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Title: Maddy-cures (Sequel to Maybe It's Madelyn)
Fandom: Hockey RPF, Chicago Blackhawks
Pairing: Jonathan Toews/Patrick Kane
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 3585
Summary: The road to the Cup is paved with nail polish, apparently.
Notes: My apologies for the bad puns, I just can't help myself. For Lyn, who pre-read this and loved it enough to convince me, and the rest of the #hockeygirlfriends / #birdsinthebush, who make loving hockey more fun than I ever expected. Also for everyone who commented or left kudos on the first part, further proving the fact that hockey fandom is the nicest fandom.

This is not realignment compliant, cos I still don't really get it. Crossposted at AO3.


By the time the playoffs start everyone has picked up on the nail polish thing.

The media coins the phrase Maddy-cures. Hashtags like #maybeitsmadelyn trend every time the Blackhawks win. BHTV sets up a manicure table in the locker room at the UC and films Maddy painting Johnny and Patrick’s nails. The team gets approached by Touch to do a collaboration on a line of team color polishes and they ask the Sharps to be the spokespeople.

It’s a little nuts.

Patrick thinks back to the first time Maddy had painted his nails, a fairly normal day of him hanging around the Sharps’s house, playing NHL ‘15 with Sharpy while Abby and Maddy played dress-up. Abby had painted Maddy’s nails first, then let Maddy give her a makeover, which basically meant Maddy covered Abby’s face in blush and brown eyeshadow.

Maddy had come at Patrick next, descending on him with a giant brush covered in scarily pink powder, and Sharpy had laughed his ass off while his daughter rouged Patrick’s entire face. Patrick was a good sport about it; he loved Madelyn to death and would pretty much let her get away with murder, and besides that he’d grown up with sisters and was used to having barrettes in his hair and lipstick on his mouth.

It’s crazy to think now how that innocent day of playing with Maddy had turned into the team leading the league in points and flying through the first round of the playoffs, sparkly red nails inside their gloves.

It’s also crazy to think of how the nail painting thing had gotten him and Johnny together, or back together, depending on who you talked to. Being in a real relationship with Johnny now makes Patrick realize how fucked up their previous relationship had been. They actually talk now (about things other than hockey, like their feelings) and it’s still weird but it’s so good. Johnny doesn’t clam up or shove Patrick to hide his attraction, and he doesn’t try to mask his want in extra drills or suicides or glowering about only winning 95% of his faceoffs.

He’s still a grumpy fucker with a short fuse, but that’s part of his charm.

The conference semifinals are a breeze, because the Kings somehow managed to shit the bed in their first round and let the Wild of all teams through, and the Blackhawks take the series 4 - 1, ending with a particularly raucous game at the United Center. Patrick scores the first goal of the game on a power play in the second period, on a pass from Johnny that literally slides through the skates of two Wild players, and when Johnny knocks him into the boards shouting, they both look up at the screaming fans to see red sparkles everywhere.

Man, woman, and child, anyone in an Indian head sweater is banging their knuckles against the glass, painted nails out, and Patrick actually gets choked up seeing it, shares an awed look with Johnny who is laughing breathlessly as they get caught up in the rest of the guys barreling into them.

There’s a euphoric vibe in the locker room after, more equal to a Cup win than a regular playoff win, minus the spraying champagne, and the media pours into the room, swarming around with their iPhones and cameras. Laz sticks a recorder in Patrick’s face, and he’s grinning like a madman. Patrick grins back, waiting for the question, and Laz shakes the recorder, flicks his eyes down.

Patrick looks, sees Laz’s thumb pressed to the record button, the nail painted gold-flecked red, and totally loses it.

He’s still swiping tears out of his eyes and choking down laughter when the reporters calm down enough to start asking questions, and Johnny’s shaking his head across the room, smile so wide it looks like it hurts.

The team goes out to celebrate, descending on their favorite bar in droves until the place is half-full of awful, patchy beards. Patrick’s at the bar, bopping his head to the music on the jukebox, up first to buy a round. The bartender catches his eyes and gives him the nod, pouring drinks for a group down the end of the bar. When he’s done he wipes his hands on the towel over his shoulder and Patrick can see his nails are painted.

It’s a little mind-boggling, really, and Patrick’s still reeling a little, from the win and the thought that there aren’t any clean fingernails in the whole city of Chicago right now, and he’s probably gaping like an idiot when the bartender comes to a stop in front of him, laughing a little.

“Great game,” he says, and holds out a fist for Patrick to bump. “First rounds on the house.”

Patrick takes a tray full of beer bottles back to the table and hands them out, and Johnny slings an arm around his shoulder when he drops into his seat.

“You alright?”

Patrick looks around the table, eyes wide. “The bartender’s nails were painted,” he says, and Sharpy throws his head back and laughs. Everyone else joins in, Patrick included, and they clink their beer bottles together, gold glitter sparkling in the dim bar lights.

Patrick’s the warm and fuzzy kind of buzzed that he loves, giddy and flushed and tingling all over as he presses himself to Johnny’s back, sliding his fingertips into the pockets in Johnny’s trousers as Johnny fumbles with his keys.

“Gotta get the door open,” Johnny says, grumbling a little as Patrick pulls his hips back, presses his own hips forward. Johnny grunts a little, the key just missing the lock on his condo door, but he grinds back against Patrick’s groin in a really satisfying way.

“Try harder, Johnny,” Patrick says, grinning against the nape of Johnny’s neck. “Soft hands, you can do it.” He punctuates his sentence with a roll of his hips, and Johnny gets the door unlocked, shoves it open and gets a hand around one of Patrick’s wrists to keep him in place as they shuffle inside.

Patrick stays plastered to Johnny’s back, and Johnny kicks one leg backwards between Patrick’s to get the door closed, fingers locked around Patrick’s wrist as he stumbles awkwardly towards his room - their room, Patrick thinks, because he’s slept there every night they’ve been home, and it’s covered in Patrick’s stuff.

“If you want to get me out of these clothes you’re going to have to let me go,” Johnny says, but he’s laughing a little, bumping back against Patrick to try to dislodge him as they go through the bedroom door. Patrick whines against Johnny’s neck but drags his hands out of Johnny’s pockets, catching the edges of his jacket and pulling it off as he goes.

He tosses it over the back of a chair because he knows how Johnny gets about his clothes, but he drops his own jacket on the floor because he’s not nearly as uptight, and Johnny frowns but doesn’t say anything, eyes following Patrick’s fingers as he undoes his tie, unbuttons his shirt.

“Your nails are chipping,” he says, and Patrick blinks, taken out of the moment slightly, looking down at his hands. Johnny shrugs, sheepish, and peels his shirt off. “Have to get a touch up before the next series.”

“Is that really what you want to talk about right now?” Patrick asks, and works the zipper of his pants open. Johnny’s eyes get darker, so close to black it makes Patrick shiver, and drop to Patrick’s groin.

“Nope,” Johnny says, voice gravelly, and reaches for Patrick, shoving at the waistband of his boxers.

“Didn’t think so.”

Patrick does get a touch up before the next series starts, Maddy holding court at the little manicure table at the UC, the rest of the team gathered around in the video room, blowing on their nails as they watch game footage with the coaches.

Q pulls on his mustache carefully, not wanting the bristles to scratch his fresh paint, and pauses the video, letting the other coaches point out how the Ducks’ goalie’s glove doesn’t get up fast enough, but his stick side is nearly impenetrable, how their penalty kill is weak if you get the puck moving fast enough. Maddy has her tongue between her teeth, concentrating hard on Patrick’s nails, and he has to grin at how seriously she’s taking her job now that she seems to understand the significance.

“You’re doing a great job, kiddo,” Patrick says, and Maddy lifts the brush before beaming up at him.

“Thank you,” she says, all prim and proper, and Sharpy cranes his head back where he’s sitting with Duncs to give her a smile. “I want you and Daddy and Uncle Johnny to win a Cup, so I have to do a good job."

“That’s a big responsibility for such a little thing,” Patrick says, and presses his mouth into a line when she scowls at him.

“I’m not little,” she says, one hand on her hip.

"Sorry, sorry.” He smiles until she softens, shaking her head of dark hair and returning to her task. “You know, if we don’t win it’s not your fault.” He doesn’t want that looming over her head. He’s sure Sharpy’s been going over it with her, but he wants to make sure she’s not feeling the weight of a Stanley Cup on her still tiny shoulders. Last thing he - or anyone - needs is for her to turn into a mini-Tazer.

“I know. Daddy says I have nothing to do with the losing, just the winning.”

Patrick laughs, and when she finishes his polish with a decisive swipe of her brush and screws the cap on the bottle he leans forward over the table and gives her a peck on her cheek.

“You are my absolute favorite, did you know that?”

Maddy giggles and shoves at his shoulder, rolling her eyes in a perfect imitation of her father. “I know, Uncle Kaner.”

He grins, and helps her climb down from her stool, making sure she’s secure in Sharpy’s lap before dropping down in the empty seat next to Johnny.

“You’re going to make their goalie look like a fool,” Johnny says, grinning over at Patrick.

Patrick waves his hands around even though he’s been told it doesn’t actually make the polish dry faster, and smirks. “Duh.”

Patrick does make their goalie look like a fool, his patented slow-mo deke and shoot move in the first game shootout going right over his glove. Patrick saves his laughter for when he’s in the middle of a pile of Blackhawks on the ice, because he’s a good sport, of course, and clomps into the dressing room with a smile on his face.

They sweep the Ducks, and they’re in the Stanley Cup Finals for the first time in five years, and Patrick feels unstoppable.

The night before game one, Patrick and Johnny spend two hours taking each other apart with their fingers and their mouths, panting into the cool air of their hotel room, the unfamiliar sheets getting damp and wrinkled underneath them. Johnny curves himself around Patrick’s body after, skin sticking together in a way that should be uncomfortable but is actually the exact opposite, and laces their fingers together against Patrick’s chest.

“We can do this,” Johnny says, his breath wafting warm over Patrick’s neck, and Patrick can feel the determined set of his jaw. Patrick looks down at their fingers, slotted together and tipped with sparkling red, and grins, sure.

“We’re going to do this.”

The series is rough. They have great momentum but so do the Habs, and the first two games are on the road. They drop one and win the second in the scrambliest overtime period Patrick has played in a long time, and he’s feeling worn down in a way he hasn’t since the playoffs started, unsettled in his skin but too lethargic to do anything about it. He sleeps restlessly on the plane, and then that night at home, jostling Johnny so much he grumbles nonstop until Patrick gets up and goes out into the living room to pace himself into exhaustion.

The next day Sharpy invites them back to his place after practice, saying they all need to loosen up a little, get their shit back together. Patrick thinks of lounging around the Sharps’s patio with a beer, Maddy on his lap while Abby laughs at Sharpy’s grilling skills, and nods at Johnny, who accepts the invitation for the both of them.

Maddy does her usual routine of throwing herself at Patrick’s legs as soon as he comes in the door, and he scoops her up even though he thinks she might be getting too big to be carried around on his hip. The thought makes him sad, in that way that growing up always has, even if this time it has nothing really to do with him.

“You’re getting big, you know that,” he says, and Maddy gives him such a good “well, duh” look that he laughs, pressing a hand against his chest where it aches a little.

“I’m four and a half, Uncle Kaner. That’s almost five.” She holds up her hand, little fingers splayed. Patrick lightly slaps it with his own, making her giggle.

He totally monopolizes her time while they’re there, making her show him all the cool stuff she’s learned in preschool, asking her to draw him pictures at the patio table.

He takes a few home with him, to cover up the old ones he’s been sticking to the front of Johnny’s fridge, and he stares at one in particular almost the whole way home.

“What is that anyway?” Johnny asks, glancing over when they’re at a red light, and Patrick runs his fingers over the rough crayon lines.

“That’s us. With the Cup.”

Johnny looks closer, leaning over the console. “Is that Maddy?” He points to the smallest figure, the curved lines of dark brown for her hair, and the little peach arcs of her arms up over her head. There’s a smaller version of the Cup there, an hourglass shape of silver crayon, and Patrick grins at it.

“Yup. With her own Cup.”

Johnny laughs, looking back out at the road as the light turns green. “If we win, we’ll have to get her one. Since she’s a good part of the reason we’ve got this far.”

Patrick looks over at Johnny, a small smile on his face as he squints through the windshield, his fingers tapping on the wheel. “I love you,” he says, and it’s not the first time, but it’s one of the times that’s felt the most imperative.

Johnny flicks his eyes over, smiling wider. “You too.”

The series goes to seven games, and all of them are rough. They’re down 2 - 1 at the second intermission of the last game, and they’re gassed. It’s pretty obvious, none of their passes are connecting and they’re making stupid penalties in their frustration. Patrick thinks, this is it, we’re going to lose, they don’t have enough to get one back, let alone two.

Q gives a rallying speech, and a laundry list of things they have to do better in the next period, and Patrick tries to steel himself for another rough period, tells himself over and over that they can do it, until he almost, almost believes it.

He follows Seabs out of the tunnel, head down against the screaming of the Montreal fans, and he can just barely hear two high pitched voices shouting his name.

Abby and Maddy are pressed against the glass, faces as red as their sweaters, Abby’s emblazoned with an A on the shoulder. Maddy doesn’t have an A on hers, because her jersey is a number 88, and she waves frantically at Patrick, her hand turned palm-in so he can see the flash of her nail polish.

Patrick grins and knocks his stick against the glass, feeling suddenly renewed, reinvigorated.

He skates his ass off, assisting on the goal that ties it up, then leaping up from the bench when Johnny scores the game winner with two minutes left in the third period. Patrick wishes for his mouthguard as he stares up at the clock, chewing on the inside of his cheek instead, half-standing as the time ticks down to zero, and then throwing himself over the boards as the final buzzer sounds.

The celebration is reminiscent of the last time they’d won the Cup, slightly subdued because it isn’t on home ice, but no less crazed and enthusiastic. Patrick almost kisses Johnny right there on the ice, and Johnny almost looks like he wants him too, but then they’re being pulled apart by their teammates, and they line up to do the handshakes.

Patrick does an interview, blinks tears out of his eyes and says “unbelievable” more times than he count, barely even thinking about what comes out of his mouth as he’s asked to compare this time to last.

“It’s even better,” Patrick says, catching sight of Johnny a few yards away, doing his own interview, Sharpy just beyond, grinning up at Abby as she carries Maddy down onto the ice. He shakes the reporter’s hand and skates off, dodging people to get to the Sharps.

Sharpy is eyeing Abby up like he wants to get her naked right there on the ice, and Patrick reaches for Maddy so they can at least make out a little without scarring their daughter.

“Uncle Kaner, you won!” she shrieks, and grabs two handfuls of his hair, her manic little face up close to his.

“We did,” he says, and she peppers his face with kisses, laughing about how he’s “sweatier than Daddy, gross.”

“D’you get the Cup now, Uncle Kaner?”

Patrick looks around him, trying to see over the sea of people crowding the ice, and finds where they’re laying out the red carpet, setting the Conn Smythe onto the pedestal. It goes to Johnny, of course it does, and Patrick flashes back to 2010, to Johnny skating towards him with the trophy in his hands, pointing and mouthing, “you should’ve won this.” Patrick feels like he might burst, standing there on the ice holding Maddy, watching Johnny skate towards him now, and he’s not mouthing anything at all but he’s smiling so hard, eyes on Patrick, that Patrick feels breathless.

Johnny hands the trophy off after he takes a few pictures, and comes to stand next to Patrick, one arm around both him and Maddy, hand twisted in Patrick’s jersey, as the Cup is carried out. Patrick can see the rest of the families coming out onto the ice, his parents and sisters followed closely by Johnny’s parents and brother, and Patrick’s eyes are stinging, his throat tight.

“Go ahead, babe,” Johnny leans down to say. “You know it’s acceptable for a dude to cry when he’s just won the Stanley Cup.” He grins down at Patrick before skating off to take the Cup, kissing it and then holding it over his head as he skates back towards the team.

Abby takes Madelyn right as Sharpy takes the Cup, and Patrick lines up for his turn. Johnny’s with the families, and Patrick sees his sisters jostling Johnny back and forth between them before surrounding him in a group hug, and he lets himself shed a few tears as he reaches up to take the Cup from Seabs.

He kisses it, skates around with it a little, the weight familiar and exciting, and soaks it in, then passes it off and heads towards his family.

“Uncle Kaner,” Maddy shouts, and he looks down at where she’s standing on the ice between her parents. She’s got her arms up over her head, the sleeves of her #88 jersey sliding down to pool around her elbows. Clutched in her hands she’s got a shiny silver cup, a smaller version of the one he’d just been hefting, and she’s grinning like crazy.

“What is that?” he asks, and Sharpy jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Tazer got it for her, apparently.”

“‘Cause I helped you win the big one,” Maddy says, and Patrick lifts her and her cup up to kiss her on both cheeks.

“Yeah you did.”

Patrick wants to kiss Johnny too, for winning the Conn Smythe, for winning the Cup, for getting a cup for Maddy, for standing in the middle of both of their families and looking at Patrick with his eyes dark and his smile blinding. But he refrains, grabbing him up in a crushing hug instead before launching himself at his family, letting his sisters cry all over him and wiping his eyes on his shoulders.

He kisses Johnny in the locker room, after the champagne and the media and the cameras, kisses him until his mouth is red and a little swollen and the other guys are hiding their eyes behind their hands.

“I can’t believe you got Maddy a cup,” Patrick says, pulling back and shoving his champagne-sticky curls off of his forehead.

“Too bad she can only drink apple juice out of it,” Sharpy says, brushing by and punching both of them on the shoulder. “Stop grossing out the kids and get dressed, we have to get back to Chicago so we can party.”

Patrick punches him back, but goes to his stall to pull on dry clothes. He can’t wait to see Maddy drinking apple juice out of her kid size Stanley Cup.



[M] :: Popfly
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