dotylink64: I most certainly appreciate that. Always will.

L (Guest): That truly means a lot. And I most certainly will continue, just as long as you continue to keep bearing with it. Lol.

Plamin24: As always, my friend, I am thoroughly appreciative of such kind words.

Zapa (Guest): You are the most beautiful thing.

Yesni83: Many, many thanks.

ponderhouse: I thought it odd, yet adorable enough to include. (And so I thank you for such a kind review.)

Guest: And many hella thanks.

Author's Note: Okay, guys. So there's no excuse for the time lapse, and I'm well aware. But I've also been increasingly drunk this past week (not proud), and it's seriously hindered the writing. I'm most apologetic.

Maybe this insert will allow me some time to collect my thoughts and produce a decent enough continuation. And as always, I thank those of you kind enough to read, review, or a combination of the two.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.

This is it, I think, hot water showering over my head. The morning of the most important meet that I've ever competed in. Best not screw it up, Fields.

"Do you always talk to yourself in the shower?" a voice calls out, snapping me from all internal monologue. I frantically look over, finding Paige's head poked around the shower curtain. She's grinning like a mad woman, and I'm about to cuss her when she holds up a dismissive hand. "Did you steal my toothbrush?"

"No?"

She nods, the curtain ruffling as she disappears. I'm allowed but one sigh of exasperation before her smug face appears again. "Did you steal my toothpaste?"

"No?"

The process repeats. I quickly grab a washcloth, covering the most basic parts before her head appears a final time. "Did you—"

"Paige."

The girl both smirks and winks in tandem. "What? I have a deep concern for oral hygiene."

"Out," I command, pointing.

She's barely through the bathroom door when she calls out, "DOES THIS FALL UNDER THE CATEGORY OF 'FRIEND' THINGS?"

"NOT QUITE," I singsong in return.

And then I'm both sheepishly and hurriedly finishing up the last of my shower. Paige's voice can be heard from just outside, belting out the unintelligible lyrics of some love song. I poke my head out, only to find her sitting on the floor, back against the wall. "Really?"

She grins. "Really, really. Now listen up. I've composed a piece for English that is in dire need of critical feedback."

With my hands still wet, she forced a crumpled piece of paper into them. I barely skim over the words, eyes settling on the last line. "She gives my vagina a heartbeat?" I ask.

"You'd be surprised how difficult a word 'concrete' is to make rhyme," she deadpans.

"And they say romance is dead."

"Precisely," she coughs, snatching the paper back. "Now get dressed, loser. We've got a scholarship to land."

It'd be accurate to say that my heart currently resides in my stomach. Paige, as blasé as ever, leads our band of misfits into the gym. Well, "aquatic center", as this place is named, because it is pretty damn spiffy. Intricate tile floors. Water fountains that actually come up to your stomach instead of your kneecaps. High class, I gather. And it's not just because of the statue that rests in the building's foyer. A mountainous sculpture that's dedicated to some old guy that once donated a lot of money.

For lack of a better pun, this place is swimming in athletes and parents alike. None in favor of us, of course, because, as a disgruntled-looking passerby mumbled, we're a group of hoodlums that "need ankle bracelets instead of swim caps." And if the old woman's opinion isn't enough, they even have a special security guard posted at the entrance, who pulls our team out for random bag inspection.

Our fearless leader remains quiet. Instead, she submits her duffel bag first, setting the example. The process is a lengthy one, but we're eventually permitted to proceed, a lanky old man with trembling fingers directing us to a spare locker room.

"This is a big one, Fields," Paige says, setting her things down on the backmost bench. "Compared to this, all other meets have been child's play."

"I understand," I say, sounding especially bitchy due to the increasing pressure that settles in from every angle.

Her eyes are fierce, though. As competitive as I've ever seen. "I'm not talking to you," she retorts. "I'm talking to the shoulder."

"The shoulder says that it understands, too."

Without warning, her hand lashes out, forcefully connecting with where my arm and body meet. I almost double over in pain as wave after wave of agony courses throughout my upper body. "That's what I thought," Paige huffs, digging into her bag. She looks around once, twice, before extending a hand my way. "I'm trusting you."

Staring back at me is a small white caplet. A pain reliever of sorts. Bigger than your typical over-the-counter stuff, I assume it to be a muscle relaxant. "No way," I say, head involuntarily shaking. "You don't trust anybody."

"I'm well aware," she almost snaps, extending the hand further. "Don't give me anymore reason not to."

And so I do, but not on the basis of Paige's blunt persuasion. More so due to the ache that hasn't left my shoulder since last week. Due to the handful of scouts in attendance today. Due to one in particular, who dons a red jacket and subsequently decides which way my future will sway.

Paige must recognize my apprehension, too, because she nods. I nod back, and then we head out.

Here's the thing about competing while under the influence of any medication, prescribed or not: it's a particularly methodical process. One that should be thought out well in advance. That way, your routine can be tweaked in accordance. You can allow the aide proper time to run its course, adequately prepare yourself physically, and shake the fog before race time comes.

Here's the thing about accepting Paige's secretive offer minutes before competing and still expecting to perform well: don't.

I can already feel the familiar buzz course through my veins, dulling the shoulder's ache. It, however, branches off to other sects of my body as well. Limbs, joints, thought process. The rationale I would typically use in judging distances and timing flips has been altered. Namely, it's been fucked beyond belief.

But I can't tell Paige any of this. After all, it's been her idea for the last seven minutes.

The edge has disappeared, though. The other competitors, as fierce and well-practiced as they seem, are miniscule. All surrounding noises dull in comparison to the hazy fog that succumbs my thoughts. As does effective use of my limbs, it appears, for I find that walking to the pool's edge is a feat within itself. And as Paige attempts to shoot me a comforting smile, I can't shake the feeling that, as all other suggestions on her part, this one has been a grave mistake.

But there is no time for analysis. Not as our race is presented next. Not as BHB leans into my ear and whispers, "Are you all right?"

I shake my head clear. Nod once. Motion a hand towards the platform.

There is no pep talk from Paige. Only tense silence.

It goes without saying that when my time comes, as does every external force that's been building up until now. I'm no longer pulling anchor, but swimming third, only to be followed by my roommate. Which is probably just as well, considering that I perform nowhere near par. Not even close. In fact, I put our team behind a full three seconds. It's a time lapse that not even Paige can account for.

Second place should feel better. After all, it's not third. But anyone who knows me well enough knows that second is only a title that the first loser openly welcomes.

There's a snag, though. At least that's what I account for BHB's current frenzy. Because, as the winning team cheers insistently, he's thumbing through a small, handheld book. Pocket-size. And then he's dashing off, meeting the race's official, pointing furiously at one of the lane's dividers. It's slightly askew, but nothing you couldn't blame on the shifting of water.

His argument must be enough to convince the official, for the man with a starting gun in his hand motions to another. Paige stands patiently at my side as more men and women are ushered around our big-headed friend, chattering intently.

With enough time, there's a collective shrug. And then the patting of a microphone. And the announcement of some unheard of infraction on the winning team's part. One warranting a five second penalty. One that conveniently covers Emily Fields' ass and puts the band of misfits in top spot on the leaderboard.

Paige is as ecstatic as ever. She even takes a moment to call out, "YOU SLY SON OF A BITCH. Why, I could—" We never hear what she "could" do on the basis of her currently doing it. "It" being the sheer act of placing the sloppiest, most slobber-filled kiss on the boy's mouth. "You've served your country well," she finishes, gently slapping BHB's cheek. He grins, tucking the pocket-sized rulebook under his arm.

I'm about to equally congratulate and thank my mentor when Paige's attention shifts over, grabbing my upper arm and leading me into a dead corner of the arena. "There will be a scout waiting to speak with you," she drones in our vacant space. "Now sober up."

"I'm fine," I manage.

But her hand pat, pat, pats away at my cheek. I try fighting it off, only to be overpowered. "Come on," she hums. "Pull yourself together."

There's no denying that pulling myself together is most difficult. Especially with the tingling sensation that rests within my toes. But, in a last ditch effort, Paige pushes her lips so fervently against mine that I'm afraid I'll actually swallow her. It works, though, if only momentarily. Because I blink twice, nod, and manage to crack a smile.

The scout takes a moment to speak with me, but it's nothing too promising. Instead, we just awkwardly stand around, watching some of the other groups compete. He's far more interested in analyzing technique than discussing the likelihood of my acceptance. That is, until he references his clipboard before casually mentioning, "I was rather excited about witnessing such a highly-acclaimed athlete compete. Your teammate spoke most highly of your abilities."

I look across the way, where Paige is busy administering a noogie to BHB's misshapen head. "But?"

He chuckles. "But you should know that you're up against some hefty candidates." His eyes cut toward a girl who pulled anchor for the team in red. The team BHB just snagged on a technicality. "Pass the Athletic Admittance Test with flying colors and the odds will surely slim."

"Tests aren't really my forte," I nervously and quickly explain. Insightful or academic, Emily Fields is absolute shit when it comes to passing an examination of any kind.

He huffs while extending a hand. We shake. "Well, I'd seek out some help from my friends." A finger motions to Paige. "Because I'd say that they're the ones most betting on you right now."

And just as he turns to leave, I call out, "Before you go, might I ask what was so appealing about my recommendation? Exactly what made you come watch me compete?"

"It was…poetic, to say the least," he says. "I hadn't heard stuff like that in most wedding vows. But we look for character in all applicants. Good moral standing above all else."

"Even if…" I begin, nearing the most obvious point. The team I'm currently representing. The name that is currently attached to mine.

But the scout puts a hand up, dismissing any further explanation. "We're not here to judge," he says. "Everyone's got their troubles. Just keep your head down and finish strong. We'll sort the rest out later."

"Thanks," I mutter just as sheepishly as before.

He smiles. "No need to thank me." A last glance is flashed to Paige before our conversation ends with, "She's got the most riding on you."

"Off," Paige directs to BHB, who pouts while sitting on the edge of her bed.

"But she got the question right," he whines.

"This may be America, a place where you earn a medal for just showing, but I play by no such rule," Paige explains, bending the boy's upper body over as she peels his shirt completely off. "Now off with the pants, too, or I'll strip them from your sad excuse of a prepubescent body."

This is what I get for taking the scout's advice. Days later, for mentioning my nervousness in regards to the admissions test. An hour-long study session conducted by Paige.

I sit atop my own mattress, uncomfortably looking on the latest exchange between their pair. For every question I answer correctly, BHB removes an article of clothing. And considering his scrawny, frail body as it shivers against the room's lack of proper heating, it would probably be more productive for him to undress should I be wrong.

Paige shoots the shirtless and now pantsless boy a cutting glance before returning her attention to me. "History question," she calls out, reading from a sheet of notebook paper. "Declaration of Independence. When was it put into full effect?"

"December seventh," I answer too confidently.

"Christ," she quickly deadpans, chunking BHB's balled up t-shirt across the room. "Fields, you can be honest with us. Is there something wrong, you know, up there, or are you really just that dumb? Because Bob here is but two socks short of things getting really weird."

I look to BHB's pleading eyes. His shivering body. "For the love of all that is decent, please give this next question your best," he begs. "It's cold, Emily. And I'd hate for a fourth party to join this mix."

Paige makes a gagging noise as I nod. She then the ruffles the page one last time before asking, "If Emily Fields, dumbass extraordinaire, swims at a pace of three feet per two seconds with her fourth grade comprehensive level in tow, what are the odds of her being accepted into Stanford University?"

This needs no thought. "Slim," I groan.

My roommate's hands shoot into the air. "Hoorah, hoorah. You're thoroughly fucked." She looks to BHB before deadpanning, "Come on, Roberto. Maybe popsicles can soothe the burn of Fields' impending doom."

I flop back into bed as the boy hurriedly dresses. They go to leave, but Paige lingers behind in the doorway. "You were right," I absently mumble. "I'm fucked."

"Thoroughly," she mumbles in return, patting the door's frame twice. "Ten-foot-pole fucked. Ten foot pole and—

"I get it."

She chuckles. "You're pretty upset about this, aren't you?"

"Thoroughly," I mumble again.

She huffs. Loudly. Loudly and aggravated. "All right. I'll take care of it then," she finishes, pulling the door to.

The news comes by way of telephone. A congratulatory call. The coach himself, the man I'd spoken with days ago, has ringed Dr. Evans to tell me of the most recent unfolding. "We have an opening, and you fit the bill," he says optimistically.

I, being the ever-curious soul, dumbly ask, "Shouldn't the process take longer? I've only just finished the paperwork."

"No need to worry. An applicant that's just dropped out has insisted that your name be carefully considered, and we agree."

"Paige," I groan.

"Weirdest thing. She's made it explicitly clear that should anything go awry within the next couple of weeks, she'd gladly forgo the opportunity in exchange for yours. Odd girl, your friend."

I don't stick around for the conversation's end. Instead, I barrel down the hallway at full speed, not stopping until the room's door slams behind me.

"You've really outdone yourself," I say, trying to sound as snide as possible. "I mean, being gracious enough to forgo a college education for someone else is rad and all, but—" but my next quip is cut off by Paige's violent snickering. She's practically doubled over on her bed, openly laughing at my duress. "Paige."

More laughing. Nothing coherent on her part; just the sounds of giggle, giggle, snort. Repeat. "I'm sorry," she eventually mutters, one hand on her stomach and another motioning towards me. "But how is anyone supposed to take you seriously when you're using 'rad' as common speak?" She begins revving up for another bout, but I groan and storm off to the bathroom.

It's a moment before Paige's reflection appears in the mirror. Her cheeks are flustered. Eyes red. "All right, all right," she surrenders, hands in the air. "I was being an ass. Not anymore. Talk."

"Swimming's not your deal anymore and I get that," I breathe, turning around and posting up against the sink. "But you can't go around doling out your scholarship like it's nothing. It is something, okay? Something that I can't just pretend like I've earned on my own. You get that, right?"

She chuckles again, cocking an eyebrow. "Oh, so we're not pretending now?" She begins frantically thumbing at the crook of her neck. "May as well go ahead and peel of the mask, yeah? It's absolutely itchy as shit."

"I'm trying to have an argument," I casually point out.

"And I'm in no such mood," she chimes, winking and darting off into the bedroom. Then she stops, reappearing in the bathroom doorway. "But I will venture a guess and say that you're an absolute joy come Christmas. Thanks, Mom and Dad, but I'm no charity case. I haven't earned this purse." Paige flips her hair wildly and trounces out yet again.

I groan and roll my eyes, extending both arms wide to the sky. "A little bit of help is all I ask for," I grumble to whoever's listening. In the room, Paige swan dives into bed. "Listen, it's a lovely gesture," I say. "But if it means that you're not going to school, then—"

"Who said anything about me not going to school?" she interjects. "Because the master plan still involves me tormenting your ass as frequently as possible." Paige pauses. Huffs. Bites her lip. "How's your shoulder, anyway?"

"Still trying to have an argument," I grumble.

She's back to laughing again. Doing that subtle head dip and what not. "Okay. How's your shoulder, asshole?" And before I can muster a witty response, she's patting the material in between her legs, motioning for me to sit. I resist. I resist up until she cocks yet another eyebrow, lips pursing in a disapproving manner. At this point, my defenses cower.

As two legs part for me to sit, two hands begin softly but roughly massaging the bruise. I wince, which only seems to heighten her efforts. And as they begin to dig more furiously, my hand lashes out, squeezing the life from her calf. "Point proven," she coughs, grip softening. A hand then snakes its way up the back of my shirt, lifting the material until my arm is in full view. "I was going to say," she casually hums, "is that it's well understood that I'm a girl who gets what she desires. After all, we both got to see Bob in his underwear."

I take a moment to chuckle, shaking my head. "But I've also said that you're a girl who actually gives a damn about things, and that's rare. Especially these days, when apathy is the easiest of all." She digs in again. I lash out again. "Nobody's giving you a scholarship. You've earned it. So just think of it as a gift from one friend to another, and nothing more."

"We're not friends," I quickly groan, shoulder all but deadening as she progresses.

Paige halfheartedly laughs. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but we've been about as friendly as two people can be. Friends that talk with their mouths super close together, sure; but friends, nonetheless."

"We were merely two adults having an adult conversation," I note, eliciting a chuckle from her. "Your words, not mine."

"Then it's safe to say that Paige McCullers is absolutely full of shit." I nod fervently, to which she thumps my ear. And then we're both momentarily caught up in a mix of thumping and nudging and reach-around slapping. It's all playful, of course. But as we regain position, I allowing her to poke and coax the blood in my shoulder, Paige's chin eventually settles on the spot where her hands should be. Breath trickles against the underside of my ear as she mutters, "It's perfectly okay to accept help."

I lean back just a little, allowing her head full access to the top of my shoulder. "And it's perfectly okay to admit when you need it, too."

She nods against the crook of my neck. Minutes pass with us sitting like this. "See? Awfully nice, isn't it?" she eventually hums into my ear again, arms sluggishly wrapping themselves around my stomach. "Having things work out for a change? Like, even when you couldn't have possibly fathomed them in the first place? Even when the past and surrounding present say that they probably shouldn't be happening?"

I'm about to formulate a mysterious enough response for Paige's liking when it happens. When a pair of lips place the gentlest, most chaste kiss to my shoulder. The back of my neck. The other shoulder blade. "Why'd you do it, Paige?" is what my mind is dying to ask. "Is it from the guilt of making me perform poorly? Or is there zero emotional connection to your most recent reckless endeavor?"

For some reason—the obvious one—my mouth cannot form the words. Not when she's being all mysterious and I'm trying to be mysterious but neither of us is actually being that mysterious. It's too point blank. Not "point blank" in the sense of a gun to your head, close enough whereas one could smell the last dead man's favorite cologne. More of an abrupt approach. In your face. Like that one answer on a test that's so obvious it's creepy, for you've convinced yourself that nothing could ever be that easy.

Nothing is ever simple with Paige.

This, though; this is left field type behavior. Which I've become accustomed to, sure, but it still throws me from time to time. Makes me say and do very out of character things. Like sit here, not so much as budging an inch while Paige effortlessly trails her mouth along my upper back. And then, as quickly as she began, she quits.

I dare to sneak a glance back, halfway expecting a sly smirk or devious grin. Instead, Paige's eyes are narrowed in as her fingers work against my shoulder. So, playing along with the charade once more, I mutter an almost soundless reply.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."