at the bank heist this morning?  Dorian accessed some old footage from one of the murders.  I want to be lead on this one.  We’re still at Rudy’s, why?  She’s stunned but otherwise fine, she’s working on getting a list compiled for me on the android.”

“John, you need to see this,” Dorian spoke up.

“Sandra, I’ll touch base once we get back to HQ, Dorian’s got something for me.  What is it, D?”

Emily turned away from her computer and the unpleasant task of scrolling through sex toys (why the hell would anyone use toys that felt like that?) and made her way over.  She halted in her tracks when both Dorian and Rudy looked at her, shaking their heads.

“Emily, you don’t need to see this,” Dorian immediately shut down the footage he was projecting.

But not before she saw the images.

Not before she saw her own face.

“That…  That was me,” she stammered.  

“Yeah,” Rudy nodded.  “It looked like you were at Community University.”

“Dorian, pull it back up,” Emily approached the table.  

“You don’t want to see this, Ms. Williams,” Dorian shook his head, his blue eyes flicking from hers to John when the detective moved to stand beside her.

“There for several months I felt like I was being followed,” she folded her arms over her stomach.  “I’m not sure when it started but I remember a couple of my visits to the hospital, to see…”  She shot a quick glance at John before looking away, “to see you, Detective.  I mentioned it once or twice that I felt like I was being watched.”

“Do you remember when it started?”  Kennex stepped in front of her.  

She shook her head, tightening her arms around herself.  “I was in a funk for a while, with losing Daddy and trying to keep going with my education and my dreams.  There at first I thought it was my anxiety making me feel things…  It may have been happening the entire time, I don’t…  I don’t know,” she looked up with a silent apology in her eyes.  “I just didn’t really realize it until a few days before I interviewed for the internship with Rudy, didn’t say anything to anyone until I told…”

“Until you told me,” he finished for her.  “Why tell me, why tell someone in a coma?”

“I told Sandy,” she flashed an uneasy smile.  “She knew.  But without any proof, other than me getting anxious, there was nothing she could do.  The department was already stretched thin, she couldn’t spare even an MX to shadow me.  I made sure to always be vigilant about my surroundings.  I was either at school, here at the lab, or at the hospital.  I always texted Sandy to let her know where I was, and every night when I got home I made sure every window was secured and the door was locked up.”

“Emily has three locks on her door,” Rudy interjected.

“Do you have a gun?”  Kennex shot Lom an exasperated look for the unnecessary interruption.

“Daddy’s guns are locked up in a safe in the back of my closet,” she frowned.  “I don’t know how to handle a weapon.”

“You’re gonna learn.”

Her eyes widened at the do not argue with me, you’re gonna do it whether you like it or not look he leveled on her.  “I don’t like guns.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbled.  “Can’t believe Sam never taught you.”

“He was afraid it would trigger my anxiety and my asthma,” she pointed out.  “I was afraid, too.  Guns scare me.  Just the thought of actually holding one in my hands is enough to spike my anxiety.”

“Ms. Williams,” Dorian spoke up, drawing her attention from the hard hazel eyes of the detective towering over her.  “John’s right, you need to learn how to handle a gun.  I can work with you to help you overcome your anxieties regarding firearms.  With this case reopening, I’m afraid you’ll be stalked once more.  Whoever it is thinks you know something.”

She shook her head, “But I don’t know anything about it,” she turned her attention back to John.  “Daddy never told me any details about any of his cases.  When he talked to me about his day, he would tell me if it was a good one or a bad one, if he was getting anywhere or if the lead turned cold, but he never told me anything else.”

“Sam was a damned good detective,” Kennex nodded.  “He knew how far to bend the rules to get results.  But you’re his daughter, they know that.  And with you working with Rudy, working with us, that puts you in the spotlight again.  We’ll make sure you’re safe, but you need to get a gun and learn how to use it.”

“And tell us immediately if you feel like you’re being watched or followed,” Dorian added.  “John, I’ve downloaded the footage.  I would feel better if Captain Maldonado was viewing it with Ms. Williams.”

The detective nodded in agreement, his jaw ticking.  “No arguments, Emily,” he leveled that look on her again.  “How long will it take to finish your list?”

“There are too many stores in the city for me to write them all down,” she reached up to massage her temples.  “Most… the sketchiest ones are near the Wall and in the Koln Avenue District.  I’ll get it typed up and sent to you--”

“If I could see the list, I could scan and send it out,” Dorian suggested.  “You won’t need to type it up.”

“Finish up that list and head to the precinct,” John instructed her.  “And call me when you’re on your way.”

“I don’t have your number,” she pointed out.

He sighed heavily before turning toward her desk.  He pulled her notebook toward him and leaned over to write something down on a blank page.  “I should get your number, too.”

Emily joined him at the desk, carefully taking the pen he held out to her.  She wrote down her number before adding her name and gingerly tore it from the notebook.  “Don’t lose it, I don’t give my number out to just anyone.  I don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t lose it,” he promised as he took a step back.  “Let me know when you’re heading to the precinct.”

She nodded, looking up to meet his hazel eyes.  “Detective?” 

“Yeah?”  He stopped his retreat.

“Am I in danger?”  She blanched at the slight tremor in her voice, but it could not be helped.  Dorian’s refusal to let her view the footage he’d uncovered scared her.

“I don’t know,” he shook his head, his brow furrowing.  “Sweetheart, I’m not gonna lie to you.  I really don’t know if this is just old footage or if there’s more to this than we know or understand.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her hip in a defensive hug.  That one word hurt, a stinging reminder of the chilling rejection weeks before.  She closed her eyes and drew in a slow, steadying if rattly breath before exhaling.  “I… um…  I appreciate you being honest,” she cleared her throat to speak.  I’ll arrange with Dorian about learning how to handle a gun, even though I don’t want to.”

“Emily,” he stepped forward.  “I won’t let anything happen to you.  Your dad was--”

Emily held her hands up, “If that’s the only reason you’re protecting me, because of some sense of duty to my dad, don’t bother.  If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

“Emily--”

“I will call when I’ve got the list finished, Detective,” she turned her back to him and dropped into her chair before he could see the pain reflecting in her eyes.  She reached for her notebook and pen, determined to focus on the job and not dwell on the hurtful words she’d stopped him from saying.  But when her eyes dropped to the half-torn page and landed on the phone number and the words John had written down she clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from gasping out loud.

Put this in your phone and memorize it too.  If you ever feel like you’re being watched or followed, call me.  I don’t care what time it is. I’ll answer.-- John. 

Tears burned and blurred her eyes as she reread the note.  She knew that handwriting.  She was achingly familiar with it.

It perfectly matched the words imprinted on her thigh.

 Her dismissal stung.

John bit back a sigh before turning away from Emily to join Dorian and Rudy once more.  “We should head back to the precinct.  I need to talk to Maldonado and get that case file.  And we need to figure out why that thing,” he pointed at the android on the table, lowering his voice, “was surveilling Emily.”

“I am running background checks on his previous owners,” Dorian murmured.  “Perhaps there is a connection between one of them and the case Detective Williams had been working on.”

Kennex nodded.  “Look for a connection to any of the cases he’d worked, including the ones he helped me with,” he suggested.  “Rudy, keep me posted on anything else you learn about the T-1.”

“I am curious about the liquid in the hypodermic needle,” Rudy nodded toward the upgraded hand.  “Once I’ve removed the hand I will take it to the crime lab.”

“Don’t leave Emily here alone,” John’s hazel eyes narrowed.  “I don’t want her by herself.”

“I’ll wait and deliver it when she heads to the precinct later,” the scientist promised.  

“Good.  D, let’s go,” John tipped his head toward the stairs.  

His eyes landed on Emily’s back as he turned to head out.  “Let me know when you do, Rudy,” he tossed over his shoulder.  “And have McGinnis call me with the results, too, will ya?”

“Sure thing, John,” Rudy replied.  

Kennex reluctantly tore his eyes from Emily before jogging up the stairs behind Dorian.  Once they stepped outside he glanced over at the DRN.  “What else did you see, Dorian?”

“The earliest footage I’d found of Ms. Williams showed her with her father having dinner at a diner,” Dorian opened the passenger door of the car.  “I also found footage of Detective Williams with you, your old partner Martin Pelham, and Captain Maldonado.”

John braced his right hand on the roof of the car as he glared at his partner.  “On a case?”

“Yes, and at McQuade’s,” the android frowned worriedly.  “There’s also footage of you in the hospital, John.  With Ms. Williams.”

“How the hell--”

“Surveillance,” Dorian’s jaw tightened.  “They hacked the surveillance.”

“How?”

He shook his head.  “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.”

“You do that,” the detective muttered before climbing into the driver’s seat.

“The conversation you were having with Ms. Williams earlier seemed intense,” Dorian spoke up moments later.  

“She thinks I’m only interested in protecting her because her dad was a friend,” John admitted.  “She shut me out.”  He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand to the wheel, “I remember one night Sam, Marty and I were on surveillance.  Sam’s wife had called, something she never did unless it was an emergency.  Lizzie was upset with herself for pushing Emily too hard about something and she shut down, shut her out.”  He glanced over at Dorian before turning his attention back to the road.  “Sam called Captain Hennings and pulled a few strings to get someone to replace him so he could go home.  Hennings called my dad to come in.  Sam didn’t open up about that phone call until shortly after Lizzie died.  She was sick, Emily wasn’t taking it very well and when Liz wanted to talk about it, Emily shut down.  It was…  Sam said it was her default way of handling situations that upset her.  She would shut down, shut everyone out if someone pushed her into opening up.”

“Like you?”  Dorian watched his partner grimace.  “You refuse to speak at the anger management classes.”

“That’s different,” John shot him a glare.  “I’m not opening up to a damn stranger about my problems.  Yes, I said problems.  I’ve got ‘em.  No group therapy session is going to help me come to terms with any of this,” he gestured toward his leg and head.  “I shut down any attempt to get me to open up, I don’t completely shut down and shut everyone out for days on end.”

“No, you just threaten to throw them out on the freeway or you go to the shooting range to blow off steam,” Dorian shook his head.  “How can you know for sure Ms. Williams shut you out?”

“The look in her eyes,” the detective frowned.  “She was stunned, upset, scared, hurt, then nothing.  It’s like she flipped a switch on her emotions.  The blank look in her eyes told me she was shutting me out.”  He gripped the steering wheel in a white-knuckled hold.  “This case is already opening up some old wounds.  I don’t want to add to it.”  Any more than I already have, he added silently.

“Your concern for Ms. Williams seems to go deeper than her being your mentor’s daughter,” the DRN looked out the passenger window.  

John’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.  “I’m remembering bits and pieces of her visits,” he admitted.  “Her conversations.”

“Is she your soulmate?”

Kennex glanced over, meeting his partner’s eyes.  “I don’t know.  She’s familiar to me, very familiar, but I don’t remember anything more than her scent, her touch, her voice.  Her laugh.”  The pillowy press of her lips on his stubbled cheek.  Dorian did not need to know that.  He cleared his throat as he focused on the road.  

“She wrote her number down, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”

“You gonna compare her handwriting to your soulmark?”  Dorian reached up to touch the St. Christopher’s medal still dangling from the rearview mirror.

John glared at the pendant.  “No.”

He already knew Emily’s handwriting matched his soulmark.  She’d left cards for him at the hospital for his birthday and for Christmas, even one for Valentine’s Day.  Those were safely tucked away at home, along with a short note she had written and apparently discarded before Sandra had grabbed it and slipped it into his bag the day he was discharged from the hospital.  

He huffed out a breath.  “Even if she is, D, it’s not real until I remember.”

Dorian gave him an understanding smile.  “Do you want her to be?”

“She’s too good for me,” he grumbled.  

The DRN’s smile widened into a grin.  “That’s true.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with me, Dorian,” he grumbled.  

“And you didn’t answer my question,” Dorian pointed out.

“Not going to, either,” John pressed his foot down even more on the accelerator.  “Let’s just focus on the case and find out why someone’s had Emily under surveillance.  I have a feeling that damned android was planted at the crime scene and I want to know why.”

Woohoo! Time for Chapter 3! I had to make a another DJ! I felt compelled! @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK or if you like AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or if you like AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart  (Click on the name for AO3) or if you like Tumblr just clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below.

{Summary:

Jackson continues his journey, leading him into D.C. and the power of words, mixed with his abilities, and some parental love, allow him to travel back into his younger self. There he delves into a memory within a memory, but whose memory is he recalling?

Oh Jackson, never fret, when you are the son of Fox William Mulder and Dana Katherine Scully, you never walk alone.}

“A vision is not just a picture of what could be; it is an appeal to our better selves, a call to become something more.” -Rosabeth Moss Kanter

Jackson tossed the cabbie a $20 that he’d “won” on a scratch off ticket he picked up at the gas station not far from his house.

“You good, kid?” the man with thick eyebrows and questionable hygiene asked him as he slid out of the back seat.

“I’m good.”

As he shut the door and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, the man’s window opened and Jackson rolled his eyes at the preemptive attempt to dole out words of wisdom that he knew were surely heading his way.

“You’re a kid alone in the dark, and I’m dropping you off in the middle of the National Mall,” he warned, pointing at the dimly lit public square overlooking the lake as if it weren't completely clear to Jackson as to where he was headed. “Shit happens.”

Jackson leaned down and smirked. “Yeah, I got that,” he waved the driver off. “Thanks for the heads up, but they're the ones who should be afraid of me.”

The cabbie shrugged, probably figuring he’d tried if a sullen news report streamed across his T.V. in the morning about a teenage boy found dead behind some bush near Constitution Ave.

The cab’s tail lights shone in the dark as it drove off down the street. Jackson was left alone to wander and think about what the hell he was going to do next. Running was getting old, fast. Yet, running was all he knew how to do anymore.

After bouncing round from place to place, traveling and sightseeing for months now, he figured he’d stick around more familiar places for a while. And after his little run-in at the house, he decided a larger populated city would be a better area to blend in at. He was fairly certain no one of importance was searching for him after taking a bullet through the skull and had been presumed dead by everyone but his mother, yet he couldn’t be too careful if he wanted to keep what was left of his family safe. So, the busy tourist attraction around the Washington Monument seemed like the perfect place to clear his head before finding a cheap motel to crash at for the night.

The springtime weather was unusually warm for nightfall and the soft quacking of ducklings bathing in the lake in front of the monument caught his attention. He smiled and found an old bench to sit on and stretch out his long legs as he watched how the mother duck encouraged her babies to follow her into the glassy water.

As a little boy, he would run out back behind his farmhouse and sit on a log with his dad to watch the birds and geese swoop down onto the lake during migration. The sky would darken with the mass amount of them hovering and playfully cutting through the air above him. Now when the sky darkened around Jackson, it was not due to nature and its natural way of life, but an unnatural force of darkness that has managed to follow him wherever he went.

“What do I do now?” he wondered to the empty seat beside him, strumming his fingers along the back of the bench. “Alone in the dark…”

As he steadily chipped away at the fragments of the multilayered paint, Jackson noticed letters engraved deep into the weathered bench. With his curiosity peaked, he leaned down to tear away a larger chunk of blue paint and saw exactly what was written.

DKS & FWM

WERE HERE

1994

His eyes widened just before his mouth fell open. “No way! It can’t be,” he shook his head in disbelief. But there it was, etched in precise, even lines that defied all logic.

He could feel her —feel her as if she were sitting right beside him in that very moment. Even with so few letters to go on, there was no mistake to be made. His birth mother had marked her presence for her future son to unknowingly stumble across 25 years later.

“Un-fucking-believable. I guess the past really does screw with the future.”

His fingers traced along the letters, feeling each groove as if he were her sitting in this very spot so many years ago. Was she acting as a lovestruck young woman daydreaming of the man she loved? Was she poking fun at the probable 30 other initialed couple’s forever time stamped into the bench’s frame? Could she have been contemplating her future, her whole life as she scratched each line with purpose?

So many never-ending questions with never enough answers. He did carry one way to find resolution to some of his larger ones that have remained unanswered for far too long.

Jackson reached into his pocket and opened up the letter once again. He inhaled deeply and picked up where he had left off.

And if I falter or fail on this day, know there is an answer my child. A sacred imperishable truth but one you my never hope to find alone.

The last words barely registering in his head when his mind started up like a projector, snapping his head back with the force of the memory.

December 10, 2008

It was a cold day and his mom had him all bundled up in a puffy blue and white jacket. He could hardly move, restricted by the coat and his sweater that hugged him. It chaffed at his pale sensitive skin underneath.

This hospital felt more like a church with pictures of saints covering the walls, crosses with the carved out figure of Jesus bleeding from his hands and feet hanging ominously.

The hallways to the children’s section had windows with tiny squares, reminding him of a jail cell from a show on T.V.. The nun brought them down another hallway with big blue bears and bright yellow giraffes painted on the walls, stuffed animals and toys inside the rooms on shelves and beds. All of it couldn’t hide the cold hospital walls, hard industrial floors, or the thick flat wood of hospital railings holding the stench of sickness and antiseptic.

It all made his stomach turn and chest feel tight with worry. The sound of machines beeping played in the background as his anxiety grew.

Another room now.

This one was baby blue in color with animal prints dressing the windows and children’s drawings mounted for all to see. It was meant to be friendly, but it only had the hair at the back of his neck standing on end. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. No more tests.

Everyone passed with purpose; expressions dark with evil, lingering stares for such a holy place. Jackson made up his mind. There was no way he’d ever return to this place again.

They turned the corner quickly and he swung himself wide, stretching out his arm, tugging at his mother’s hand and was suddenly hit by a moving object in a white coat.

Stumbling back, his gaze scanned up towards the woman in front of him. Her face was blurred by a file, but her feelings of defeat, of a battle lost, of helplessness, of the world closing in was in full high-definition. Her kind blue eyes framed by vivid tendrils of hair never quite met his, but they were the softest blue he had ever seen. Like water in the pool at his friend Mikey’s house, floating peacefully in chaos.

“Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry,” she murmured, reflexively placing a soft hand to the top of his head and leaving a spattering of goose flesh along his skin.

He heard the stress in her voice, saw the tightness in her neck, her hair reminding him of a blood moon casting it’s red shadow among the wheat grass swaying in the fields by his house. She was beautiful.

“Mother,” the word rising unbidden from his throat in a mere hoarse whisper for no perceptible reason. His eyes followed her as she swiftly rounded the corner to disappear from which they just came.

“You’re not hurt are you, Jackson?” his mom asked as she leaned down to give him a once over.

“No, Mom. I’m fine,” he mumbled back sharply as they continued down the corridor.

The nun conducting their tour had his father’s ear, relaying information in cautious tones “...once he begins to show promise in his progression he will visit Dr. Goldman for additional testing...”

That last word, “testing,” burrowed into his ear and burned at his throat as if he had swallowed shards of glass, lighting his stomach on fire.

The word hit him so hard that it pushed him back into the present. His brain rattled fiercely inside his skull. The heel of his palm massaged his brow at the ache firing in his brain until his anxiety settled.

It wasn’t going to stop him this time. He would push the physical and emotional pain away to continue on. Determined, he read the next line:

Chance meeting your perfect other, your perfect opposite, your protector and endangerer.

“Ah!” His small index finger screamed in pain. Something sharp was in his coat pocket, stabbing at it, pricking the skin. He dug it out in the privacy of his bedroom. It was one of those guardian angel pins like the one his mom used to wear and place inside Christmas cards when she sent them to people that were special to her. It must have slipped into his pocket from the woman who had bumped into him in the hallway earlier. Mother . Jackson recognized the birthstone as his own. The angel pin flipped around his naive tiny fingers and he realized he was, once again, trapped inside another flashback. Back into the abyss he plunged, opening into the eyes of another .

A ceiling came into view. A foreign bed, the softest of pillows, and a warm comforter surrounded him as a strong consoling arm wrapped around his waist. Deep, complex resonating emotions filled him—pain of loss, regret, and a heavy emptiness that hovered over him so thickly that it nearly suffocated.

“Do you think God is losing any sleep?”

His perspective shifted and a man’s face came into view. He had a beard worn almost as a mask, drawing attention away from the honest truth he held in his eyes.

Harrowing truths he carried on the cross he bore for ‘her’ and for… a sister. His eyes reminding him of the first of spring, when the grass just started to grow, but the death of winter remained underneath.  

“Why bring a kid into the world just to make him suffer? I don’t know, Mulder, I’ve got such a connection to this boy,” Jackson said in a tender voice that was not his own.

“How old is he?” the man asked and his eyes softened further, concern flooding through his vocal cords.  

“You think it’s because of William?” she wondered as if she were afraid of his answer.

“I don’t know... I… I think our son left us both with an emptiness that can’t be filled.” As he spoke his eyes revealed an intricate mosaic of an endless devotion—caring and love built up inside a never ending staircase like the one in the MC Escher art book that had caught his eye in the library.

“Just go to sleep,” the man said and tightened his comforting embrace. His lips rested at her temple for reassurance. “Let me curse God for a while.”

Unfamiliar long lashes fluttered shut and a sharp pain sang through the center of his brain.

The vision rapidly zoomed out, blurred and tunneled, focusing in on the toy box in his old room and the angel pin in his hand. He heard his parents talking in hushed tones just outside his bedroom door. He was there for a brief moment, only for him to be forcefully sucked out again.

His consciousness jolted back from his own eight year old body and violently threw him forward into the present.

His birth mother's angel pin vanished, the letter now in its place, clutched firmly within his shaking hand. He had just watched a moment in time through Dana Scully’s eyes, and that man was Fox Mulder.

“Oh. My. God.”

One Equal Temper | chapter four [V/Reader]

As hell itself wreaks havoc upon your city, an angel lands on your doorstep—one who doesn’t seem to realize he has wings.

Author’s Notes: Follow the blog @one-equal-temper.

Notes: Content warning for suicidal thoughts.

Even in high concentrations, Qliphoth pollen was hard to see with the naked eye, but V could still sense the thick of it in the air. It was heaviest wherever civilians had grouped up but hadn’t made it out alive, such as traffic-jammed roads and community buildings used as safehouses. Where there were corpses, there was pollen.

Where there was pollen, there were demons.

V traversed the shattered streets of Red Grave while Griffon scouted overhead for more enemies to hunt down. In the near distance, a shred of lush green and stark white interrupted the dreary landscape of dust and haze. It sat on a small balcony several floors up an intact apartment building, the plant’s colours standing out from its dull surroundings as bright as Christmas lights in the dark.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the first attack. Without proper maintenance, something as insignificant as a personal planter should have withered away days ago.

Someone must have been taking care of it.

V pointed at the balcony with the tip of his cane. “There.”

“You got it,” Griffon said, and he was away.

V waited for his familiar to return, offering an arm for him to land on once he did so.

“Well, it’s a human.” Griffon perched and shook out his feathers. “Ain’t gonna last much longer, though.”

“Injured?”

“Nah, but humans ain’t supposed to be around Qliphoth pollen for this long. Whoever’s up there reeks of it. Fully infected with the stuff. Might have another few weeks—a month, tops. That’s if the demons don’t get to ’em first.”

V made a thoughtful noise. Though this was the first instance of Qliphoth poisoning they discovered so far, the nature of the situation didn’t come as a surprise. Civilian evacuation may have once been a priority, but two weeks into the disaster, most people they found were either dead or close enough to it.

“Let’s get goin’, V,” Griffon said, shrugging his head. “We shouldn’t bother with this one. Ain’t nothin’ we can do.”

Logically, V knew Griffon was right—they were halfway to their deadline, and they needed to optimize their time wherever they could. However, V couldn’t ignore his curiosity about the stranger in the apartment. They were someone who managed to survive this long on their own. Someone who didn’t know they were terminally contaminated by the very resources keeping them alive.

Someone who took care of flowers in their spare time.

Letting go of Griffon, V retrieved his book, as he often did in times of indecision. The words of William Blake held no prophecy for him, but it was a far more elegant solution than a coin flip.

“A flower was offered to me; such a flower as May never bore. But I said I’ve a Pretty Rose-tree; and I passed the sweet flower over.”

Griffon flew in place. “So...we move on?”

“On the contrary,” V smirked, shutting his book. “This means it is within our best interests to have a closer look.”

-

A few minutes ago, you had woken by V’s bedside with your hand in his, and your hair full of bloody, bent feathers Griffon crowned you with while you were asleep.

Now you felt like you were piloting a body that didn’t belong to you.

The two of you were standing on your balcony, watching the rising sun slip between spaces granted by the half-demolished buildings across the landscape. Dark clouds hovered ominously in the distance. Under the weight of V’s words, you went from gazing at the sky to glancing down over the railing in front of you, thinking that if you jumped from this height, you would only be saving yourself some time.

The headaches, you realized. The constant waves of pain that ebbed and flowed but never disappeared, were just forecasted echos of your own death rattle.

Bile rose in the back of your throat. Your vision drifted from the dizzying heights to the planter by your feet. The flowers there were tall and strong and so very much unlike you.

“I am sorry I did not tell you sooner,” V said.

A smile ghosted across your face. “Not really something you can bring up in casual conversation, is it?”

“I am not one to shy away from death. I have seen much of it during my time here, helping others escape the city.” Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I feel guilty for never having extended you the offer.”

“You didn’t help me escape because I was sick?”

“I do not know the nature of your condition. If there was the slightest chance it could result in further pollination of the Qliphoth, I could not risk having you leave city bounds.”

Understandable, you thought. When you first met him, he mentioned the disaster was contained to Red Grave—jeopardizing that just to buy some time for a then-stranger made no sense. You were a ticking time bomb, poisoned by the air you breathed and the water you were once thankful to still have running through your building. Be it death by demon or by hell-plant, you realized there was nothing you could have done to survive this ordeal. Your fate was sealed the moment you woke up in the recovery ward.

You fidgeted with the hospital band still around your wrist. “I think I knew.”

The words escaped you without thought. You felt the green depths of his eyes on you, and you really, really wished you couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” you muttered, “but I think I just...deep down, I knew something was wrong. That’s why I told you I wasn’t interested in leaving the city. Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to.”

The thought filled you with a graceful sense of finality that eased your dissociation, and the electricity of your anxiety settled to a crackle within your bones. The trembling world around you still didn’t feel like your own, but at least it was starting to jitter back into place.

You folded your arms on top of your balcony railing. “You know, sometimes I think I died back in that car crash and woke up in limbo, and you’re some psychopomp sent here to take me home.”

V rested both hands on the grip of his cane. “His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire; a girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire. He spreads his canvas, with his pole he steers; the freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears. He looked in years; yet in his years were seen; a youthful vigor and autumnal green.”

Amused, you cast him a sidelong glance. “A little pompous to make up poems about yourself, don’t you think?”

“It was written by a Roman poet named Virgil,” he smirked back, “about the ferryman of Hades.”

“If I give you a quarter, will you let me pass?”

“You are not dead, starlight.”

“Not yet.”

You continued looking out across the distance: the morning sun, the broken buildings, the grey clouds approaching on the wind. There was sure to be a storm tonight, and only one question left on your mind.

“...why did you knock on my door?”

You didn’t need to explain yourself further.

After Griffon’s first visit, V knew that you were alone and irreversibly poisoned by the demon tree. At that moment, he could have walked away without a word, knowing your infection would die in isolation with you, and you would have been none the wiser of his existence.

But V hadn’t done that.

Instead, he chose to visit you, finding your building’s front entrance completely barricaded with anything on the first floor you had strength enough to move. He chose to climb six flights of fire escape stairs up the side of your complex—he chose to knock on your door, to introduce himself, to accept your half-crazed invitation for tea.

Why?

It was your turn to keep your eyes on him now, and to your surprise, he would not look at you. He seemed reluctant to respond, but yours was the first truly personal question you asked of him in the days you had known each other. You would not back down without an answer. He owed you that, and he knew as much.

“I felt a kinship with you,” he settled on.

“You had no idea who I was.”

“Perhaps not at first.” More hesitance graced his features, drawing his brows together and wrinkling the corner of his nose. He gripped the railing before him tightly, as if he were bracing himself to speak. “As I have told you, I was placed within this realm to serve a purpose. What you do not know, however, is that if I am successful on my quest, I will...cease to exist.”

Your thoughts glazed over as you felt your stomach drop.

“When I learned of you, I saw myself,” he continued. “Frightened. Alone. Not long for this world. I believed helping you would assist in the navigation of my own shadows. Alas, I did not expect to find an evening star within the darkness.” With a somber smile, he turned to look at you. “My reasons for finding you were less than altruistic, I admit. In my selfishness, I withheld something important from you—something that was a matter of life and death. I understand if you are unwilling to forgive me for that.”

For the first time since the conversation started, you met each other’s eyes.

For the first time since you met, you understood that you and he were the same.

“Do you know why I came back for the flowers?” you asked.

He tilted his head ever-so-slightly in curious attention, his dark bangs brushing along the side of his face.

“Even before all this went down, I...didn’t really have anyone. I was alone. Being alone got hard, sometimes. So I, um.” You started fiddling with your wristband, again. “I bought some seeds. I learned how to plant them. How to take care of what grew. It probably sounds stupid, but...it was nice, you know? Having something that counted on me. When things got really bad, I would just think, ‘I can’t kill myself now. Who would take care of my flowers?’ And after everything that’s happened...I didn’t want to give up on the one thing that needed me. If they somehow managed to survive, I couldn’t leave them to die alone.”

Your throat suddenly felt tight. You turned away from him, lowering your head and pressing your palms into the corners of the balcony railing. Everything within you felt like it was welling up at once, but you willed yourself not to cry. Not here. Not now.

“You could’ve left me, back then.” You tried to keep your voice from wavering. “You could’ve left me to die alone, but you didn’t. You don’t have to be alone, either. I can be here until the end of us, if you’ll let me.”

You felt a hand rest on top of yours.

“The privilege is mine,” he said.

Somehow, the weight of his hand felt heavier than before.

Letting your eyes slip shut, you took a deep, shuddering breath, focusing on nothing more than keeping yourself from breaking down. You wanted to turn around and reach out and hold him—he would be a much better anchor than the railing, you were sure of it—but the headache still flashing lightning behind your eyes was blinding, an unholy mixture of demonic migraines and unprocessed grief.

“Can I have some time alone?” you asked. “Not long, I just. I need to think.”

“...I do not think it wise to leave you to your own devices at the moment.”

“I’ve made it this far, you really think I’m gonna throw it all away by killing myself? How boring of an ending would that be?”

You meant for the joke to lighten the mood, but the way he was looking at you now made your heart sink. The concern in his eyes was uncompromising.

“I can’t kill myself now,” you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Who would take care of you?”

He smirked. “Who, indeed?”

V released your hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, and the sweetness of his touch was almost enough to dull the pain.

-

It took some convincing to assure V you weren’t a danger to yourself, but he eventually agreed to give you space that afternoon—on one, non-negotiable condition.

The idea of being babysat by a demon didn’t sit right with you, but you appreciated the concern.

With Shadow never more than a few paces behind you, you tried to go on with the rest of your day, rumination over the morning’s events serving as background noise to the idle buzzing of your headache. You changed out of your soiled clothes. You took a shower to rid yourself of last night’s blood stains. The water was ice-cold like always, as you had no electricity to warm it, but you sat on the shower floor and stayed under the stream until you were as numb as the thoughts bouncing around your throbbing skull made you feel.

You were going to die.

You were going to die and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

The revelation didn’t affect you the way you thought it would. You felt like you should have been sadder, angrier, more indignant about the whole situation—but the truth was you came into this mess pre-saddled with learned helplessness. In the weeks before V arrived, you thought the chances of being rescued were slim to none, and you held no illusion about being able to survive indefinitely without demons closing in on your position. For you, dying wasn’t so much a matter of if as a matter of how.

Now you knew.

The rest of your day was spent curled up in bed, your head buried beneath your pillows as Shadow kept a watchful eye on you from her guard at your bedroom door. Rain had arrived with the evening and it made you feel as unsafe as it always did since the attack. Being unable to see or hear anything beyond the storm sent your mind reeling, imagining what manner of hellish creatures could be closing in on you without your knowledge. Every clap of thunder seemed to rattle the hive inside your head, and you wondered how long the infection would take to eat away at you. You wondered if you would lose your memory.

You wondered if it would hurt when you died.

This is how V must have felt, too, you realized—knowing the end was coming, like a stormcloud on the horizon, keeping you resigned to the inevitability of its arrival. Still, where you were once terrified, trying to survive behind barricades and stolen rations, it was almost freeing to know nothing you did mattered, anymore.

Shadow gave a quiet growl at your door. You poked your head out from beneath the covers. She looked at you, took a few steps from the doorway, then glanced over her shoulder to look at you again.

She wanted you to follow her.

There was no urgency to her steps as you took the familiar path through the dark hallways to the fire escape. The window was open when you arrived, letting rain pool on the floor. You recognized the figure standing outside long before he came into view.

V leaned against the window frame under no cover from the rain, fully soaked from head to toe. His skin and leathers alike were slick with water, and his wet hair stuck to the sides of his face, the black strands appearing a deep blue beneath the moonlight.

He reached a hand through the open window. “You told me you missed the rain.”

Your knee-jerk thoughts kicked into overdrive—this was absurd, you’d get drenched, you’d catch a cold if you went out in this weather—but you noticed the carefree glint in his eyes and you were reminded of the briefness of your shared timeline.

(Nothing you did mattered, anymore.)

Charon offered you his left hand, and you accepted it, with vigor.

“Hold tight,” he said.

Your first mistake was assuming you would take the stairs.

With your still hand in his, V leapt over the fire escape railing. An embarrassing shriek tore from your throat as your guts gave a sickening dip during the six-story drop. Shadow morphed into a cloud of black smoke and shot out beneath you, faster than anything, her form a dense fog beneath your feet that guided your fall and allowed you all a soft landing. You landed with far less elegance than V did, but his hand within yours kept you steady on your feet.

“Jesus christ,” you chuckled nervously, near trembling from head to toe. “Warn me before dragging me off a fucking building next time, will you?”

“Now, where’s the fun in that?”

In a billow of dark vapour, Shadow returned to her sigils tattooed across V’s skin.

The streets around your building were still a destroyed mess, with large sections of pavement a rough puzzle of split pieces beneath your feet. The pouring rain was cold against your skin, but still warmer than your earlier shower; it didn’t take long for you to get completely drenched as you walked alongside V.

V ran a hand through his sodden hair, flipping it back and out of his face, and the sight of him had you hypnotized. His eyes drifted to meet your stare before sliding down to take in the sight of you—and you were suddenly very aware of how your soaked top was clinging against your skin.

“The rain suits you, starlight.”

“That makes two of us.”

A sly smile, and he turned away from you, again.

V kept several paces ahead of you as you continued your leisurely stroll. He began twirling his silver staff in his hand and placing one foot directly in front of the other, heel to toe, as if he were walking the length of an invisible string. There was a sudden bounce in his step you weren’t sure what to make of, at least not until he started strutting along low walls and uneven chunks of debris with perfect balance. Spinning his cane between his fingers with practiced ease, he performed choreographed steps to some silent rhythm playing in his head, moving confidently beneath the rain as if he were the star of a showtune.

You couldn’t believe your eyes.

He doubled back to quite literally dance circles around you. You couldn’t hold back your laughter, and the sound was music to his ears.

You applauded. “All you need is a top hat and you’ll be ready for Broadway.”

“Indeed.” Coming to a stop in front of you, he gave a gentle bow as he offered you his hand. “Care to join me?”

Once again, your immediate thoughts were of embarrassment, rejection, impracticality—but once again, you thought better of it, and you took his hand without objection.

V guided your arm, holding your hand up and a little off to the side of you. The hand that held his cane rested closed-fist against your waist; you could feel the length of steel along your back, and it kept your posture straight.

“I’ve never really done this before,” you mumbled.

“Not to worry,” he replied, guiding you closer to him. “Just follow my lead.”

(Didn’t you always?)

Without warning, V started to move.

Step, one, two. Step, one, two.

The moves weren’t complicated—he took you on a slow, informal sort of waltz, his swaying steps back and forth simple and easy to follow. Though you somehow managed to keep both your left feet from stepping on his, there was an effortless fluidity to his movements that made you feel clunky and square-wheeled in his arms.

“Shouldn’t there be music?” you teased, trying to hide your self-consciousness.

“Ah, I knew I was forgetting something. Let’s see, now...”

And he began to hum the first few notes of Singin’ In The Rain.

You could not stop yourself from shying away, from pressing your forehead to the crook of his neck to hide your smile against him, for the way he looked at you as he hummed the melody was enough to set your cheeks on fire. Not one to be deterred, he rested his chin on top your head and continued the song in its entirety, syncing your gentle, swaying motions to the tune. You could feel the resonance of his voice vibrating beneath his chest.

He sounded happy, or something like it.

In a moment of bravery, you stepped back and raised your held hands as far as they could go. Laughing, V took your cue and twirled—at his height, you had to tiptoe and he had to bend down for him to make it all the way under your arm.

The sound of his laughter, the sight of a smile that actually reached his eyes—knowing you were responsible for both made your pulse thunder more than normal within your head.

You rested a hand against his cheek and he leaned into your touch as he did the previous night, affectionate and undeniably cat-like.

“...can I kiss you?”

The words fell from your mouth, rushed and uncertain, emptying all the air from your lungs. The confidence in his eyes flickered and filled with questioning—that same innocent curiosity from your very first meeting, as if he were surprised to be seen this way.

As if he’d never done this, before.

“Please,” came his whisper, gentle and sure.

So you tiptoed.

Soft was the first word that came to mind—from the careful press of his lips to yours, to the feeling of his rain-soaked skin beneath your fingertips, to the way he eased so completely beneath your touch. It surprised you, how someone who seemed all sharp angles and rough edges could feel so delicate in your hands.

He hadn’t realized his eyes were shut until he opened them. He was not sure if he forgot to breathe, or if you simply took his breath away. Multitudes of experiences lingered within his memories, but few had been realized by this vessel; this felt far more powerful to him than any single memory he came equipped with, for this was a moment he made entirely for himself.

He may not have been his own, but you, you were—his and his alone.

Holding his face in your hands, you laughed softly with a happiness you hadn’t known yourself capable of, the sudden tears spilling down your cheeks indistinguishable from the rain.

However much time you had left together, you swore you would make the most of it.

Forever home Pt. 7 G/t fluff, pet tiny.

   A resounding crash shocked Richter awake. This was the third over two days, causing Richter a bit of anxiety. Bear would just fall over from time to time, without moving. After a bit, he'd get up shake it off, but remain shaky for the rest of the day. It had Richter worried. Clearly feinting was by far abnormal. And Bear had only just started his medication.    If this was the side effect now... What would it be in the long term? What happens if Bear... No. Richter shook those thoughts away. Waiting in silent worry for Bear to return. In a few moments, the giant arrived. Steadying himself on counters, tables, any thing he could hold. Soon enough he reached for an orb from the table. Speaking to it this time.    It was a long conversation, between he, and some other giant through the orb. Bear made a list, sent a memory orb, then another after reading the bottle for his medication. Soon enough Richter could hear his masters voice raise slightly. "Wha- It can't be that bad. Can it? ......Side effects you say... Well. Alright. I'll see if I can find a house sitter then."    In a moment of frustration, the giant pounded his fist on the table, standing slowly. "Richter... I'm sorry bud, but breakfast will be a little late. I have to do something very important."    As the giant moved in a painfully slow pace, he made his way to another orb. Sending it away. Soon enough a somber knock came to the door. "Come in." Bear raised his head smiling softly. The door opened slowly Archibald hesitantly stepping through. A large bag held over his shoulder. Some sort of crest sitting on the middle of it.    Richter leaned back and forth looking around the two of them to see what was happening. Archibald gave him a brief glance, a sheepish smile flicking over his features. Instantly turning to Bears side the two seamed to bounce back and forth a while.    "Thanks for this, I know you're busy." William looked much different to Archibald, tired, weak, far more frail than he'd ever seen the man. It had only been a few days since his last visit, but things looked like they took a bad turn.    "No worries. I'm just glad you actually took your health into your own hands for once." Archibald set his bag down, giving it a judging glance. He just KNEW he was missing something. Probably something small. It wouldn't matter however, he could run back and fetch it at any time.    William gave him a sort of, sarcastic smirk. "Well, it's not just my life anymore. I have someone counting on me now." He gestured to the enclosure. Turning to pack his own bag of tricks for his time in the hospital. Not noticing the tiny wince from Archibald. "Don't spoil him absolutely rotten while I'm gone. You can find his feeding chart in the journal by his enclosure. He gets one, maybe two treats once in a while. No people food."    Archibald folded his arms in a defiant stance, glancing back at Richter a moment before looking in the direction Bear was headed last. "You know I can't cook, right?"    "There's pre-made foods in the freezer, just heat them up. I planned for this sort of thing." Was his reply, only, from a much different direction. Soon enough the bearded menace arrived with a small pack. Not many items were in it, a few changes of underwear, toothbrush. And woolen socks. Same as the last few trips to the hospital most likely.    There was a clear discomfort in Williams eyes a moment. Just pleading for Archibald to comfort him. The earth giant heaved a sigh. "Hey, it's alright. It'll most likely be overnight. And HEY! I'm not dragging you this time."    The weak smile he'd received only made Archibald more tense. "Will, it's really going to be okay. When you get back, we'll be waiting for you. And you'll feel better for having done this." He gave the man a reassuring pat on the shoulder, only to find himself wrapped up in a tight grip around his middle. Suspended a little off the ground.    Soon enough Archibald was returned to his feet, feverishly readjusting his glasses over and over whilst trying to ignore the flush to his cheeks. And in one moment, all that recombobulating was ruined once more. As a large mitt of a hand rattled his head from side to side, normally neat, well groomed hair now frazzled in every direction.    With that, William leaned on Richters enclosure, bidding the little fellow goodbye for now and listing care instructions. Not long after he left. Leaving Archibald to hug his shoulders with a tiny sigh. "You always had someone counting on you...." He turned his gaze on Richter, who seamed uncomfortable at best. Outright fearful in reality.    What had just happened? Bear just... left them. Left Richter alone with this strange giant, and left the giant alone in his home. A giant who, from Richters point of view, was still new and needed much more time to get handling rights. His attention was pulled to the titans voice however.    "So... Will said not to spoil you absolutely rotten. But he and I have different views on absolutes. So~ Where does he keep your cookies eh?"It was strange to see someone other than Bear wander around the home, opening cupboards until he gave up. "No treats? Richter, my heart bleeds for you. But no worries."    The stranger returned to his bag and pulled something from it, a box. On it was a painted design of a human like himself, full scale but cartoony. The drawing made the person look as though they were enjoying one of the advertised treats inside. Richter only shuttered a moment before heaving a sigh.    Opting to talk to himself, Richter sat down on his sofa. Having moved to the living room while waiting for his breakfast. "No choice but to put up with it... I guess."    He jolted back a bit when the access hatch clicked open. Something that hadn't happened since last bath day. Flattening himself against the furniture, the human looked for a way out. Any way to avoid being grabbed. As Archibalds hand made it's way into the room, Richter vaulted over the back of the sofa and attempted to hide there.    A soft laugh quaked over the enclosure, followed by a hushed tone. "Hey, it's alright. Just look. Look at what I'm holding." Given the lack of moving sofas and aggravated noises that usually followed a catching, Richter peeked his head over the love seat. Sure enough, Archibalds hand rested nearby, but open, flat. With what looked to be either a very small cake, or an over sized biscuit resting just at the tips of his fingers.    Slowly, Richter crept from his hiding place. Hunger overtaking fear. He'd taken rewards from Bear before. But never quite in this way. Normally it would be pinched between the mans fingers, and was rarely anything more than the small cakes he'd made. This was new, in all too many ways.    Carefully he placed a hand over the treat, then pulled back in case Archibald was baiting a trap. After no such attempt to grab was made, Richter lifted the new thing off of Archibalds hand. Backing away slowly and making his way to the sofa again. "There now, see? No harm done. Just a cookie."    Examining the strange new food, Richter broke off a small piece, sniffing it before taking a tiny bite. It was by no means amazing, but it was better than the foods from the shelter. And so, he dove in. Nibbling at each bite. Richter could hear Archibald kick up into a soft breathy laugh. The kind reserved for small animals that were not to be disturbed.    After he polished off what was left of the small treat, Richter found himself leaning back casually in his sofa. Placing a hand on his stomach and enjoying the tidbit for breakfast. It had been a while since he'd last gone hungry. And the idea of it was jarring to say the least.    That said, Richter was starting to worry about Bear. He'd only just started to actually trust the guy, and now the big fuzzball just left. Judging by the set of bags both Bear and Archibald had... It would be a while before he saw Bear again. The idea made his heart sink.    Despite the treats, Richter only seamed sad now. Archibald heaved a sigh, pulling the feeding tray out and finding Richters actual breakfast. Warming up the first thing he could find, Archibald spooned a few dabs of hot pudding onto the tray and scooted it back in place. "Don't worry pal. He'll be back soon. You'll hardly notice he's gone."    Richter seamed to acknowledge his words, but give them little care. Standing slowly, the tiny creature made his way to his breakfast and dug in at long last. The amount of gusto the little fellow gave was surprising to say the least. But sort of uplifting. As Archibald leaned on the wall of the shelter he began to settle in.    There was always that feeling of discomfort when he house sat for anyone. Staying in a strange bed, trying not to make a mess while simultaneously trying to make himself comfortable. He gave a slow groan. staring at his wrists a moment in some form of distraction.    Several scars dotting them in a circular pattern. He heard the faintest of noises from the enclosure and blinked down towards Richter. The little fellow seamed to scramble out and Right up to Archibalds hands. Giving him a little surprise.    When the tiny being reached out to place a hand on his scars, Archibald chuckled slightly. "You're smarter than you're given credit for. It's fine. These happened a long time ago." He pulled his hands back, out of Richters reach. There was no reason to hide them really and no reason to lie about, or deny their origin.    "You probably don't understand me. But that's okay. These happened during the war. Magic sealing cuffs. It was the elves best way to keep someone like me contained." He explained. Though he was sure his words were falling on deaf ears, Archibald learned that recalling the situation made it easier on him.    He rolled up his sleeve to show off smooth and polished stone resting like great guards on his shoulders. "They wanted this. I guess you don't know, but the stones that grow on earth giants can be used to make a magically conductive powder. Forge it into a blade and enchant it, you have a magic sword that never runs out." He gave a sigh.    "Anyways. It can only be harvested from my kind of giant. So they attempted to keep us alive to mine us. I still can't stand the feeling of them being chipped at. They keep growing though. So I have to deal with it." He smirked, reaching down to try and pet the little being. Only to find him shying away when his fingers came close to Richters head.    "Don't like having your head touched eh?" He lay his hand nearby and attempted to scratch at Richters back. Only to be rejected again. Apparently he wasn't familiar enough. This made the man sigh, How could this frightened little thing win Will over so fast when he'd been working at it all his life?    Looking around the room Archibalds gaze landed on a picture near the back wall, just entering the living room. "No way! How'd I not notice that?" He gingerly approached the photo, picking it up off the wall and staring at it for a while. Just keeping his eyes on the figures in the photo for a while. Entranced by the fact that it even existed in Williams home.    "ey...hey HEY!" Archibald snapped out of it, turning back to see Richter waving his hands and jumping at the far end of the enclosure. Snickering, he approached the little fellow with the photo in hand and held it down for Richter to see. The tiny man instantly gravitated to it.    The figures in the photograph were as big as him. Making Richter sort of laugh a bit. It looked like a typical group photo, several men clustered together in a friendly way. One thing Richter found off was the matching uniforms, and strange harnesses some of the men wore. Basically like shoulder straps with some sort of bubbles running over each one.    He could recognize Archibald in it but almost missed Bear if it weren't for the arm thrown over Archibalds shoulder. The beard was gone, leaving room for a broad, open face. One thing that drew his eye was a ring on Bears left hand. What looked like a wedding band.    He pointed at it, looking up at Archibald for feedback. The giant paused, looked at the picture and groaned when he saw what Richter was pointing at. "Ugh. I hated that bitch. Pushed him so hard to fight in a war he wanted no part in... Then left him when he came back damaged."    Without warning, Richter was scooped in a loose grip, causing him to flail and shout a moment before he was placed on the table. Archibald brought another memory orb forward, keeping his hand on it. From it's surface, images of a young woman began to play up in soft light. Drawing Richter into it.    "She was a user. She'd find a kindly gentleman, push herself on him, then sponge off his lively hood. The moment he rose up, or raised issue, she'd break the relationship." The woman in the image flicked over several men, landing on Bear. Memories of the woman from Archibald showing up in front of Richters face.    "Both William and I came back scarred from the war, but he showed it more than I ever will. Beloria took one look at his dark, worn... kind face and left him. Just left him. And she's the one who sent a pacifist to war in the first place." Richter could tell something was wrong with Archibald, seeing a few small tears forming in his eyes.    "She just used him. And when she was done, she tried to move in on me... And I threw her out on her ass." The giant looked proud of himself, yet, a little disappointed at the same time. Richter tilted his head, reaching out and patting the giants Ring finger. He payed attention to the orb once more.    Seeing the woman standing in the rain, suitcases in hand. She was saying something, but Richter couldn't make it out. He did, however, see a small red light, a glowing ruin in what looked to be Archibalds door frame. The woman tried to force her way in, only to be pushed back. Archibald pointed to the ruin, then the door slammed.    The image cut out after Archibald raised his hand off the orb groaning. Said hand ducked into the treat box again and offered another biscuit out to Richter. Hesitantly, he took it with a small thank you and nibbled away. Taking another look at the photo, Richter started to put things together. The uniforms, Bears actions, the medication, it all brought him to the same conclusion.    "So, you're both war vets..." Richter brushed the remaining crumbs from his little snack aside and stared Archibald in the eye a moment. "So, what does that make me?"    With that, Archibald smirked. A large shape moved behind Richter, catching his attention briefly before he just leaned back. Allowing the gentile petting this time. One difference Richter noticed was how slim and soft Archibalds hands were in comparison to Bears. As though he tried to keep them more delicate than the other mans. In fact, everything about Archibald just looked groomed.    The observation was only re-confirmed when Richter was once again scooped. Giving a meek, halfhearted flail, the man settled into the hollow of Archibalds palm. Watching lazily as the world passed by on the way to his enclosure. Sliding carefully to the grass, Richter found himself left to relax. Though Archibald checked in on him every hour, bringing another biscuit each time. And spoke to him the whole day. He hadn't been handled too much.    The day more or less continued like that. Asside from perhaps eating more than Richter normally had. The only point that stood out was lunch. The man found himself outright staring at Archibald as the giant just casually pulled what looked to be several boulders from a compartment in his bag.    He'd done some complex things to each stone. Like grinding them, or cutting them with a specialized knife. He placed them in a skillet also from his pack, and added sauces of sorts, and seasonings of odd origin. Finalizing things by scorching them on the first burner of the stove.    Shortly after the odd actions, Richter found himself in awe as the titan began wolfing back the strange mixture. As though it were just... the norm. Blinking in confusion, the human stepped forward to examine things a little better. Skittering back when he'd been noticed. The feeding tray was filled and Richter had to test it to make sure he wasn't eating pebbles. Giving the food a judging look, and poking it cautiously.    "Pfft. What's with the expression? Not hungry?" Archibald returned to his plate of stones with a snicker.    The day wore down at last and as far as Richter knew, Archibald had slept on the couch. And took a long time to do so. Basically causing the human to flop about several times over on his bed groaning. Archibald apparently had no concept of sleep schedules. Or at least, no consideration for Richters own. Or no knowledge of it. And even when the lights went out, Richter was severely lacking in sleep.    His first clue that something was off was when he'd heard Archibald talking in his sleep. Things he knew to be the giants word for 'no' and 'stop'. It ended in the kitchen light flicking back to life. The giant leaned over the sink, desperately running water over his face. Said giant took a few more moments, collecting himself with shaky breaths.    Archibald was talking to himself, clearly trying to calm down. Richter assumed he'd had a night mare, probably similar to Bears. The part he'd found odd was that Archibald had been for the most part, ignoring him. For the first time that whole day, he'd been ignored fully while Archibad was in the kitchen.    Groaning, the human pushed himself up from the mass of pillows and blankets he'd made into a nest for himself. Wriggling from their warmth and out of the room. Staggering down the stairs and out the door. If Richter was going to sleep, he needed Archibald to calm down first.    Standing in the grass and glaring over the wall lining his enclosure, Richter took a deep breath in. "HEY YOU!" He began jumping up and down, making as much noise as he could. When Archibald finally noticed him, Richter stood still. completely still. Archibald extended a curious hand to the human.    Without much thinking, Richter dragged the hand to himself via Archibalds middle finger. Standing in the squishy spot between the fingers and the palm of the hand. Though Richter would never tell another human this, that was his favorite spot in any hand. He kept old of one finger, hugging it as best he could, and effectively trapping Archibalds hand in his enclosure.    "You get it back when you feel better." The smaller man smirked.    Archibald just stood there, baffled. Without his glasses, Richter was a mere blur. That said, Archibald knew he'd just been taken hostage by the little brat. If he lifted his hand, the little guy would come with it. If he left his hand, perhaps Richter would just get tired and go back to bed soon. Or, were these little runts nocturnal?    Eventually, Archibald curled his fingers around the little one groaning. "Ah, I woke you, didn't I? Look it was just a nightmare. Okay?" He attempted to pull his hand away. The little beings grip tightened and the small one bent his knees. Ready for lift off.    "Way too smart. Alright, alright. I'll talk." Archibald groaned. Pulling Richter fully out of the enclosure and sitting with the being cradled in his palms at the table.    "I-sigh-I dreamed is was my son, who was captured. Not me. It's ridiculous. He's only one third giant. And well, isn't much bigger than you in reality. And... In my dream, I was unable to help. It's normal. And... I know it's a dream. I'm just worrying about the lad." Archibald glanced into his hand. The little being splayed casually in his palm, arms folded, legs crossed, and a firm scowl on his face.    The giant could feel his eyes widen at the sight, now that he actually COULD see the expression. "Still no? Richter, you drive a hard bargain." He groaned. All Archibald wanted to do was go back to tossing and turning on the sofa, and missing his bed. Still, this was probably for the best.    "Look, what do you want me to say? That I'm sorry for what happened during the war? That I wish I'd never signed up? Richter, I'm a GIANT. More importantly, I was never on the front lines. Yeah, I was captured, but I got out not a day later. You want trauma, talk to Will." He could feel himself get angrier and angrier as he spoke. Though, it wasn't directed at Richter.    "HE's the one they wronged, not me. Our side never shed blood. We're giants, if we want something to stop, we can make it stop. Just shove the runt in a metal box and poof, problem gone. War over. They were the ones who..." He gave up after that, running his free hand through his hair.    "They were the ones who shot the trebuchet. They were the ones who managed to kill first. And... who pushed Will into it." He closed his eyes a moment pinching the bridge of his nose.    "And I was the one who had to pick up the pieces. When Bell left... I was the one who had to hold him on those bad days. I had to drag him to the hospital...He's doing better now that he has you though." With a weak smile, Archibald squeezed his hand around Richter carefully. As a sort of hug.    The little fellow squeaked a bit, before settling down. "You probably don't understand me, so I don't mind saying, I'm a little jealous. I just wish the fuzzball would...Well, that he'd think of me as more than a friend at least. I haven't told him yet though. I... Haven't told him yet for a few hundred years." A light blush dusted his cheeks.    Archibald thought he'd heard a faint jingle, but ignored it. "Maybe I'll tell him when he gets back though... You know."    "Tell who? And what?" Archibald found himself almost throwing Richter over his shoulder in a startled frenzy. Clapping the other hand in a dome over the tiny being instead and looking in to make sure he was okay.    Asside from a frazzled expression, Richter was fine. Good. Now then. "WILL?! I thought you were-"    "Completely fine. They had to do a few blood tests, and a LOT of uncomfortable examining. But I'm not having the reaction they thought I was." William smirked while setting his bag down. Leaning on the door frame with a sigh.    "So~ What did you want to say?" Those bushy eyebrows raised in a way that implied suspicion. Suspicion of something Archibald suddenly wasn't ready to own up to quite yet. And so. Lie. Lie like a rug.    "It's just, spending the day with Richter like this.... It's nice. I think you've convinced me to get a pet myself!" Archibald pased the tiny fellow to William and began making his way to the living room. "He's been a little prince for me all day! Um... I'll pack my things."    Asside from the flip flopping of Richters internal organs, he was no worse for the ware. Sprawled out in the familiar rough palm belonging to his master. Giving a cautious glance upwards, Richter could see Bear eyeing him with a smirk. Giving a knowing wink and carefully transporting the human back to his enclosure.    "Do you need help making an enclosure then?" The giants voice was raised, but not ear splitting. Thankfully. "We could make a date out of it." The giant had a look of pure mischief now.    Richter could hear a funny sort of squeak before Archibald showed up carrying his bag over his shoulder. "NO! No I'm- well... Maybe."    "You're going already? I was kind of hoping you'd stay the night. I'm supposed to stay up and detox the other medication. And well... I need company." Richter slid off the palm a little slower than normal, trying to gather his surroundings again and regain the ability to walk.    He could hear the uncertainty in Archibalds voice as he spoke. "Um... sure. You could give me tips and tell me how you hand tamed Richter so well. Just... Give me a moment."    The other giant vanished and Richter could hear Bear chuckle. The big guy gave the human a slow, steady smirk whispering to him. "Don't tell him." He moved his jacket pocket, allowing Richter to see just the tip of something pink.    "....You were outside the door. Weren't you?"

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we're doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

P.J. Tucker was partying in Atlanta the first time he seriously considered joining the Houston Rockets.

It was the middle of June, a few weeks before the arrival of free agency, and James Harden, Houston's franchise supernova, was also in attendance. The two are friendly and regularly see each other out during the summer. Tucker approached Harden and they embraced. The five-time All-Star leaned in: I'm coming to get you.

"I was like 'What?,'" Tucker told VICE Sports. Harden persisted: You're coming to Houston.

Interactions like this aren't uncommon among NBA players who know each other well, particularly when the on-court relationship is what Tucker and Harden's promises to be. Stars know, respect, and long for the blunt qualities someone like Tucker has to offer. This specific encounter rattled in and out of Tucker's brain for the next few weeks.

As a 32-year-old, Tucker had never enjoyed unrestricted free agency. He was drafted way back in 2006 by the Toronto Raptors, and then spent five years overseas—in Israel, Ukraine, Greece, Italy, and Germany—before signing with the Phoenix Suns. But the NBA caught up to him. Tucker has tools that perfectly align with the modern game and a style of play one might liken with persistent grime. Heading into this summer, he held the right cards at the right time.

"I sit back and look at it: This is kind of my all-in moment," Tucker says. "I'm putting a little bit more into this year because it was my decision. I wanted to go and fight for a championship. I wanted to pick a team where I can add what I do and be able to put them over the top a little bit. I haven't been this excited in years about an NBA season."

This year, the Rockets might be the only team able to go punch for punch on both sides of the ball with the Golden State Warriors. They had the NBA's second-best offense last season (nobody was more efficient in the half-court, per Synergy Sports), and launched over 500 more threes than any team in league history. The relationship between Mike D'Antoni's relentless offensive system and Daryl Morey's analytically-obsessed approach to roster construction (and shot distribution) was harmonious from the start.

Now they have Chris Paul, a troop of interchangeable wings, and complementary depth in the frontcourt. Tucker doesn't turn opponents into ash or make audiences delirious. He hardly ever dunks and rarely goes off script. But what he gives Houston is a bite they noticeably lacked last season. He can beef up their defense and unlock the kinds of versatile units that will be required to overthrow the Warriors as soon as, well, now.

According to a league source, before he signed with Houston, Tucker flirted with a return to the Raptors, seriously considered an offer around two years and $28 million from the Sacramento Kings, and said thanks but no thanks to a budget-rate proposal from the Minnesota Timberwolves. Now, locked into a four-year, $32 million deal (that's non-guaranteed in the final season) with the Rockets, Tucker assumes culture-shifting responsibilities on a genuine championship contender. It's the most important role of his NBA career, on the best team he's ever played for. The stakes have never been higher, and his fit has never made more sense.

"The thing was maybe taking a little bit more and going to a team where I probably wasn't going to win and I'd be more of a veteran leader and doing that whole deal like I'd done with the Suns the past few years," Tucker says. "Or I'd probably take a little less and have a legitimate chance to fight for a championship, which every player wants to have, especially, this is my 12th year, so 12 years in that's the kind of thing you look for."

Before they signed him, Houston's front office and coaching staff didn't need to pepper Tucker with details about how he'd fit in, or what his responsibilities will be over the next few seasons.

"Coach D'Antoni just said from the beginning, he wants me to do what I do and bring a toughness, some leadership, [and] that fierce ability I bring to the game," Tucker says. "We didn't talk much about it. It was just a special understanding."

Photo by Erik Williams-USA TODAY Sports

The Rockets wasted no time utilizing Tucker's one-size-fits-all value in their very first preseason game. With 5:20 left in the first quarter, the 6'6", 245-pound Swiss-Army knife subbed in for Clint Capela and was suddenly asked to wrestle Oklahoma City Thunder center Steven Adams, a comically immovable boulder of a man. Houston's backup center Nene was out, but the decision by Rockets coach Mike D'Antoni to use Tucker in that role foreshadows five-man units he'll deploy all year long.

Early in the second quarter, Tucker found himself in a different position, shuffling his feet to stay in front of Carmelo Anthony. On one play where Anthony called for Adams to set a high ball screen, Tucker crowded him, fought over the pick, and nearly wedged himself inside Anthony's jersey, disallowing a pocket pass and dictating what came next. It was textbook. When Anthony rose to shoot, Tucker ripped the ball away and dribbled the length of the floor for a layup.

"In my early years they called you a tweener. Nobody liked tweeners," Tucker says. "It's so funny, when I first came out that was my biggest knock. I didn't have a position. 'Is he a two, is he a three, is he a four?' It's so funny now, it's like the thing you get the most praise about is not having a real position, being able to play a bunch of different positions. So now it's become a gift, being able to do that."

After he was traded to Toronto last season, the Raptors allowed 98.9 points per 100 possessions with Tucker on the court and 105.8 points per 100 possessions (highest on the team) when he sat. That trend continued in the playoffs, when their defensive rating shot up from 103.4 to 112.7 (which, again, ranked highest on the team).

In Houston, he's good enough to start and close games as a primary wing stopper, and that domino effect makes life easier for Trevor Ariza, Eric Gordon, Harden, Paul, and everybody else. "[Houston] finished 10th in the NBA all-time last year on offense, so scoring is not a problem," he says.

But Tucker could win Defensive Player of the Year and Golden State still wouldn't bat an eyelash if they're able to ignore him on the other end. Tucker realizes this, and spent all summer familiarizing himself with different ways he can contribute when the Rockets have the ball.

"With James, you look at the way Houston plays, he gets it out make or miss. He throws the ball up and he finds people all over the court," Tucker said. "This summer I was getting a ton of shots up all over. Wing, top of the key, corners, because the shots here are coming from everywhere."

About 45 seconds after Tucker entered Houston's initial preseason game, he set a screen for Harden, popped to the top of the arc, caught a behind-the-back bounce pass, and drained a wide open three—his first shot in a Rockets jersey. In this day, in this system, and with two of the smartest pick-and-roll playmakers in the league on his side, Tucker's ability to knock down this exact shot is paramount.

Over the past few years he's developed into a respectable threat from the corner, with only two players (Ariza and Klay Thompson) taking advantage of the analytical sweet spot more often in 2016-17. But he only shot 23.8 percent above the break, an area where he needs to be more comfortable now that he's in an environment where early offense is a passport to success.

His evolution over the past decade was necessary for his survival as a useful player. Not only did Tucker stabilize his outside shot and prove he could defend multiple positions, but just as critical was his subtle transformation into a tertiary playmaker. Adding three points to Houston's side of the scoreboard while widening driving lanes for Paul and Harden is helpful, but Tucker's intelligence allows his responsibilities to expand when the game calls upon them. He's a junkyard dog who occasionally eats dinner with a fork and knife.

"[Knowing] that Chris and James are gonna draw so much attention, you get those opportunities like Draymond gets where, Klay and Steph get so much attention, and he's playing at odds so many times," Tucker says. "Three on two in the middle, being able to be the trigger man, making plays, attacking the rim, kick outs to three, and just being able to make the right decision—that's something that I obviously relish and definitely wanted."

In addition to making plays as a roll man, Tucker is also savvy enough to create positive action off the bounce, whether it be in transition or after he attacks a hard closeout.

Of course, comparing someone five years older than Draymond Green to Draymond Green isn't fair. Tucker isn't a rim protector and doesn't possess the same length and off-ball awareness as one of the NBA's most transcendent figures. But there are obviously some similarities in how they'll be used. Not only is Tucker strong enough to snuff out small-ball fours and fives, and quick enough to glue himself onto most guards, but his aforementioned offensive toolbox should allow him to be effective in meaningful situations on the sport's biggest stage.

P.J Tucker may not be the most high-profile signing of the offseason. But he is the exact commodity the Rockets needed. And this season, he can be the difference between Houston merely playing against the Warriors in a postseason series, and actually beating them.

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we’re doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

P.J. Tucker was partying in Atlanta the first time he seriously considered joining the Houston Rockets.

It was the middle of June, a few weeks before the arrival of free agency, and James Harden, Houston’s franchise supernova, was also in attendance. The two are friendly and regularly see each other out during the summer. Tucker approached Harden and they embraced. The five-time All-Star leaned in: I’m coming to get you.

“I was like ‘What?,'” Tucker told VICE Sports. Harden persisted: You’re coming to Houston.

Interactions like this aren’t uncommon among NBA players who know each other well, particularly when the on-court relationship is what Tucker and Harden’s promises to be. Stars know, respect, and long for the blunt qualities someone like Tucker has to offer. This specific encounter rattled in and out of Tucker’s brain for the next few weeks.

As a 32-year-old, Tucker had never enjoyed unrestricted free agency. He was drafted way back in 2006 by the Toronto Raptors, and then spent five years overseas—in Israel, Ukraine, Greece, Italy, and Germany—before signing with the Phoenix Suns. But the NBA caught up to him. Tucker has tools that perfectly align with the modern game and a style of play one might liken with persistent grime. Heading into this summer, he held the right cards at the right time.

“I sit back and look at it: This is kind of my all-in moment,” Tucker says. “I’m putting a little bit more into this year because it was my decision. I wanted to go and fight for a championship. I wanted to pick a team where I can add what I do and be able to put them over the top a little bit. I haven’t been this excited in years about an NBA season.”

This year, the Rockets might be the only team able to go punch for punch on both sides of the ball with the Golden State Warriors. They had the NBA’s second-best offense last season (nobody was more efficient in the half-court, per Synergy Sports), and launched over 500 more threes than any team in league history. The relationship between Mike D’Antoni’s relentless offensive system and Daryl Morey’s analytically-obsessed approach to roster construction (and shot distribution) was harmonious from the start.

Now they have Chris Paul, a troop of interchangeable wings, and complementary depth in the frontcourt. Tucker doesn’t turn opponents into ash or make audiences delirious. He hardly ever dunks and rarely goes off script. But what he gives Houston is a bite they noticeably lacked last season. He can beef up their defense and unlock the kinds of versatile units that will be required to overthrow the Warriors as soon as, well, now.

According to a league source, before he signed with Houston, Tucker flirted with a return to the Raptors, seriously considered an offer around two years and $28 million from the Sacramento Kings, and said thanks but no thanks to a budget-rate proposal from the Minnesota Timberwolves. Now, locked into a four-year, $32 million deal (that’s non-guaranteed in the final season) with the Rockets, Tucker assumes culture-shifting responsibilities on a genuine championship contender. It’s the most important role of his NBA career, on the best team he’s ever played for. The stakes have never been higher, and his fit has never made more sense.

“The thing was maybe taking a little bit more and going to a team where I probably wasn’t going to win and I’d be more of a veteran leader and doing that whole deal like I’d done with the Suns the past few years,” Tucker says. “Or I’d probably take a little less and have a legitimate chance to fight for a championship, which every player wants to have, especially, this is my 12th year, so 12 years in that’s the kind of thing you look for.”

Before they signed him, Houston’s front office and coaching staff didn’t need to pepper Tucker with details about how he’d fit in, or what his responsibilities will be over the next few seasons.

“Coach D’Antoni just said from the beginning, he wants me to do what I do and bring a toughness, some leadership, [and] that fierce ability I bring to the game,” Tucker says. “We didn’t talk much about it. It was just a special understanding.”

Photo by Erik Williams-USA TODAY Sports

The Rockets wasted no time utilizing Tucker’s one-size-fits-all value in their very first preseason game. With 5:20 left in the first quarter, the 6’6″, 245-pound Swiss-Army knife subbed in for Clint Capela and was suddenly asked to wrestle Oklahoma City Thunder center Steven Adams, a comically immovable boulder of a man. Houston’s backup center Nene was out, but the decision by Rockets coach Mike D’Antoni to use Tucker in that role foreshadows five-man units he’ll deploy all year long.

Early in the second quarter, Tucker found himself in a different position, shuffling his feet to stay in front of Carmelo Anthony. On one play where Anthony called for Adams to set a high ball screen, Tucker crowded him, fought over the pick, and nearly wedged himself inside Anthony’s jersey, disallowing a pocket pass and dictating what came next. It was textbook. When Anthony rose to shoot, Tucker ripped the ball away and dribbled the length of the floor for a layup.

“In my early years they called you a tweener. Nobody liked tweeners,” Tucker says. “It’s so funny, when I first came out that was my biggest knock. I didn’t have a position. ‘Is he a two, is he a three, is he a four?’ It’s so funny now, it’s like the thing you get the most praise about is not having a real position, being able to play a bunch of different positions. So now it’s become a gift, being able to do that.”

After he was traded to Toronto last season, the Raptors allowed 98.9 points per 100 possessions with Tucker on the court and 105.8 points per 100 possessions (highest on the team) when he sat. That trend continued in the playoffs, when their defensive rating shot up from 103.4 to 112.7 (which, again, ranked highest on the team).

In Houston, he’s good enough to start and close games as a primary wing stopper, and that domino effect makes life easier for Trevor Ariza, Eric Gordon, Harden, Paul, and everybody else. “[Houston] finished 10th in the NBA all-time last year on offense, so scoring is not a problem,” he says.

But Tucker could win Defensive Player of the Year and Golden State still wouldn’t bat an eyelash if they’re able to ignore him on the other end. Tucker realizes this, and spent all summer familiarizing himself with different ways he can contribute when the Rockets have the ball.

“With James, you look at the way Houston plays, he gets it out make or miss. He throws the ball up and he finds people all over the court,” Tucker said. “This summer I was getting a ton of shots up all over. Wing, top of the key, corners, because the shots here are coming from everywhere.”

About 45 seconds after Tucker entered Houston’s initial preseason game, he set a screen for Harden, popped to the top of the arc, caught a behind-the-back bounce pass, and drained a wide open three—his first shot in a Rockets jersey. In this day, in this system, and with two of the smartest pick-and-roll playmakers in the league on his side, Tucker’s ability to knock down this exact shot is paramount.

Over the past few years he’s developed into a respectable threat from the corner, with only two players (Ariza and Klay Thompson) taking advantage of the analytical sweet spot more often in 2016-17. But he only shot 23.8 percent above the break, an area where he needs to be more comfortable now that he’s in an environment where early offense is a passport to success.

His evolution over the past decade was necessary for his survival as a useful player. Not only did Tucker stabilize his outside shot and prove he could defend multiple positions, but just as critical was his subtle transformation into a tertiary playmaker. Adding three points to Houston’s side of the scoreboard while widening driving lanes for Paul and Harden is helpful, but Tucker’s intelligence allows his responsibilities to expand when the game calls upon them. He’s a junkyard dog who occasionally eats dinner with a fork and knife.

“[Knowing] that Chris and James are gonna draw so much attention, you get those opportunities like Draymond gets where, Klay and Steph get so much attention, and he’s playing at odds so many times,” Tucker says. “Three on two in the middle, being able to be the trigger man, making plays, attacking the rim, kick outs to three, and just being able to make the right decision—that’s something that I obviously relish and definitely wanted.”

In addition to making plays as a roll man, Tucker is also savvy enough to create positive action off the bounce, whether it be in transition or after he attacks a hard closeout.

Of course, comparing someone five years older than Draymond Green to Draymond Green isn’t fair. Tucker isn’t a rim protector and doesn’t possess the same length and off-ball awareness as one of the NBA’s most transcendent figures. But there are obviously some similarities in how they’ll be used. Not only is Tucker strong enough to snuff out small-ball fours and fives, and quick enough to glue himself onto most guards, but his aforementioned offensive toolbox should allow him to be effective in meaningful situations on the sport’s biggest stage.

P.J Tucker may not be the most high-profile signing of the offseason. But he is the exact commodity the Rockets needed. And this season, he can be the difference between Houston merely playing against the Warriors in a postseason series, and actually beating them.

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we're doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

P.J. Tucker was partying in Atlanta the first time he seriously considered joining the Houston Rockets.

It was the middle of June, a few weeks before the arrival of free agency, and James Harden, Houston's franchise supernova, was also in attendance. The two are friendly and regularly see each other out during the summer. Tucker approached Harden and they embraced. The five-time All-Star leaned in: I'm coming to get you.

"I was like 'What?,'" Tucker told VICE Sports. Harden persisted: You're coming to Houston.

Interactions like this aren't uncommon among NBA players who know each other well, particularly when the on-court relationship is what Tucker and Harden's promises to be. Stars know, respect, and long for the blunt qualities someone like Tucker has to offer. This specific encounter rattled in and out of Tucker's brain for the next few weeks.

As a 32-year-old, Tucker had never enjoyed unrestricted free agency. He was drafted way back in 2006 by the Toronto Raptors, and then spent five years overseas—in Israel, Ukraine, Greece, Italy, and Germany—before signing with the Phoenix Suns. But the NBA caught up to him. Tucker has tools that perfectly align with the modern game and a style of play one might liken with persistent grime. Heading into this summer, he held the right cards at the right time.

"I sit back and look at it: This is kind of my all-in moment," Tucker says. "I'm putting a little bit more into this year because it was my decision. I wanted to go and fight for a championship. I wanted to pick a team where I can add what I do and be able to put them over the top a little bit. I haven't been this excited in years about an NBA season."

This year, the Rockets might be the only team able to go punch for punch on both sides of the ball with the Golden State Warriors. They had the NBA's second-best offense last season (nobody was more efficient in the half-court, per Synergy Sports), and launched over 500 more threes than any team in league history. The relationship between Mike D'Antoni's relentless offensive system and Daryl Morey's analytically-obsessed approach to roster construction (and shot distribution) was harmonious from the start.

Now they have Chris Paul, a troop of interchangeable wings, and complementary depth in the frontcourt. Tucker doesn't turn opponents into ash or make audiences delirious. He hardly ever dunks and rarely goes off script. But what he gives Houston is a bite they noticeably lacked last season. He can beef up their defense and unlock the kinds of versatile units that will be required to overthrow the Warriors as soon as, well, now.

According to a league source, before he signed with Houston, Tucker flirted with a return to the Raptors, seriously considered an offer around two years and $28 million from the Sacramento Kings, and said thanks but no thanks to a budget-rate proposal from the Minnesota Timberwolves. Now, locked into a four-year, $32 million deal (that's non-guaranteed in the final season) with the Rockets, Tucker assumes culture-shifting responsibilities on a genuine championship contender. It's the most important role of his NBA career, on the best team he's ever played for. The stakes have never been higher, and his fit has never made more sense.

"The thing was maybe taking a little bit more and going to a team where I probably wasn't going to win and I'd be more of a veteran leader and doing that whole deal like I'd done with the Suns the past few years," Tucker says. "Or I'd probably take a little less and have a legitimate chance to fight for a championship, which every player wants to have, especially, this is my 12th year, so 12 years in that's the kind of thing you look for."

Before they signed him, Houston's front office and coaching staff didn't need to pepper Tucker with details about how he'd fit in, or what his responsibilities will be over the next few seasons.

"Coach D'Antoni just said from the beginning, he wants me to do what I do and bring a toughness, some leadership, [and] that fierce ability I bring to the game," Tucker says. "We didn't talk much about it. It was just a special understanding."

Photo by Erik Williams-USA TODAY Sports

The Rockets wasted no time utilizing Tucker's one-size-fits-all value in their very first preseason game. With 5:20 left in the first quarter, the 6'6", 245-pound Swiss-Army knife subbed in for Clint Capela and was suddenly asked to wrestle Oklahoma City Thunder center Steven Adams, a comically immovable boulder of a man. Houston's backup center Nene was out, but the decision by Rockets coach Mike D'Antoni to use Tucker in that role foreshadows five-man units he'll deploy all year long.

Early in the second quarter, Tucker found himself in a different position, shuffling his feet to stay in front of Carmelo Anthony. On one play where Anthony called for Adams to set a high ball screen, Tucker crowded him, fought over the pick, and nearly wedged himself inside Anthony's jersey, disallowing a pocket pass and dictating what came next. It was textbook. When Anthony rose to shoot, Tucker ripped the ball away and dribbled the length of the floor for a layup.

"In my early years they called you a tweener. Nobody liked tweeners," Tucker says. "It's so funny, when I first came out that was my biggest knock. I didn't have a position. 'Is he a two, is he a three, is he a four?' It's so funny now, it's like the thing you get the most praise about is not having a real position, being able to play a bunch of different positions. So now it's become a gift, being able to do that."

After he was traded to Toronto last season, the Raptors allowed 98.9 points per 100 possessions with Tucker on the court and 105.8 points per 100 possessions (highest on the team) when he sat. That trend continued in the playoffs, when their defensive rating shot up from 103.4 to 112.7 (which, again, ranked highest on the team).

In Houston, he's good enough to start and close games as a primary wing stopper, and that domino effect makes life easier for Trevor Ariza, Eric Gordon, Harden, Paul, and everybody else. "[Houston] finished 10th in the NBA all-time last year on offense, so scoring is not a problem," he says.

But Tucker could win Defensive Player of the Year and Golden State still wouldn't bat an eyelash if they're able to ignore him on the other end. Tucker realizes this, and spent all summer familiarizing himself with different ways he can contribute when the Rockets have the ball.

"With James, you look at the way Houston plays, he gets it out make or miss. He throws the ball up and he finds people all over the court," Tucker said. "This summer I was getting a ton of shots up all over. Wing, top of the key, corners, because the shots here are coming from everywhere."

About 45 seconds after Tucker entered Houston's initial preseason game, he set a screen for Harden, popped to the top of the arc, caught a behind-the-back bounce pass, and drained a wide open three—his first shot in a Rockets jersey. In this day, in this system, and with two of the smartest pick-and-roll playmakers in the league on his side, Tucker's ability to knock down this exact shot is paramount.

Over the past few years he's developed into a respectable threat from the corner, with only two players (Ariza and Klay Thompson) taking advantage of the analytical sweet spot more often in 2016-17. But he only shot 23.8 percent above the break, an area where he needs to be more comfortable now that he's in an environment where early offense is a passport to success.

His evolution over the past decade was necessary for his survival as a useful player. Not only did Tucker stabilize his outside shot and prove he could defend multiple positions, but just as critical was his subtle transformation into a tertiary playmaker. Adding three points to Houston's side of the scoreboard while widening driving lanes for Paul and Harden is helpful, but Tucker's intelligence allows his responsibilities to expand when the game calls upon them. He's a junkyard dog who occasionally eats dinner with a fork and knife.

"[Knowing] that Chris and James are gonna draw so much attention, you get those opportunities like Draymond gets where, Klay and Steph get so much attention, and he's playing at odds so many times," Tucker says. "Three on two in the middle, being able to be the trigger man, making plays, attacking the rim, kick outs to three, and just being able to make the right decision—that's something that I obviously relish and definitely wanted."

In addition to making plays as a roll man, Tucker is also savvy enough to create positive action off the bounce, whether it be in transition or after he attacks a hard closeout.

Of course, comparing someone five years older than Draymond Green to Draymond Green isn't fair. Tucker isn't a rim protector and doesn't possess the same length and off-ball awareness as one of the NBA's most transcendent figures. But there are obviously some similarities in how they'll be used. Not only is Tucker strong enough to snuff out small-ball fours and fives, and quick enough to glue himself onto most guards, but his aforementioned offensive toolbox should allow him to be effective in meaningful situations on the sport's biggest stage.

P.J Tucker may not be the most high-profile signing of the offseason. But he is the exact commodity the Rockets needed. And this season, he can be the difference between Houston merely playing against the Warriors in a postseason series, and actually beating them.

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we're doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

P.J. Tucker was partying in Atlanta the first time he seriously considered joining the Houston Rockets.

It was the middle of June, a few weeks before the arrival of free agency, and James Harden, Houston's franchise supernova, was also in attendance. The two are friendly and regularly see each other out during the summer. Tucker approached Harden and they embraced. The five-time All-Star leaned in: I'm coming to get you.

"I was like 'What?,'" Tucker told VICE Sports. Harden persisted: You're coming to Houston.

Interactions like this aren't uncommon among NBA players who know each other well, particularly when the on-court relationship is what Tucker and Harden's promises to be. Stars know, respect, and long for the blunt qualities someone like Tucker has to offer. This specific encounter rattled in and out of Tucker's brain for the next few weeks.

As a 32-year-old, Tucker had never enjoyed unrestricted free agency. He was drafted way back in 2006 by the Toronto Raptors, and then spent five years overseas—in Israel, Ukraine, Greece, Italy, and Germany—before signing with the Phoenix Suns. But the NBA caught up to him. Tucker has tools that perfectly align with the modern game and a style of play one might liken with persistent grime. Heading into this summer, he held the right cards at the right time.

"I sit back and look at it: This is kind of my all-in moment," Tucker says. "I'm putting a little bit more into this year because it was my decision. I wanted to go and fight for a championship. I wanted to pick a team where I can add what I do and be able to put them over the top a little bit. I haven't been this excited in years about an NBA season."

This year, the Rockets might be the only team able to go punch for punch on both sides of the ball with the Golden State Warriors. They had the NBA's second-best offense last season (nobody was more efficient in the half-court, per Synergy Sports), and launched over 500 more threes than any team in league history. The relationship between Mike D'Antoni's relentless offensive system and Daryl Morey's analytically-obsessed approach to roster construction (and shot distribution) was harmonious from the start.

Now they have Chris Paul, a troop of interchangeable wings, and complementary depth in the frontcourt. Tucker doesn't turn opponents into ash or make audiences delirious. He hardly ever dunks and rarely goes off script. But what he gives Houston is a bite they noticeably lacked last season. He can beef up their defense and unlock the kinds of versatile units that will be required to overthrow the Warriors as soon as, well, now.

According to a league source, before he signed with Houston, Tucker flirted with a return to the Raptors, seriously considered an offer around two years and $28 million from the Sacramento Kings, and said thanks but no thanks to a budget-rate proposal from the Minnesota Timberwolves. Now, locked into a four-year, $32 million deal (that's non-guaranteed in the final season) with the Rockets, Tucker assumes culture-shifting responsibilities on a genuine championship contender. It's the most important role of his NBA career, on the best team he's ever played for. The stakes have never been higher, and his fit has never made more sense.

"The thing was maybe taking a little bit more and going to a team where I probably wasn't going to win and I'd be more of a veteran leader and doing that whole deal like I'd done with the Suns the past few years," Tucker says. "Or I'd probably take a little less and have a legitimate chance to fight for a championship, which every player wants to have, especially, this is my 12th year, so 12 years in that's the kind of thing you look for."

Before they signed him, Houston's front office and coaching staff didn't need to pepper Tucker with details about how he'd fit in, or what his responsibilities will be over the next few seasons.

"Coach D'Antoni just said from the beginning, he wants me to do what I do and bring a toughness, some leadership, [and] that fierce ability I bring to the game," Tucker says. "We didn't talk much about it. It was just a special understanding."

Photo by Erik Williams-USA TODAY Sports

The Rockets wasted no time utilizing Tucker's one-size-fits-all value in their very first preseason game. With 5:20 left in the first quarter, the 6'6", 245-pound Swiss-Army knife subbed in for Clint Capela and was suddenly asked to wrestle Oklahoma City Thunder center Steven Adams, a comically immovable boulder of a man. Houston's backup center Nene was out, but the decision by Rockets coach Mike D'Antoni to use Tucker in that role foreshadows five-man units he'll deploy all year long.

Early in the second quarter, Tucker found himself in a different position, shuffling his feet to stay in front of Carmelo Anthony. On one play where Anthony called for Adams to set a high ball screen, Tucker crowded him, fought over the pick, and nearly wedged himself inside Anthony's jersey, disallowing a pocket pass and dictating what came next. It was textbook. When Anthony rose to shoot, Tucker ripped the ball away and dribbled the length of the floor for a layup.

"In my early years they called you a tweener. Nobody liked tweeners," Tucker says. "It's so funny, when I first came out that was my biggest knock. I didn't have a position. 'Is he a two, is he a three, is he a four?' It's so funny now, it's like the thing you get the most praise about is not having a real position, being able to play a bunch of different positions. So now it's become a gift, being able to do that."

After he was traded to Toronto last season, the Raptors allowed 98.9 points per 100 possessions with Tucker on the court and 105.8 points per 100 possessions (highest on the team) when he sat. That trend continued in the playoffs, when their defensive rating shot up from 103.4 to 112.7 (which, again, ranked highest on the team).

In Houston, he's good enough to start and close games as a primary wing stopper, and that domino effect makes life easier for Trevor Ariza, Eric Gordon, Harden, Paul, and everybody else. "[Houston] finished 10th in the NBA all-time last year on offense, so scoring is not a problem," he says.

But Tucker could win Defensive Player of the Year and Golden State still wouldn't bat an eyelash if they're able to ignore him on the other end. Tucker realizes this, and spent all summer familiarizing himself with different ways he can contribute when the Rockets have the ball.

"With James, you look at the way Houston plays, he gets it out make or miss. He throws the ball up and he finds people all over the court," Tucker said. "This summer I was getting a ton of shots up all over. Wing, top of the key, corners, because the shots here are coming from everywhere."

About 45 seconds after Tucker entered Houston's initial preseason game, he set a screen for Harden, popped to the top of the arc, caught a behind-the-back bounce pass, and drained a wide open three—his first shot in a Rockets jersey. In this day, in this system, and with two of the smartest pick-and-roll playmakers in the league on his side, Tucker's ability to knock down this exact shot is paramount.

Over the past few years he's developed into a respectable threat from the corner, with only two players (Ariza and Klay Thompson) taking advantage of the analytical sweet spot more often in 2016-17. But he only shot 23.8 percent above the break, an area where he needs to be more comfortable now that he's in an environment where early offense is a passport to success.

His evolution over the past decade was necessary for his survival as a useful player. Not only did Tucker stabilize his outside shot and prove he could defend multiple positions, but just as critical was his subtle transformation into a tertiary playmaker. Adding three points to Houston's side of the scoreboard while widening driving lanes for Paul and Harden is helpful, but Tucker's intelligence allows his responsibilities to expand when the game calls upon them. He's a junkyard dog who occasionally eats dinner with a fork and knife.

"[Knowing] that Chris and James are gonna draw so much attention, you get those opportunities like Draymond gets where, Klay and Steph get so much attention, and he's playing at odds so many times," Tucker says. "Three on two in the middle, being able to be the trigger man, making plays, attacking the rim, kick outs to three, and just being able to make the right decision—that's something that I obviously relish and definitely wanted."

In addition to making plays as a roll man, Tucker is also savvy enough to create positive action off the bounce, whether it be in transition or after he attacks a hard closeout.

Of course, comparing someone five years older than Draymond Green to Draymond Green isn't fair. Tucker isn't a rim protector and doesn't possess the same length and off-ball awareness as one of the NBA's most transcendent figures. But there are obviously some similarities in how they'll be used. Not only is Tucker strong enough to snuff out small-ball fours and fives, and quick enough to glue himself onto most guards, but his aforementioned offensive toolbox should allow him to be effective in meaningful situations on the sport's biggest stage.

P.J Tucker may not be the most high-profile signing of the offseason. But he is the exact commodity the Rockets needed. And this season, he can be the difference between Houston merely playing against the Warriors in a postseason series, and actually beating them.

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we're doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

P.J. Tucker was partying in Atlanta the first time he seriously considered joining the Houston Rockets.

It was the middle of June, a few weeks before the arrival of free agency, and James Harden, Houston's franchise supernova, was also in attendance. The two are friendly and regularly see each other out during the summer. Tucker approached Harden and they embraced. The five-time All-Star leaned in: I'm coming to get you.

"I was like 'What?,'" Tucker told VICE Sports. Harden persisted: You're coming to Houston.

Interactions like this aren't uncommon among NBA players who know each other well, particularly when the on-court relationship is what Tucker and Harden's promises to be. Stars know, respect, and long for the blunt qualities someone like Tucker has to offer. This specific encounter rattled in and out of Tucker's brain for the next few weeks.

As a 32-year-old, Tucker had never enjoyed unrestricted free agency. He was drafted way back in 2006 by the Toronto Raptors, and then spent five years overseas—in Israel, Ukraine, Greece, Italy, and Germany—before signing with the Phoenix Suns. But the NBA caught up to him. Tucker has tools that perfectly align with the modern game and a style of play one might liken with persistent grime. Heading into this summer, he held the right cards at the right time.

"I sit back and look at it: This is kind of my all-in moment," Tucker says. "I'm putting a little bit more into this year because it was my decision. I wanted to go and fight for a championship. I wanted to pick a team where I can add what I do and be able to put them over the top a little bit. I haven't been this excited in years about an NBA season."

This year, the Rockets might be the only team able to go punch for punch on both sides of the ball with the Golden State Warriors. They had the NBA's second-best offense last season (nobody was more efficient in the half-court, per Synergy Sports), and launched over 500 more threes than any team in league history. The relationship between Mike D'Antoni's relentless offensive system and Daryl Morey's analytically-obsessed approach to roster construction (and shot distribution) was harmonious from the start.

Now they have Chris Paul, a troop of interchangeable wings, and complementary depth in the frontcourt. Tucker doesn't turn opponents into ash or make audiences delirious. He hardly ever dunks and rarely goes off script. But what he gives Houston is a bite they noticeably lacked last season. He can beef up their defense and unlock the kinds of versatile units that will be required to overthrow the Warriors as soon as, well, now.

According to a league source, before he signed with Houston, Tucker flirted with a return to the Raptors, seriously considered an offer around two years and $28 million from the Sacramento Kings, and said thanks but no thanks to a budget-rate proposal from the Minnesota Timberwolves. Now, locked into a four-year, $32 million deal (that's non-guaranteed in the final season) with the Rockets, Tucker assumes culture-shifting responsibilities on a genuine championship contender. It's the most important role of his NBA career, on the best team he's ever played for. The stakes have never been higher, and his fit has never made more sense.

"The thing was maybe taking a little bit more and going to a team where I probably wasn't going to win and I'd be more of a veteran leader and doing that whole deal like I'd done with the Suns the past few years," Tucker says. "Or I'd probably take a little less and have a legitimate chance to fight for a championship, which every player wants to have, especially, this is my 12th year, so 12 years in that's the kind of thing you look for."

Before they signed him, Houston's front office and coaching staff didn't need to pepper Tucker with details about how he'd fit in, or what his responsibilities will be over the next few seasons.

"Coach D'Antoni just said from the beginning, he wants me to do what I do and bring a toughness, some leadership, [and] that fierce ability I bring to the game," Tucker says. "We didn't talk much about it. It was just a special understanding."

Photo by Erik Williams-USA TODAY Sports

The Rockets wasted no time utilizing Tucker's one-size-fits-all value in their very first preseason game. With 5:20 left in the first quarter, the 6'6", 245-pound Swiss-Army knife subbed in for Clint Capela and was suddenly asked to wrestle Oklahoma City Thunder center Steven Adams, a comically immovable boulder of a man. Houston's backup center Nene was out, but the decision by Rockets coach Mike D'Antoni to use Tucker in that role foreshadows five-man units he'll deploy all year long.

Early in the second quarter, Tucker found himself in a different position, shuffling his feet to stay in front of Carmelo Anthony. On one play where Anthony called for Adams to set a high ball screen, Tucker crowded him, fought over the pick, and nearly wedged himself inside Anthony's jersey, disallowing a pocket pass and dictating what came next. It was textbook. When Anthony rose to shoot, Tucker ripped the ball away and dribbled the length of the floor for a layup.

"In my early years they called you a tweener. Nobody liked tweeners," Tucker says. "It's so funny, when I first came out that was my biggest knock. I didn't have a position. 'Is he a two, is he a three, is he a four?' It's so funny now, it's like the thing you get the most praise about is not having a real position, being able to play a bunch of different positions. So now it's become a gift, being able to do that."

After he was traded to Toronto last season, the Raptors allowed 98.9 points per 100 possessions with Tucker on the court and 105.8 points per 100 possessions (highest on the team) when he sat. That trend continued in the playoffs, when their defensive rating shot up from 103.4 to 112.7 (which, again, ranked highest on the team).

In Houston, he's good enough to start and close games as a primary wing stopper, and that domino effect makes life easier for Trevor Ariza, Eric Gordon, Harden, Paul, and everybody else. "[Houston] finished 10th in the NBA all-time last year on offense, so scoring is not a problem," he says.

But Tucker could win Defensive Player of the Year and Golden State still wouldn't bat an eyelash if they're able to ignore him on the other end. Tucker realizes this, and spent all summer familiarizing himself with different ways he can contribute when the Rockets have the ball.

"With James, you look at the way Houston plays, he gets it out make or miss. He throws the ball up and he finds people all over the court," Tucker said. "This summer I was getting a ton of shots up all over. Wing, top of the key, corners, because the shots here are coming from everywhere."

About 45 seconds after Tucker entered Houston's initial preseason game, he set a screen for Harden, popped to the top of the arc, caught a behind-the-back bounce pass, and drained a wide open three—his first shot in a Rockets jersey. In this day, in this system, and with two of the smartest pick-and-roll playmakers in the league on his side, Tucker's ability to knock down this exact shot is paramount.

Over the past few years he's developed into a respectable threat from the corner, with only two players (Ariza and Klay Thompson) taking advantage of the analytical sweet spot more often in 2016-17. But he only shot 23.8 percent above the break, an area where he needs to be more comfortable now that he's in an environment where early offense is a passport to success.

His evolution over the past decade was necessary for his survival as a useful player. Not only did Tucker stabilize his outside shot and prove he could defend multiple positions, but just as critical was his subtle transformation into a tertiary playmaker. Adding three points to Houston's side of the scoreboard while widening driving lanes for Paul and Harden is helpful, but Tucker's intelligence allows his responsibilities to expand when the game calls upon them. He's a junkyard dog who occasionally eats dinner with a fork and knife.

"[Knowing] that Chris and James are gonna draw so much attention, you get those opportunities like Draymond gets where, Klay and Steph get so much attention, and he's playing at odds so many times," Tucker says. "Three on two in the middle, being able to be the trigger man, making plays, attacking the rim, kick outs to three, and just being able to make the right decision—that's something that I obviously relish and definitely wanted."

In addition to making plays as a roll man, Tucker is also savvy enough to create positive action off the bounce, whether it be in transition or after he attacks a hard closeout.

Of course, comparing someone five years older than Draymond Green to Draymond Green isn't fair. Tucker isn't a rim protector and doesn't possess the same length and off-ball awareness as one of the NBA's most transcendent figures. But there are obviously some similarities in how they'll be used. Not only is Tucker strong enough to snuff out small-ball fours and fives, and quick enough to glue himself onto most guards, but his aforementioned offensive toolbox should allow him to be effective in meaningful situations on the sport's biggest stage.

P.J Tucker may not be the most high-profile signing of the offseason. But he is the exact commodity the Rockets needed. And this season, he can be the difference between Houston merely playing against the Warriors in a postseason series, and actually beating them.

Meet Your 2018 NBA Champions, the Houston Rockets published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv