Chapter Text
"...and that was a nasty hit by Wilson on Schmidt, and play is stopped. Schmidt looks like he’s struggling to get up."
"There's a bit of a commotion by Fleury's net...he's tossed his gloves, his mask is up, and that's an awful lot of smoke. He's heading straight for Wilson!"
"In-game he doesn't tend to use those wings much, but spread like that, that is definitely intimidating. Wilson is not backing down!"
"Maybe he should, having Vegas's own dragon coming after me would not be a pleasant sight..."
"Ooooh, and Fleury lays him out, took him a couple hits, but Wilson’s down, and that's an awful lot of red!”
"No worries for the Caps fans though, much of that is actually Wilson’s jersey, which has been torn into shreds, and we've got a clear shot past Fleury’s wings now… Oh my. Those pads have taken a beating, look at those deep claw marks, Fleury is NOT happy! Wilson’s been in several scuffles thus far, that hit must have been the last straw.”
“The referees seem content to let them fight it out, and I don’t blame them. Hockey magic always runs higher in the playoffs, and when it’s the Stanley Cup Finals, no amount of hazard pay could get me between THAT!”
It was a chippy series, he knew it would be when he saw they’d be facing the Caps. Marc-Andre had been distinctly aware of Wilson the entire game. Never enough to distract, but... Wilson was a troublemaker, and Marc-Andre was one missed call away from dropping gloves and taking a well-deserved piece out of him.
Still, it was some of the greatest hockey he’d ever played. They were up by two, and just needed to hold on to that lead.
But then about halfway into the second period Wilson hit Nate, who was slow to get up, and something…it didn’t snap. That would imply there was a loss of control, like a runaway car or something. No, it was more like something clicked into place and he knew he had to go and defend what was his.
“Oh shit,” Alex murmured across the ice. “Bad move, kid.” Even on the Caps’ home ice, there was enough crackling magic from Flower’s direction that he could feel it from the bench. The Vegas goalie was never static. Even when play was on the opposite side of the ice, he was ready to move. Now, he became impossibly still, like a feline waiting for just the right moment to strike.
“Chort vozmi ,” he swore when pieces of Tom’s jersey started flying.
Finally, the goalie seemed content with the damage done and let Wilson up, growling at any move towards him or his team. He circled around his teammates, still trailing white smoke.
“Okay, Tom, time to go,” he told him, helping him up off the ice. It would probably help to get away from those glowing golden eyes for a few minutes. These young ones. They get some fangs in and think they know everything.
At the bench, Ovi spoke. “You’re done for the rest of the game.”
“But!”
Their coach cut him off. “I’m with Ovi on this. It’s not worth it.”
“Wils, did you not see those talons? He did not have those in the last game! And after this, we go back to their arena. There’s a frightening amount of magic around the team and in their building, and it’s the second I’m worried about. We can defend against their players, but I have no idea what the ice will do with Flower so angry.”
Tom frowned. “Can that really happen?”
Barry shook his head. “I have no idea, but let’s not risk it. This whole playoff series has been pretty unprecedented, I can’t rule anything out. ”
Marc stalked down the tunnel after Nate, who had limped off the ice assisted by a trainer.
“How are you?” he asked softly. The defenceman blinked at him, still disoriented.
“Izz…isn’t the game still going? Flower, shouldn’t you be in net?” he asked a little dazedly.
“Had to check on you,” he replied plainly, swooping a wing around them.
“Bleaargh. My head feels weird and my arm hurts.”
Stupid Capitals. And especially #43. Marc rubbed Nate’s back, careful of his new claws (and he hoped those would go away in the post-season, claws are just dangerous). His magic hummed, weaker and missing notes. He frowned. He pulled at the fizzing magic in his blood, drawing some out to cover the holes, just as he did on the ice.
“Oh shit, what did you do? I feel 110% better, holy crap!” His eyes looked clearer, burning icy blue.
“Good. Let’s get back on the ice, yeah?”
Cup Check - Game 4 - WSH 3, VGK 5
“Now, I feel like everybody else has put their two cents in already on pulling Wilson. This is a chippy series, and he’s a chippy player. But watching Fleury descend on him like the wrath of the hockey gods was pretty terrifying! And that was just from the TV close-up! Actually facing that on the ice? NOPE. So I don’t blame Ovechkin, and the benchside discussion showed Barry Trotz agreed with him.
This is an unprecedented Stanley Cup series, with an unprecedented amount of magic flying around. You get Fleury any angrier he might just become a full-on dragon and just eat all the Washington Capitals. Do I think that would actually happen? No. Would I rule it out? Uhhh, also no.”