#I’ve also seen it as deadbolt shipping?

[emmuii-woods]

Wtf is citrus-shipping?

[carryonmywaywardcaptain]

Imagine...finding out there’s fanfic written about you--and even Charlie ships you with Dean

CarryOnCap’s Masterlist

Warnings: Fluff? Crack? A dramatic fanfic within a fanfic that I got carried away with haha.

A/N: This is kind of ridiculous, but I had fun with it! Also, I’ve never actually seen GoT but it seemed like a reasonable reference from what I’ve heard about it.

“Hey, look who I found!” Sam’s voice echoed through the War Room.

Dean glanced at you from across the table in the library, sharing your surprised expression as you both pushed your chairs away and stood. 

“‘Sup, bitches?” Charlie grinned, making her way up the steps toward you.

“Hey! We were expecting you guys to come in through the main door. We’ve been keeping an ear out.”

Charlie stepped into your outstretched arms and pulled you into a tight hug. “It was a spur of the moment decision, but I decided to stick around a day or two longer than planned! Sam said I could go ahead and park in the garage.”

She let go of you and turned to give Dean a hug too. He smiled softly with a look that was uniquely reserved for her, cradling the back of her head while she pressed her cheek against his.

“Good to see you, Charlie. You know you’re always welcome to stay as long as you want.”

An involuntary smile crept onto your face as you watched them. You couldn’t help the way your heart swelled at the low rumble in his voice when he said her name. There was an undeniable protectiveness in his tone when he spoke to her--the sister he’d never wanted, as he affectionately called her.

When you shifted your attention to her, you noticed she was watching you. Before you could decipher the knowing glint in her eye, she suddenly twisted out of his arms and glanced back and forth between you and Dean. She began swinging her arms awkwardly before opting to cross them over her chest.

“You okay?” Dean asked, furrowing his brow.

“Yeah! Of course...Totes chill...cooler than a pack of peppermints.” She bobbed her head and flashed a nervous smile, twisting her hair around her finger as she struggled to act nonchalant. “It’s just that I remembered something. A story I read a while back--completely random. Totally unrelated to anything--I mean, now I’m starting to ramble. Hah! So how’ve you guys been? Still saving the world from evil sons-of-bitches?” 

“Uh, yeah…” Sam answered, scrunching his eyebrows together. “We stay busy.”

“So what’s on the agenda tonight?” you piped up, changing the subject.

You were hoping to avoid swapping monster stories for a night. Charlie typically assumed the role of introducing you to popular and noteworthy fandoms during her visits to the bunker and, even if the boys weren’t as vocal, the three of you appreciated her knowledge of all things geeky and nerdy. 

“I was thinking Marvel. Y/N, you’re obviously well-versed in the MCU because of your obsession with Steve Rogers--and, you know, clearly you’ve got a thing for the strong, righteous, self-sacrificing hero type. Dean, you could stand to branch out from the Batman references and, Sam, you’ve got this whole Thor kind of vibe going on.”

While Sam and Dean began teasing each other and arguing over “Batman versus Thor,” you gaped at Charlie, wondering what she’d meant by her remark about you having a “type.” You couldn’t help feeling like she was trying to insinuate something, but you shrugged it off and decided maybe it was all in your head.

***

After getting Charlie settled into one of the extra bedrooms, the four of you settled into the Dean Cave and agreed to start with the first Captain America movie. 

Last Christmas, you and Sam had teamed up to surprise Dean with a couch for the Dean Cave. He had originally only had two La-Z-boy recliners and you’d found him fast asleep in the stiff old chairs on more than one occasion. Dean had been over the moon about the extra seating and the three of you had rearranged the furniture so the recliners were angled toward the tv on either side of the couch.

“Dibs on this side of the couch!” Charlie said, diving toward the furthest end from the door.

Although it was subtle, you knew there was still something off about the way Charlie studied all of you. There was definitely something on her mind she was trying to keep hidden from all of you.

“You know, we should probably have some snacks,” you said slowly. “Charlie, you want to come help me grab some stuff from the kitchen?”

“But I’m already comfy in my spot.” She frowned, wiggling her hips to make a point of sinking deeper into the spot she’d claimed on the couch. “Why don’t you have Dean help you?”

When you narrowed your eyes suspiciously, Sam cleared his throat. “Dean, why don’t I help you grab some snacks while Y/N and Charlie...catch up, er, whatever…”

You heard the boys leave the room and waited until their footsteps faded down the hall before you started interrogating her.

“Alright, Charlie--what the hell is going on with you?”

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” she muttered, scrolling through her phone.

“Bull. We lie for a living and I know there’s something you’re not telling us. So spill.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “Okay, so remember the Supernatural books by Carver Edlund?”

“Yeah…”

“The series obviously kind of had a cult following when it was in print, right? Well ever since the unpublished works got uploaded, the following has really taken off. Every once in a while a new one still pops up and the fans love them. And you’re in them now too!”

“I’m...what?”

“I mean it’s just insane and totally got sucked into it too. It’s brought on this whole new wave of fanfiction--”

“What’s fanfiction?” you cut in, struggling to keep up.

“It’s fiction made by the fans about the series. Sometimes they put themselves in the stories and write about working cases and fighting monsters with you guys--”

“Why would anyone want to pretend to do this crap with their lives?”

She stared at you for a moment and frowned. “Because you guys are heroes. I mean, yeah, there’s the whole depressing side of monsters and death and trauma and world-ending apocalypses--but you guys save people. You go on these exciting adventures of good versus evil and a lot of times you win. You save people. The fans really look up to all of you.”

Your gaze fell to the floor as you let her words sink in, but she didn’t give you long before she was rambling again.

“But that’s not even the best part! Everyone ships different OTPs--” she paused, noticing your puzzled expression “--uh, one true pairing… So everyone has a favorite couple they think are soulmates and belong together. There’s stories about Sam with Eileen or Jess, Dean with different people--you get the gist. Sometimes they even make up characters or do these ‘reader inserts’ and imagine themselves with the boys or you but, hands down, everyone’s favorite couple they want to end up together is you and Dean.”

“...what?” 

Your eyes grew wide. It was hard enough to wrap your mind around the fact that strangers who didn’t know you were a real person were reading about your life, but learning they imagined you in different relationships? You’d never admit it out loud, but had it bad for Dean. And hearing you weren’t the only one that wanted the two of you together...

“I’ve gone deep into the fic and I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner!” Charlie shook you from your thoughts. “You and Dean are perfect for each other. For serious. I usually stick to the fluffy stuff because, you know, your entire life is kind of angsty and I don’t like to read about you guys being in pain or, like, dying...again. Although I definitely have to admit I kind of stumbled into some of the smutty stuff and, wow, that was something else.”

You opened your mouth to ask more questions, but she kept rolling.

“Right, you probably don’t know what that means either. Fluff is the cute stuff that gives us all feels, angst is kind of just what it sounds like, and smut is, well...the sexy stuff.”

“You mean people out there in the world write about me and Dean…”

“Going at it like an episode of Game of Thrones? Oh yeah,” she responded, unlocking her phone. “Here. Here’s an example.”

Swallowing audibly, you took a seat next to her on the couch as she extended her phone toward you. Gnawing your bottom lip, you began reading the words on the screen:

Y/N took a deep breath, holding it in briefly before she exhaled and began walking toward Dean’s room. Ever since they returned from the hunt, Dean had hidden himself away in his room--no doubt blaming himself for everything that had gone wrong.

When she arrived at his door, she raised her hand to knock. She hesitated, almost retreating at the thought of him turning her away, but she had to try. She had to get through to him somehow.

She rapped her knuckles on the raw umber barrier and opened the door of Room 11 before he could tell her to go away. 

She spotted him leaning over the sink, staring at his reflection in the medicine cabinet on the wall. His jade eyes flickered to where she stood in the doorway, their reflection somewhat distorted by cracks that spiderwebbed from where he had struck the mirror.

Her heart seemed to drop into her stomach as she imagined him lashing out, knowing he punched the mirror because he hated the reflection staring back at him. Knowing he always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders when he didn’t need to.

Y/N carefully shut the door and locked it behind her--the click of the deadbolt deafening in the silence. Her eyes never left Dean, who refused to turn and face her. She inched toward him, closing the distance until she could reach out and touch him. Gently placing her hand on his shoulder, she guided him to turn away from the mirror. Still, he refused to meet her eyes.

“Dean…” she breathed, voice barely above a whisper as she cupped his face in her hands. “It’s not your fault.”

He squeezed his eyes closed, face contorting with grief and guilt. The ghosts of his past refused to let him go, but she was determined to make him believe that he was worthy, no matter the cost.

Curling a finger beneath his chin, she tilted his head up, waiting patiently for him to meet her gaze. When his dark green orbs finally met hers, she was surprised to see that they were full of longing and desire. They flickered to her lips, making her breath tremble under the intensity of his gaze. Time seemed to slow until it froze altogether.

Anticipation hung heavy in the air as they both struggled against their desire to maintain the friendship they’d always had and the desperate need to finally cross that line. To succumb to the magnetic pull that had always been evident between the two of them.

Dean swallowed thickly before suddenly rushing forward, crashing his lips to Y/N’s as he pulled her into a searing kiss. He wrapped his strong arms around her, trapping her to his chest, afraid it was all a dream and she would soon disappear. But she gladly melted into his embrace, feeling like she was finally returning home, to a place she’d spent her life searching for.

A moan slipped past her lips as he walked her backward, pressing her up against the wall. She gasped, feeling his--

“The snacks have arrived!”

You jumped in surprise, a small gasp of surprise escaping as the boys appeared with armloads of snacks. Confusion and worry painted Dean’s face as he surveyed your flustered expression. Between his scrutinizing gaze and the content you’d practically been caught reading, your cheeks grew warm. 

“Did I miss something?” Dean asked.

“Nope,” you responded much too quickly.

Charlie’s phone had fallen into your lap and, when she began cackling, you whipped your head in her direction and flung the phone at her thigh. You grimaced and the two of you had your own silent conversation as the boys spread the food across the bar Dean had built on the far wall.

“I was just telling Y/N how pumped I am about seeing my favorite OTP tonight,” she giggled.

“Your...what?”

Dean’s arm brushed yours as he plopped down on the other side of you. The accidental contact sent a wave of chills over your skin, making you shudder. You could feel his eyes on you again, but you refused to look at him.

“Oh, I’m so going down with this ship,” Charlie whispered under her breath before continuing in a louder voice. “Nothing--nevermind! Don’t mind me, just thinking out loud...”

“It says here an OTP means...one true pairing?” Your eyes grew wide as you looked to where Sam was reading his phone from where he sat in one of the recliners. “So, uh, ‘in the fandom realm, OTP refers to the coupling of characters--usually from the sci-fi or fantasy genres--by fans who think they make a great romantic duo and envision their lives together and share their imaginings with other fans.’”*

Charlie doubled over, beside herself with laughter. With your lips pressed into a firm line, you glanced at the boys to gauge their reactions. You knew there was no way they could possibly know what you and Charlie had been talking about, but that didn’t stop you from worrying about what Dean might think if he ever found out about the feelings you harbored for him. 

“So...you’re looking forward to Cap and his girl in the movie? I’m so freaking confused,” Dean grumbled.

“Yeah…” Sam agreed, making his way to the tv. “I’m just, uh...I’m gonna start the movie now.” 

“Good idea.” Charlie peered at you out of the corner of her eye. “Plenty of time to read and talk about all those ships later.”

Although you glared at her, trying to hide your amusement, nothing could deter the smug smile etched upon her face. As Sam turned the lights off and you settled in for another relaxing night with your favorite people, one thing was certain:

You were definitely going to have to take another look at that fanfiction.

CarryOnCap Crew (Forevers):

@abswritesfandoms​  @amanda-teaches​  @cosicas-cuquis​  @crist1216​  @droidyouseek​  @emoryhemsworth​  @ericaprice2008​  @flawless-disaster​  @janeyboo​  @jenn0755​  @ksgeekgirl​  @maresmiley​  @memyselfandmaddox​  @notyourtypicalrose​  @randomparanoid​  @rynabarnesrogers​  @sandlee44​  @scarletsoldierrr​  @shann-the-artist-moon​  @sheerioasteroidpanda​  @shynara51​  @someday-when-you-leave-me​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​  @thisismysecrethappyplace​  @torntaltos​  @waywardbaby​  @waywardrose13​  @weebid​  @whimsicalrobots​  @wintersoldierbaby​  @wintersoldierissucharide  @yesfanficsaremylife​

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[saffronwritings]

C L U M S Y | S H I N S O U PT.3

S H I N S O U | P A R T  T H R E E (Final)

I let you down I've been clumsy with your heart again

C L U M Y  M A S T E R L I S T

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: This started off shorter and then I redid one of the segments and welp here we are at 4.3k words. Oops! It’s not favoritism I promise. This is the “final” part to Shinsou’s CLUMSY series! I really hope you all enjoy! I’ll make a post asking what you all want to see next! :) 

Denki couldn’t remember what time Shinsou told him to meet up with him after his training with Aizawa-sensei, so he figured he was going to just sit outside of the gym until he saw his purple haired friend exit the locker rooms. It had become almost routine for the two to have after school hangouts, mainly so Shinsou could relax after a long day. Kaminari helped fill the void that he felt without being able to see you. Though, Shinsou was guilty that it had distracted him from talking to you on occasion. While Kaminari was sporadic and chaotic, it helped ease the stress that Shinsou was constantly under.

 However, Kaminari was surprised when he noticed the gym door was left wide open. Usually when he had ventured over to this part of UA, he would notice that the doors were closed. A privacy thing so that the students didn’t feel pressured or on-lookers wouldn’t intimate the said student. Had Aizawa-sensei cancelled his practice with Shinsou for the day? He was acting very strange the entire course of the day. He was extra grumpy and even before coming to check in on his friend, he had particularly felt bad for Shinsou having to deal with his sensei’s foul mood.  

 Curiosity got the better of the blonde boy, Denki decided to peek inside the small private gym, the ones teachers used to mentor students in, only to see Shinsou standing against a wall with his face pale and expression shocked. Shinsou had looked like he had either seen a ghost or had been told someone close to him had died. This immediately made the blonde worry for his new friend.  He had looked around cautiously to see if Aizawa was still in the room. When it showed that it was only the two boys just sitting in absolute silence, that is when Kaminari decided to speak up to figure out what was going on.  “Oi Shinsou, is everything-” The blonde started to say before Shinsou let out a scream of frustration. It reverberated a chill down Kami’s spine, making him flinch back.  

Suddenly gym equipment started to fly across the room in haphazardly ways. His screams and shouts continued while he was heaving equipment left and right. “I’VE WORKED SO HARD.” Shinsou shouted in his fit of rage. “I HAVE WATCHED UNWORTHY STUDENTS SIT IN LUXURY.” Kaminari sat in a state of shock, watching his new friend seemingly lose his mind. He wanted to go and comfort his friend, but he was afraid he was going to lash out on him as well. He opted to just let him get all of his emotions out, even if it wasn’t in a healthy manner. “I PUSHED SO MANY PEOPLE AWAY FOR A SLIVER OF A CHANCE TO PROVE MYSELF.” He spewed again, not noticing the tears starting to stream down his face. He had thrown everything within a few feet radius as hard as he could across the smaller gym room. 

He had looked over to Kaminari who was just standing there awkwardly, watching him, judging him. However, Shinsou was so out of breath he wasn’t sure if he even had any energy left to yell at the blonde for looking at him with such pity in his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, dude, but maybe you should take a breather before you hurt yourself.” Kaminari spoke cautiously, trying to not provoke Shinsou further. “You don’t get to tell me when to calm down! You don’t understand, you’ve had the privilege to just BE in the hero course!” Shinsou shouted at him, his eyes filled with both tears and rage. “But, you’re doing so well with your training! You were just talking to the support class to design your new gear!” Kaminari still tried to direct the conversation in a positive manner. 

The two had just discussed how he was getting one of the girls in the support class to design a vocal chord changing mask. Kaminari was super blown away with the idea of being able to change voices in order to trick their opponents. While Shinsou might have lacked the psychical strength, he was always good at diverting and making a plan for success. “It doesn’t even matter now! Don’t you get it deadbolt!? I not only lost my shot at joining the hero course but I also lost the girl I loved by pushing her away for this opportunity” Shinsou’s voice strained out, it being raspy from screaming and shouting. 

The blonde’s eyes widened in shock, realizing the situation at hand in front of him. He was watching Shinsou have a breakdown because for some reason, he had lost his mentor-ship with Aizawa. “What? What happened? You were doing great with your training!” Denki had pointed out making Shinsou flinch in embarrassment from those words. “Don’t you think I know that?!” The purple haired boy cried, clutching his chest in desperate attempts to not let his heart fail him now. Kaminari had also picked up on his specific wording, the girl he loved. Had he gotten into a fight with you the night before? As far as he was concerned, the two of you were fine. You guys had plans to meet up after practice the prior day. 

“Can’t you just fix all of this then?” Kaminari’s comment made Shinsou turn very angrily towards him. “If I could, do you think I would make this big of a mess and yell so loudly? Do you think I would have gone into a fit of rage, destroying the gym if i could just FIX it? I can’t, you dumbass! I screwed up big time!” Shinsou cried out more, finally admitting his defeat. His knees crashed to the ground and he fell over onto his hands. He couldn’t stop himself from breaking down completely in front of Kaminari. 

Kaminari knelt down next to him, placing a gentle hand onto the boy's back. Shinsou wouldn’t have noticed though, his entire body felt numb. He felt like he was plunging into a sea of darkness, swarmed with all his insecurities and doubts that he was ever good enough in the first place for such opportunities. With each gasp of air he took, he could feel himself drowning further into the waters that flowed over him like a flooding hurricane. Everything he worked for, everything he was aiming for was now just stripped from him.

You always kept him afloat with positive words that always helped him breach the waters that tempted to drown him. Like a ripping current he was being dragged under so quickly it was hard to breath. Kaminari was full of panic himself, watching Shinsou progress in his panic attack without fully knowing what to do. He wasn’t like Kirishima who could easily bring comfort to those in states like this. The blonde was tempted to go get help from one of his other friends but he was afraid of leaving Shinsou alone. 

What had he done that had gotten him kicked from the mentoring program and had made him lose you?

…

“Stop right there, Shota.” Hizashi’s voice rang from down the hallway of the teacher’s lounge. Aizawa was still steaming with fury that he hadn’t noticed how far away from the training gyms he was. He came to a halt to see the older blonde glaring at him. “You took that way too far. I don’t know the extent of what your daughter said on the phone, but hurting Shinsou that badly wasn’t justified.” He started spewing, getting angrier through his sentence. Aizawa narrowed his eyes at his friend. “He broke her heart.” The tired teacher said through gritted teeth. “You didn’t hear how upset she was over the phone. I’ve heard her get like that once and that was after the USJ incident with the league of villains.”

“Teenagers go through breakups and fights all the time.” Hizashi tried to reason with him. “You don’t have a daughter, Hizashi.” Aizawa quickly countered. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to hear your son or daughter call to you for help, sounding like they barely slept the night before.” Shota knew he was going way over the top, but if there was anything he would do, it was for the sake of his daughter.

His daughter wasn’t a planned idea, but there was nothing on the planet that Aizawa could love more. There was a reason he had made living arrangements and let little know about his daughter. The last thing he needed was for the league of villains to find out about you and to attempt to take you away from him. “No, but I know that you just crushed every hope that kid had for joining the hero course. Instead of punishing the poor kid who hasn’t been given a chance since he got here, why not help him out?” Hizashi started to try and reason with him.

“Help him out? After he hurt my daughter?” Aizawa growled through his gritted teeth. He could feel the headache forming in his temples from the day. He spent it so angrily, so filled to the brim with frustration. It was like he was getting hit multiple times in the chest with blow after blow. “You don’t even know what happened between the two! For all you know it could have been a misunderstanding. The last thing you want is for there to be no hope for your daughter to be able to make things up with the boy because you scarred him.” 

For once, Hizashi had a really good point. As much as it pained him to agree with the obnoxious blonde, he knew he was right. “I’m sure your daughter would appreciate the effort set forth by you.” He continued to push, making a groan leave Aizawa’s throat. “Fine, fine. If it will get you off my back, and if you really think this is a good idea, then I’ll go make things right. If not, I will not hesitate to hang you over a pool of sharks.” Aizawa threatened, making Hizashi smile widely at him. 

Hizashi treaded lightly behind Aizawa to make sure he would stay true to his word. The last thing he needed was for the man to slump over and fall asleep before missing his chance to fix things with Shinsou. He didn’t want to tell Aizawa, because he knew it would make him feel even worse about the situation, but he knew Shinsou had a soft spot for Eraserhead. The way the kid watched in admiration whenever he would explain something to the student said volumes. 

Aizawa was not happy about having to be the one to confront the boy who broke his daughter’s heart. Damn that loud mouthed Hizashi for bringing his daughter into the mix. He knew he was right but that didn’t make him any less happy about the situation. In no time flat he made it back to the gym only to notice that things were strewn about. Weights were all over the place, the sparring matt was upright against a wall instead of on the ground. He noticed Kaminari next to Shinsou, kneeled over and rubbed circles into Hitoshi’s back. He almost felt bad when he heard the soft sobbing that came from the hunched over boy. Until he took into account what he had done to his daughter.

Aizawa crossed the room and pointed for Denki to leave. The electric blonde did not hesitate to question his teacher’s instruction and left the gym quickly. Aizawa squatted down to Shinsou’s level and put a hand on his back. “Get up, kid.” He said in a husky voice, before standing up. Shinsou’s eyes shot open and his head shot up to look at him. Surprise and confusion flooded his face as he wasn’t sure why the teacher of class 1-A had come back to him. 

“Kaminari, if you don’t scram from eavesdropping from around the corner I will not hesitate to flunk you on your next upcoming exam.” Aizawa shouted loud enough so that his lingering student could hear. Both Aizawa and Shinsou heard shoes scuttling away from the door and down the hallway. He was about to tell Hizashi the same thing, but Shinsou had interrupted his thought process by saying, “Why did you come back?” Shota had noted his tone was defeated, and almost filled with hopelessness. 

“I was too harsh, I was overcome with my own emotions of protecting my daughter and lashed it out on you. You are a bright student and one that deserves a second shot.” Aizawa started to explain, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me Y/N was your daughter? I had been dating her for well over a year. You had to know what you were signing up for when taking me on as my mentor.” Shinsou questioned quickly, obviously still very confused from the situation. 

“I wanted to make you a hero good enough to protect her.” Aizawa admitted, shaking his head at his own thoughts. “I don’t know what you said to her to make her so upset she called me crying, but you need to fix it. However, being my daughter, she’s a stubborn headed mess. If I personally don’t help you, you may not have a shot of fixing it.” Shinsou’s eyes lit up with just a tad bit of hope. “You’re helping me?” Shinsou’s voice came out in a whisper. “In this regard, yes. If you think I’m going to be cleaning your mess here, you are sorely mistaken.” Aizawa said, however, Shinsou could hear a bit of playfulness in his tone.

…

You had been tempted to try and communicate with Shinsou after the blow-up the two of you had. However, judging on the last text you sent him, he had your number blocked. Even if he had unblocked your number, wouldn’t he have tried to reach out and make things better? This wasn’t the first quarrel the two of you had, obviously not to this degree. It had never gone on this long. The realization dawned on you the night before you were supposed to get together with your father, that maybe Shinsou was serious about not wanting you around while he went through his training. 

It didn’t help lessen the blow in the slightest bit. It felt like someone was stepping on your chest and every time you felt like maybe you had some semblance of a grasp on your own emotions, the foot would step down harder. You felt crippled without Shinsou in your life. Your phone felt like it had less purpose, even if you had texted a few of your other friends to attempt to try and fill in the void that Shinsou had left. You had missed the late night texts, staying up video calling with him and seeing the sleep slip further from his eyes during his studies. Your grades this past week alone had slipped quite quickly as you were unable to focus on a single word a teacher was saying. 

Your zombielike state had concerned not only your teachers, your classmates, but also your mother. While you tried to let it seem like it wasn’t bothering you that you had lost your best friend, you knew that your mother knew you better than that. What was worse was that she was probably keeping your father up to date on the current situation. You hadn’t informed either of your parents the details of your breakup with Hitoshi, and you hadn’t planned on it. The last thing you or your family needed was your father in jail for attempting to murder a minor. 

When the weekend came around, you were half-tempted to cancel on your plans with your father. You wanted nothing more than to accept the warm embrace your bed was giving you. While it was dragging you further into your pit of despair it was at least comforting. When your phone buzzed on your nightstand you weighed the options of just going back to sleep, you knew your father was persistent and would call over and over until you woke up. For a man who was tired all the time, he didn’t understand why teenagers sleep so much over weekend breaks. Groaning, you gathered all your strength to sit up in your bed and reach over to answer your phone. 

“We are still on for the movies today, right kiddo?”  Your father’s voice chimed not even a second after you had picked up the phone. “I was actually thinking of maybe a rain check?” You tried to push, but you could already feel him rolling his eyes on the other side of the phone. “I know you being a teenager and you probably aren’t even out of bed yet, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s not raining.” Sarcasm dripped from his lips and you wanted nothing more than to hang up and turn your phone off. You were in no mood for his antics for the day. 

“I’m just not feeling up to going today, papa.” You whispered after there was silence between the two. “I figured you would feel that way. Your mother has mentioned how you have been practically among the living dead this last week.” He recounted, making you curse under your breath for knowing your mother all too well. You had hoped that maybe, just this once she was going to keep things to herself. You should have known better. “I already bought the tickets ahead of time, and I’m not taking Hizashi or your mother.” Your father warned.

“Fine, I’ll get ready. I’ll meet you at the train station?” You sighed in defeat, knowing you would not win this battle. “Sounds good to me.” He said, before both of you hung up your phones. 

…

You stood at the entrance of the train station, checking your phone a few times to make sure that your dad hadn’t texted you that he was running late. You had attempted to call him twice already and he hadn’t picked up on either attempt. A sigh escaped your lips, wishing that you had just stood your ground on staying home and sleeping the weekend away. “Y/N?” If you hadn’t been frozen in place before, the voice you had memorized locked your feet into place. Suddenly your heart was racing immensely too fast and the wind felt like it was knocked clean out of your lungs. 

It wasn’t even fair, the way fate had played out for you this day. Not only did you dress in just leggings and a baggy hoodie, you had chosen a hoodie that you only now registered had belonged to Shinsou. Cursing your father for following through with your request for father daughter time, you finally looked up at the purple haired boy who seemed almost sheepish. He was wearing that cursed bomber jacket that you always loved on him, a simple t shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. In other words, he at least looked a million times more decent than you had. Not to mention your hair was thrown haphazardly into a messy bun and god knows you had dark circles developing under your eyes with your lack of sleep you had gotten last week. 

“You know out of the two of us for once I think you win in the department of needing some extra weekend sleep.” Shinsou tried to ease himself into conversation with you. The tension in the air was so thick that you were sure that you were suffocating on it. You had so many questions and so many emotions flooding you at once. Your mind was swirling like you were stuck on a teacup ride that you were trapped on. When Shinsou noticed your lack of response to his statement, he returned back to his awkward state of trying to figure out how to make things go back to normal. 

Anything would be better than this killer silence. He hated that it looked like you hadn’t slept in over a week and hated it even more than he was the one that caused you to be like this. His guilt was suffocating him for ever causing you this much pain for being so selfish. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms and to soothe your pains away. If it hadn’t been for Aizawa he wouldn’t have even been here. He would still be in his dorm, beating himself up for ever letting this distance drift you two so far apart. 

“If we don’t hurry, we are going to miss our movie.” Shinsou settled on saying, before turning to walk towards the direction of the movie theater. You whipped your head up so fast in confusion, trying to stammer out a sentence that made any sense. “Wha- I mean I’m here to meet with my dad.” You finally uttered, grabbing on his jacket sleeve to get him to stop walking. Immediately, Shinsou had reverted back to his nervous nature around you like he had once done when the two of you first started dating. 

“Your father gave me the tickets and wanted me to take you out as a way to apologize for my irrational behavior. I should have never snapped at you like I did or acted as immature as I did. I can’t even begin to imagine how it was for you to just be waiting for any kind of affection on my end. I blew you off after an entire month of not seeing you. I probably made it seem like I wasn’t as excited to see you, but I was too focused on my own stupidity to realize what was right in front of me.” He blurted out quickly, stepping closer into your own proximity. “I don’t deserve any kind of forgiveness, but if I didn’t try, I’m pretty sure Aizawa-sensei would personally either kick my ass or expel me.”

You were listening intently until Shinsou had mentioned your father’s last name. “Aizawa-sensei?” You reiterated, raising a shocked eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I was surprised too when I found out. I almost lost my entire chance at getting into the hero course all together because of how pissed he was at me for hurting you.” Shinsou murmured quietly. If your jaw wasn’t open in shock before, it surely was now. Had Shinsou not been standing right in front of you currently you probably would have called your father and chewed him out for his brash behavior. 

However, your heart swelled when thinking about how your father had stepped in to try and fix things between you and Shinsou. It must have been why he was so insistent on you coming to meet with him today. You had to remember to shoot him a text later calling him out on his conniving ways. “I know it’s probably embarrassing, your father stepped in on the situation, but honestly if it wasn’t for him I would have never had the courage to do this.” He said, grabbing your hand to hold in his own without hesitation. His hands were ice cold like they always had been, sending a chill up your spine. 

“I wanted to be a hero that you could be proud of but instead I turned into a selfish loser-” He continued, that is until you grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled his lips into your own. The chaste kiss made the nervousness melt away from both you and Shinsou. He relaxed into your touch, snaking his arms around your waist. You kissed him like you were afraid you would never get to kiss him again. When you were laying in your bed days after your fight you wanted nothing more than to be in the purple haired boys embrace. You had feared the last time you had seen him, the month before, was the last happy memory of being together. The time he had finally told you he loved you and the last time you two brushed your lips against one another's. 

Tears flowed down your cheeks when the two of you had pulled away, gasping for breaths. You felt dizzy from all the overwhelming emotions you were thrown through but you wouldn’t give anything up for this moment right here. For the boy you loved more than yourself to be in front of you. He cupped your face and wiped the tears that were escaping your eyes with his calloused fingers. “I’m here, and I am not going anywhere this time. I will fight everyday to be the hero you need me to be. I love you more than anything and I hate that I had to destroy something so beautiful to realize it.” Shinsou stated, pressing his forehead against your own. You nodded while sniffling, desperately grasping your hands onto his shirt. 

You threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into your embrace and he welcomed this touch. He ran his hand over your head and rubbed circles into your back. You couldn’t see but Shinsou had also started silently into your hoodie, getting intoxicated by your scent. 

Aizawa smiled to himself to see the two of you entangled in each other’s embrace at the entrance of the train station. People were walking by without having the slightest of a clue as to what was going on between the two. Aizawa took out his phone and snapped a picture of the two of you in your loving embrace. You’d probably scold him for it later, but he knew you would appreciate it later in years. He would chew out Shinsou once again on Monday, before following it up with the news of participating in Class 1-A and Class 1-B’s field training. Then warning him if he ever hurt you again he wouldn’t get off so easy. However, for now, he headed back to Heights Alliance to give you two the space you desperately needed. 

To be continued...? 👀

[Part One] [Part Two]

Taglist:

@uwu-iwanttodie​

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 27

I’m.......so fucking stoked to post this right now 

Ao3

“I need to stop and fill up,” Eretson mumbles ten silent minutes into the ride back to Fishlegs’ house. 

“How dare you?”  The silence shatters like physical bonds and Astrid sits up straight in the passenger seat, arms crossed to keep herself from hitting him. 

Or at least not hitting him yet.  She still might hit him, but not now, not until he explains where he left his brain. 

“I can make it,” he swallows, refusing to look at her, “the light comes on fifty miles before empty, anyway.” 

“Hiccup told me about the plea deal,” she tries to sound deadly but with her fists tucked away and her eyes tired, she’s not convinced that she gets the point across.  Especially when Eretson pulls up in front of Fishlegs’ house and looks at her with obvious pity, like she’s a kid and he’s about to have to explain that the fish he flushed down the toilet isn’t coming back. 

“We can talk tomorrow.”  Eretson gestures at the front door of Fishlegs’ house, porch light welcoming even now. 

“We can talk now,” she raises an eyebrow, “because I’m not telling Snotlout about this myself.” 

“Jorgenson will understand,” he shrinks a little under the statement though and she knows she’s struck a nerve.  Good.  If Eretson is stupid enough to put the idea of a plea deal in Hiccup’s evasive head, he deserves to look Snotlout in the face and admit it.  “He’s a cop.” 

“A cop who I haven’t seen put too many innocent people in jail on purpose,” she lets disgust leak into her tone and it’s enough that Eretson turns the car off with an efficient turn of the keys before climbing out of the car and striding ahead of her to the door. 

He doesn’t want to look at her right now, and that would make her want to get in his face if it wouldn’t put her expression in full display.  She doesn’t want to see her own face until she shoves useless despair back where it belongs, behind a wall of determination. 

“Detective Eretson?” Fishlegs answers Eretson’s knock and the other man holds up an almost surrendering hand. 

“Eret is fine.” 

“Is that like a nickname or something?”  Snotlout’s lying back on the couch, tossing a box of tissues up in the air and catching it.  He tries to lean up on his elbow, but it must hurt his stitches because he falls back again, the box hitting him in the face.  “Because it’s stupid, and I hate it.” 

“It’s not a nickname.” 

“No, it’s kind of just half your name.”  He sits up, using Heather’s shoulder for help even when she tries to shrug him off, obviously invested in the papers she has scattered across the floor. 

“How is that not a nickname?”  Heather snaps, smacking his hand away from her shoulder.  “Isn’t a nickname just a shortened version of someone’s name?” 

“Usually their first name, Heather, would you take me seriously if I went by ‘Jorg’?” 

“Probably,” she snorts, standing up and handing a piece of research to Astrid, highlighted and attached to a couple of sticky notes.  Something about the first canonical Grimborn murder and the despair fights against its cage.  “You know, since ‘Jorg’ is just Swedish for ‘George’.” 

“Why are you bringing up my name when this guy just announced that his name is Eret Eretson?” 

“You brought up your own name.” Fishlegs locks both of the new deadbolts he installed yesterday, his hand awkward on Hiccup’s borrowed drill, and if Astrid doesn’t hit someone soon, she’s going to scream. 

“Sixty-eight!” She settles for yelling at Snotlout, brandishing the research she doesn’t want to read like a weapon. 

“Why does that go on my tally?  Fishlegs was just the one talking—” His eyes widen and he holds his hands up apologetically, “wait no, I’m sorry Astrid.  So very sorry.” 

The apology is authentic enough to catch her off guard and she almost hits him anyway, for surprising her when she can’t tolerate anymore surprises, but it also gives her a moment to breathe and shrug and pretend she knows how to be reasonable. 

“It’s ok,” she bites her lip and gestures at Eretson, who she will not be calling by his first name because even though she lacks the bandwidth to agree with Snotlout right now, his name is stupid.  “Eretson has something to tell you.” 

“What?  Is your middle name ‘Son’?” 

“I talked to Hiccup today,” Eretson pulls the conversation back on topic and it’s anything but a relief.  Astrid wants to shout that she talked to him too, that he’s stupid and noble and not fine at all, but once again, that wouldn’t help anything.  “And introduced the idea of proposing a plea deal to implicate Grisly.” 

Snotlout frowns and looks between Astrid and Eretson before speaking slowly, “did he say no?” 

“He didn’t say anything,” Eretson shrugs, “I just told him to think about it.”

“Well, that was stupid,” Astrid laughs bitterly, “he doesn’t just think about anything, he obsesses over everything.” 

Snotlout and Fishlegs share a knowing look and Astrid raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Snotlout drops her question almost too gently, and she’d be suspicious if she had room for anything other than mounting panic at the thought of Hiccup following Eretson’s advice. 

“What was that look?” 

“There was no look,” Snotlout shrugs, looking back at Eretson. 

“It’s just that you calling Hiccup obsessive is a little…well, someone mentioned Viggo Grimborn outside your apartment a couple of times and now you’re involved in a copy cat murder investigation.”  Fishlegs says gently, if a little condescendingly, and Astrid purses her lips. 

 “A few times a night, maybe.” 

“And I don’t think you’ve been outside in days because you’re researching so frantically, so you calling someone obsessed—”

“Are you done?”  She cuts him off and he holds his hands up.  “Because I’m trying to talk about the horrifically stupid idea of Hiccup accepting some kind of plea deal.” 

“How exactly is it stupid?” Snotlout asks, too gentle, and she blinks at him. 

“Because he’s innocent?” Heather answers for her, “and admitting to something that he didn’t do isn’t the smart way to handle this?” 

“Plus, think about how it would look when this does go to trial,” Astrid points out and Heather nods in agreement. 

“A trial will take months,” Eretson says, too gently, and she hates when the truth doesn’t sound like a point.  “Months you have to keep looking, whether he takes the deal or not.” 

“Forensics should have enough for dismissal in months,” Astrid’s voice cracks and she forces it even, ignoring worried looks that she doesn’t want, “why do you think Viggo Grimborn wasn’t caught?  He wasn’t a criminal mastermind, it’s just that no one could fingerprint him or use a DNA sample.” 

“Forensics will be valuable at a trial,” Eretson’s measured voice makes her want to scream, like maybe if she’s loud enough she can force something to happen, “but it’s still about convincing a jury.” 

“I wish the news would stop covering it,” Heather mutters and Snotlout shoots her a look before talking. 

“What kind of plea would you even be asking for?” 

“I was thinking something along the lines of trading information in exchange for a reduced sentence,” Eretson fidgets with his sleeves, pushing them up and letting them fall back down, twitchy at the odds of getting yelled at again. 

“So, he trades the ‘insider information’ that Grisly is a sociopathic serial murderer and they ship him off to the nice prison upstate while they investigate,” Snotlout mulls that over for a second, “as much as I hate to say it, that’s not a bad idea.” 

“Really?”  Eretson flushes and clears his throat, standing up straight like his spine has been replaced by a curtain rod.  “I’ve been looking through Grisly’s case notes and I don’t like the idea of him having months to patch up the few holes I’ve found so far.” 

“Then what do you do a few months down the road when forensics prove that Hiccup had nothing to do with it?”  Astrid hates even entertaining the idea long enough to say it out loud and Heather seems to agree, nodding emphatically.  “But there’s a record of him confessing, what happens to that?” 

“Unless Grisly planted Hiccup’s hairs all over or something,” Snotlout says, a little desperate, worry leaking through in ways Astrid doesn’t understand.  “Either way though, it’s contempt of court or obstruction of justice or something and he can appeal—"

“So, more time in court, more chances for disaster,” she laughs, the thought of further disaster too heavy and impossible to take seriously, “all to tell a lie that’s going to be overturned by evidence anyway?” 

“All to get my couch back,” Fishlegs says quietly after a minute, appearing at Astrid’s side and putting an arm over her shoulders.  It’s shepherding as much as comforting and she digs in her heels against being herded. 

“You can stay with me,” Heather offers, and Astrid never thought she’d consider Heather the only other person with sense. 

“Your address is on file,” Eretson shakes his head, “it’s not safe while Grisly is still out there—”

“I don’t care,” Astrid shoves Fishlegs’ arm off, unsure how she’s the one in the corner when Hiccup is the one in the cell. 

“I do,” Snotlout is quiet, almost apologetic as he looks at her, “I’m getting pretty sick of hiding out while the guy trying to kill me gets to think he’s winning.” 

“So, Hiccup is supposed to confess to something he didn’t do so you can feel like you’re winning?”  Heather snips and Snotlout rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t talk to me about what’s best for Hiccup, you ditched him as soon as you disagreed about Vinyl Greenbean—”

“Then why are Astrid and I the only ones who don’t want him to lie during a criminal trial—”

Heather and Snotlout bicker like siblings, the kind of vicious back and forth perfected over years of disagreements, but something about their timing is off, like there’s a hole, a third voice supposed to flit back and forth alongside theirs.  Astrid can hear its absence louder than any memory of Hiccup’s voice and the thought makes her swallow hard, clinging to something looking more impossible every second. 

What if there’s no way to make this all go away?  What if she does have to find some way to move on with her life while trials drag out across weeks or months or years? 

She doesn’t want her life back, not while Hiccup isn’t in it.  Not while he doesn’t have his.  

“Enough,” Eretson cuts across the arguing with a tired, heavy order that everyone takes.  Snotlout turns to point at him, irritated, but he stays quiet as Eretson continues.  “None of this is going to be decided tonight, it’ll take time to talk through either way, so maybe it’s best to…”

“Hiccup’s already decided,” Astrid glares at Eretson one last time before sitting on the couch and diving into Heather’s nearest pile of research, hoping for some concrete fact large enough to drown out her fears. 

00000 

The memo to leave her alone must be delivered to appropriate parties, because she spends the next three days researching in relative privacy.  Ruffnut helps, which means she hangs around and talks about nothing in particular, but it’s better than Fishlegs’ quiet worry or Snotlout being a little too nice.  Ruffnut is at the archives when Eretson and Heather show up, looking official enough that it sends a thrill of cool fury down her spine.  

One of these days, Eretson is going to tell her that Hiccup accepted a plea deal and she’s going to hit him.  It’s inevitable and infuriating and it takes everything in her not to wish it would hurry up, even sarcastically. 

She’s not supposed to be the cynical one, there’s supposed to be someone else here to do that. 

“What do you want?” She doesn’t so much greet Eretson as warn him. 

Eretson glances suspiciously at Ruffnut before talking, “I was hoping—”

“We were hoping,” Heather tries to soften the tone of the situation and Astrid sighs, forcing her expression placid as she waves Eretson on with a falsely casual hand.

“There’s a piece of evidence I’d like your opinion on,” He produces a thumb drive and looks pointedly at Ruffnut again, waiting for her to take the hint. 

“Ooh, evidence?  I’m in.”  She intercepts the hint and runs with it, snatching the drive and plugging it into Astrid’s computer. 

“Actually, it’s sensitive,” Heather tries and fails to beat Ruffnut to the mouse and Astrid crosses her arms. 

“I trust her with sensitive.” 

“You do?” Ruffnut snorts, clicking play before Eretson can stop her. 

It’s a grainy, night-vision video of a man in a top hat and a long coat limping fluidly across the street in front of Astrid’s apartment building.  In the fifteen seconds shown, the figure never shows his face, instead leaning the hat closer to the camera as he raises a long arm upwards and covers the lens in what Astrid assumes is black spray paint. 

The time stamp is for the morning Hiccup got arrested, at 3:28am. 

“We know it’s not Hiccup,” Heather placates, and Astrid wipes her palms on her jeans. 

“Someone sure tried to make it look like him though,” she sighs, “play it again.” 

The second playthrough she tries to ignore the mocking in the swinging limp, the coat that hangs wrong, the arm that moves slowly through a calculated arc.  She succeeds enough to notice the hat, fluorescing just enough in the night-vision to make itself unique. 

“Look,” she pauses the video, pointing at a splatter of small smudges on the front of the hat forming almost a halo around a larger smudge on the top of it, “what’s that stain?” 

“I wondered that too,” Heather tries to take the mouse and Astrid bristles for a second before letting her, “but then I looked into the camera that Gobber put up and apparently it’s some paranormal detection model with a UV mode.” 

For the first time, something clicks just next to Grisly’s painted narrative, a single fallen leaf looped into an eddy instead of following the current all the way down. 

“Snotlout had Hiccup’s hat.” Astrid starts looking through her phone, hoping she texted someone or took some picture, something concrete to prove what she’s saying.  “The night he was over at my place and got shot.  But he didn’t have it at the hospital, so there’s no way that Hiccup had it the other morning.” 

“How do you know this is his hat?”  Eretson asks and Astrid points at the largest faintly glowing stain. 

“Toothpaste fluoresces,” she laughs, finally feeling like she might be getting somewhere after eons of dead ends, “that’s—I know I got toothpaste on his hat and the rest…if I had to guess, it’s blowback, from when Grisly shot Snotlout.  He must have taken the hat then.” 

“So, you’re saying the fact that you can prove it’s Hiccup’s hat…means it’s not him blacking out the camera?”  Heather looks at Eretson for corroboration. 

“The only proof we have against Grisly is Jorgenson’s testimony,” Eretson shakes his head, “and I don’t want to bring him in yet.  What about proof that Hiccup didn’t shoot Jorgenson and take his hat back?” 

“You saw him at the hospital,” Astrid tries, the memory of Hiccup strung out and exhausted tugging at heartstrings that must remain double-knotted if she has any chance of being useful through this.

“That won’t hold up in court,” Eretson shakes his head and Astrid wants everyone to leave so she can keep reading and figure out some magical way that this doesn’t go to court.

A way other than a plea deal that resigns Hiccup to being known as a murderer or at least an accomplice.  She just needs time and she can fix this.  She’s sure there must be a hole somewhere, no one is perfect, least of all Grisly. 

“Wait, before the hospital, he was with me,” Ruffnut supplies, crossing her arms. 

“What?”  Astrid tries to communicate her anger at not being told that little detail earlier with her eyes. 

“We were at the condos trying to sneak into Grisly’s office.”  She laughs, “we succeeded, and got caught and—oh wow, that’s not a funny story anymore knowing he was coming from shooting Snotlout.” 

“How was that ever a funny story?”  Astrid doesn’t expect an answer, but Ruffnut, as always, defies expectation. 

“It was hilarious, we were like pretending to be married—that’s how I grabbed his ass, remember?” 

Of course Astrid remembers, but she never thought the nonsense coming out of Ruff’s mouth and igniting useless little furls of jealousy would ever be pertinent to something this important.  She half thought Ruffnut was kidding to urge her into some kind of forward motion, and she didn’t really have a chance to get past half-thinking about the comment. 

“Does Grisly know you snuck into his office?”  Eretson asks, frustrated that it’s a question he needs to worry about but obviously relieved that he’s no longer obligated to report on its legality. 

“He caught me,” Ruffnut shrugs, “but Hiccup got out without Grisly seeing him.” 

“There goes that alibi,” Eretson mutters and Astrid tucks her hair behind her ear, trying not to feel defeated in her once sacred role. 

“I could—you know, I could go down to the station right now and—”

“I’m saving that,” Eretson says cryptically, a whisper in the mausoleum dedicated to her chances of helping. 

“Fine.”  She stalks off to the nearly completed Grimborn room and everyone is gone by the time she risks going back to her desk. 

When she gets back to Fishlegs’ house and knocks on the front door, Snotlout swears inside, obviously startled, and she’s irritated until he opens the two deadbolts and she sees the relief in his face. 

“Sorry.”  She doesn’t know what else to say and immediately wishes she’d said nothing. 

“It’s fine.”  He seems to stuff down what he wants to say, “you’re not Grisly.” 

“Guilty,” she tries to joke but it’s not funny and she wonders what Hiccup would say.  “About the plea deal—”

“What’s your team?” Snotlout interrupts, introspection wrongly-sized on his face.

“What?” 

“I’ve never asked what team you actually support,” he shrugs and she narrows her eyes, “is it the Chiefs? I bet it’s the Chiefs.  Vikings fan?—"

“Why?” 

“They uh…having a good season?”

“Goodnight,” she stalks past him to the couch and opens the notebook she left on the coffee table, re-reading Hiccup’s notes for the millionth time. 

00000

The next time Eretson and Heather show up at the archives, Astrid tries to ignore him, but curiosity gets the better of her and she acquiesces to his questions with a nod. 

“Have you found anything promising?”  He asks like he already knows the answer and she flips through Hiccup’s notes to the creased, crumpled picture of the ‘Al, I.’ safe message. 

“I did think of something earlier,” she ignores how Heather examines the picture with authentic interest, trying to remember the details of Hiccup’s interrupted tour, even though it hurts, terrified that the memory of his shocked, delighted face under spontaneous hat hair when she took control will fade.  “If the whole idea is that Hiccup is mimicking the Grimborn murders, why didn’t he leave a message on the wall?  He clearly had paint,” she references the video from earlier in the week, but even she can hear how feeble the idea is. 

He didn’t have time to leave a safe message because he got caught.  Copycat killers don’t purposefully leave more evidence.  She’s grasping and it’s obvious and desperate and she hates the edge of pity in Eretson’s expression as he sighs. 

Astrid’s jaded enough by this point to not ask if she can go with him when he leaves.  Something tells her the plea deal is more probability than possibility at this point. 

Heather stays though, asking to see the Berk Enquirer where Astrid found the ‘Al, I.’ safe message, her hands careful on the wrinkled pages that Hiccup clenched in his fist a world ago, when all of this seemed random.  Snotlout and Ruffnut show up not too much later and Ruffnut produces a flask from her purse, setting it purposefully in the middle of the table. 

“Antique documents,” Astrid hisses half-heartedly, pulling the pages away and brushing at a drip of nose-burning alcohol on the corner. 

“Tuffnut made this,” she drums her fingers on the table, “do we try it?  Or is that a really bad idea?  Or do we try it because it’s a really bad idea?” 

“If we’re trying bad ideas…” Astrid closes the notebook she was reading and the lack of distraction makes the day instantly heavier.  “I have a couple others I’d put first.” 

Hitting Eretson.  Draining her bank account to hire her own lawyer and sue Eretson.  Go down to the station and tell all the truths she’s been holding back.  Hit Grisly while she’s at it. 

“We should try it,” Snotlout rubs his hands together then pauses, “or we could try whatever bad idea Astrid wants to try first, I’m open.” 

“Stop,” she glares at him. 

“Stop what?” 

“Being so nice,” her shudder is involuntary, “it’s not going to make me feel any better about the plea deal.  And it’s creepy.” 

“It is creepy,” Heather agrees, “it’s like the threat of Astrid hitting you sixty plus times finally taught you humility or something.” 

“She can’t,” his wince is exaggerated, “I’d still die.  It wouldn’t be any better than handing me over to Grisly.” 

“Sounds like that might be easier on you,” Ruffnut laughs, eternally repositioning herself into the audience. 

Astrid opens her mouth to say something to Heather but a choked breath is all that comes out as her eyes widen.  Easier.  Grisly has a plan to make this easier. 

“That’s it,” she says quietly, morbid confidence welling behind it, “that’s his out.” 

“Hey, don’t actually turn me over to Grisly, just because you don’t like—”

“No,” she shoves the rest of Hiccup’s notes in her bag, “that’s Grisly’s plan.  That’s how none of this catches up to him, that’s how forensics doesn’t uncover anything.  That’s how he keeps this out of trial, where he’ll obviously lose.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“And the deal is going to rush it—”

“Astrid—" Ruffnut goes to stand up, but Heather beats her to it, following Astrid to the archives’ staircase. 

“I’ll be back at Fishlegs’ later,” Astrid doesn’t stop Heather from following her, taking a brief chance on the camaraderie born in the fire of all these recent disasters. 

“What are you doing?” Heather asks outside, pulling an umbrella out of her bag when a crack of thunder punctuates the conversation. 

 “I’m going to go see Hiccup.”  She feels better saying it out loud.  More solid.  More effective. 

“He doesn’t want you to,” Heather pauses like she’s holding something else back, but Astrid keeps walking, arms crossed against the rain. 

“Well I don’t want to sit around joking about him being in jail.”  She lets her realization sit for a second, pausing as long as she dares to think about it without throwing off the rest of her juggling rhythm.  Being equally annoyed at Snotlout’s story isn’t really a reason to trust Heather, but it’s all Astrid has, and she flicks her a careful, judgmental glance.  “I have to warn him.  Even if it’s another wild guess—”

“Slow down,” Heather frowns, moving close enough to share her umbrella, “warn him about what?” 

Astrid sighs, once again leaning into the uncomfortable truth that she can’t do this alone, “if Grisly is really planning on getting away with framing Hiccup with modern forensics and psychological assessments working against him, he can’t let this go to trial.  And at this point, the only way to stop it from going to trial is to make sure there’s no one to try.” 

It’s abstract and cluttered and everything she can do to not say ‘kill’. 

“How are you planning on getting into the jail?”  Heather asks after a silent second, handing Astrid the umbrella to dig through her bag. 

“I…hadn’t thought that far.”  She curses herself, trying to rein the useless panic back in. 

“Snotlout never took his badge back.”  Heather hands her an all too familiar shield shaped badge in a thin leather wallet and reaches back into her bag, “or his gun—”

“Why would I need a gun?” 

“If you’re right…” She trails off pragmatically and Astrid swallows hard, shaking her head. 

“If I’m wrong, I’m breaking enough laws impersonating a police officer.  How do you know the badge will work?” 

“It’s how I got in last time, there wasn’t even a guard on duty at the side door, I just scanned the badge and went up.  He was on the top floor then, in the smallest corner cell.”  She produces a keyring and holds it up by a non-descript silver key, “this opened the hallway door.” 

“You aren’t going to tell me to stay out of it?”  Astrid pauses, the rain on the umbrella punctuating her half thoughts.  Maybe she should ask for the gun after all. 

“I think it’s your business whether you stay out of it or not.” 

It’s either a setup or it’s not.  Heather is either with Grisly or not.  Astrid either showed her hand or she didn’t, and either way, her next move is the same.  Tell Hiccup. 

Heather goes back to the archives, or the station, or to Grisly’s office to tell him what’s going on.  Astrid doesn’t know and she doesn’t have room to care, not when the last week without seeing Hiccup might be coming to something like an end.  A point of punctuation, at least, a new anchor before the next disaster, whatever it will be. 

The side door of the county jail opens like the alley door of an office building when Astrid holds the badge against it, and if it weren’t for the Berk Police Department insignia on the wall inside, she could almost believe she was going to a doctor’s appointment or to see an accountant.  That illusion shatters though when she looks through the small bulletproof window on the second-floor landing and sees a line of men in orange jumpsuits walking down the hallway, shepherded by a guard in a gray uniform that sends a shiver up her spine. 

She’s never seen a prison guard, their uniforms could be gray for all she knows, but they look too much like NWF for comfort. 

The badge works again at the sensor next to the door on the top floor and she slips through, shutting it quietly behind her and not giving herself time to pause or think, because if she did, she might realize what a horrible idea this is.  The umbrella in her hand drips a trail of raindrops on the floor as she walks purposefully, trying to project that she knows what she’s doing and she’s supposed to be here as she makes her way to the last door on the left, hoping for the first scrap of luck that she’s had since she found Elizabeth Smith’s apartment. 

The key Heather gave her slides easily into the lock, turning with an anticlimactic click, and she slips inside before she can think better of it. 

“Astrid?”  Hiccup’s voice splits the silence with a stab of shaky confusion, a wall of bars between them dividing his haggard face into three parallel snapshots of shock. 

“Hi.”  She looks him up and down, making sure he’s real and whole, struggling to hold onto the urgency that propelled her up here on a whim. 

“How—”

“Snotlout’s badge,” she shows him before shoving it into her pocket to free up a hand that she rests tentatively on the crossbeam of the cold bars.  He hesitates before setting bony, clammy fingers on hers, jaw flexing under the extra week of stubble too obviously, like he’s lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose. 

He looks worse than he did through plexiglass and her heart aches. 

“Heather…” His expression is resolute, but his eyes are soft, “you shouldn’t be here.” 

“Neither should you,” she snaps a little too loud, “and I’m trying to fix it, I’m trying to find something wrong in Grisly’s setup, but I don’t see how to make it fall apart before it goes to trial.  Or worse, before you force it into an early plea deal.” 

“Trial,” Hiccup’s lips twist into a nauseous smirk and her hand itches to wipe it off.  “Grisly seems to think this won’t make it that far.” 

“He said that?”  Astrid’s blood runs cold and fast, like her veins are an Alaskan rafting course, and Hiccup’s fingers curl absently around her knuckles, thumb brushing hers as he frowns. “And the plea deal would make it happen so much faster, but—did he really say that he wasn’t going to let it go to trial?”

“Something similar,” he shrugs a scrawny shoulder and his frown deepens, “you really shouldn’t be here.” 

“The only way that Grisly could avoid a trial would be if there’s no one to try.  If the murders stop and the evidence lines up, why would anyone dig deeper?  Especially if he got rid of you, that would be easiest for him.”  She needs to say ‘kill’, she knows she does, she needs to drag Hiccup along with her on a tour of their macabre reality, but the word sticks in her throat like its determined to choke her.  “It’s the only thing that makes sense, it’s the only way any of this fits—”

“I love you.”  Hiccup doesn’t stutter or choke or quibble.  He looks at her, ghost of a smile haunting the corner of his mouth as his hand tightens on hers.  “You know, just in case you’re right again and I don’t get another chance.”

Her heart skips a beat then makes up for it, and at first, she thinks she imagines the clapping. 

It almost sounds like the pounding in her head, a little uneven, emphasis drifting slightly off beat.  It could be an echo, a residual from the way her heart is pounding, fear and confusion rattling around her chest. 

It could be a symptom of her brain shutting down, until the laugh. 

There’s nothing humorous in the sound, nothing alive.  It’s half awkward chuckle after dropping a stage prop and half delighted to stumble upon adequate improv partners. 

It’s Grisly in the doorway with a knife. 

Hiccup’s top-hat is crooked on his head, as out of place as his unpracticed smile, but twice as insulting.  He claps again, impersonating some concept of glee, and Astrid’s feet feel glued to the floor. 

“You love her?”  He laughs, the sound rich like blood, more alive than she’s ever heard him, “I had my suspicions, but I never dreamed I’d see them confirmed.” 

“What are you doing here?”  Hiccup’s voice is dull and quaking with some deep-set vulnerability that makes Astrid want to protect him. 

“Your dutiful lawyer is downstairs negotiating a plea bargain,” Grisly says like he’s delivering bad news, looking down at the knife in his hand with an almost fond smile, “he seems to think that horrible judge might go easier on you if you talk.  And maybe it’s true, some people must be a fan of your talking for you to have made it this far.”  When he looks back up, his smile is almost peaceful, like he’s nearly at the end of a very long, arduous road.  “I’m not one of them.” 

“I thought you enjoyed our conversations,” Hiccup angles himself like there’s some impossible way he could shield Astrid even when she’s on the same side of the bars as the madman with a knife, and his eyes scream ‘run’ in a language Astrid doesn’t speak.  

“Astrid,” Grisly doesn’t ignore Hiccup’s struggle to protect her as much as he passively enjoys it, like background music amplifying the emotion in a movie scene.  “This is long overdue, I was hoping to save you the inconvenience of coming down here by making a house call—”

“Leave her alone!” Hiccup yells, desperate, the walls swallowing most of the volume even as it leaves Astrid’s ears ringing. 

There are cameras in the hallway, they surely heard this.  They’re surely hearing all of this. 

Why didn’t Grisly shut the door?  If he shut the door, his audience would shrink dramatically, at least until someone reviewed the tapes later. 

It takes her a second to place the delight in his eyes and then it hits her that he didn’t expect to see her here. 

“This is better than I could have imagined though,” Grisly laughs the low, polite laugh of someone making an inappropriate joke behind their boss’s back, “I thought Hiccup would get out on bail and I’d catch you two together with that idiot Jorgenson and clean up all my loose ends at once, getting a judge fired in the process.”  He sighs, wistful for the plot twist he predicted that didn’t quite work out, “but this…to find Astrid here right when I came to dispose of you, to hear you admit your feelings not knowing you were about to watch her die…” 

Die.  The word seems so passive that Astrid can’t imagine it having anything to do with her.  Especially with the way Grisly is looking at her like an object, a prop that couldn’t have any life to give to anything other than his dastardly scheme. 

And Hiccup is quiet, quiet like he never is, quiet like he’s already given up. 

Something her Uncle Finn always used to say flashes through her head, his too serious words for coaching a children’s baseball team taking on new meaning. 

Stunned silence is an enemy’s greatest weapon. 

When she flips her grip on the umbrella in her hands and swings it hard, it’s more dangerous than Grisly’s knife because he doesn’t expect it.  Because he expected her to stand there and quiver or beg or bargain instead of follow the righteous bolt of anger telling her to take this into her own hands. 

The center pole of the umbrella hits across the bridge of his nose with a crunch and a clatter as he drops his knife.  He moves faster than she thinks he will, batting the umbrella away from his face and fumbling for the blade. 

That puts his face at the perfect height to knee him in his already bleeding nose as she tries to straighten out the umbrella to hit him again.  The first hit broke it, apparently, and she settles for thrusting the handle against his chest as soon as he tries to stand, the blow knocking him off balance and sending him stumbling back through the still open door. 

His back hits the opposite wall and his hat falls off, revealing rumpled white hair that makes the blood gushing from his nose look more vital, like he’s losing something he can’t live without.  He tries to stand up and she moves to hit him again, an involuntary noise of disgust leaking out when he flinches away, looking for the exit he hasn’t given anyone else. 

The door at the end of the hallway flies open and Eretson appears, gun in hand, flanked by two officers uniformed in standard Berk PD blue. 

Astrid drops the umbrella and holds up shaking hands, taking a step back from Grisly’s defeated form and pointing at a camera on the ceiling. 

“He…he left the door open, I bet—I bet this is all on film, he wasn’t expecting, well…me.”  She looks at the broken umbrella and the stain on the knee of her jeans before glancing back at Grisly’s already swollen features, sharp edges gone soft with loss of sick control.  “He confessed.” 

“And he trash-talked a judge,” Hiccup adds from behind her, voice meek and hollow, “which I don’t think helps.” 

“Usually doesn’t help,” Astrid agrees, heart fluttering too fast as she watches a cop slide handcuffs around Grisly’s wrists.  He slumps under the weight of them, nose dripping on the floor as he trudges down the hall, a leashed lion on the way back to his cage. 

Eretson doesn’t ask how she got in or how she’s doing or where the knife near the gate of Hiccup’s cell came from.  He sighs, either too professional to show his relief or too tired to feel it, before instructing the other officer with him to take them to an interrogation room while he goes to get a copy of the security footage before anyone else can get to it. 

When he comes back and announces that a second NWF agent is in custody for trying to erase the footage seconds after Eretson’s download was complete, Astrid feels like she can breathe for the first time since she concerned herself with why Elizabeth Smith stopped. 

[shireness-says]

The Things This Desk Has Seen

Summary: Killian and Emma take advantage of an empty office. A smutty, 1950s historical AU. ~2.1K. Rated E for sex. Also on AO3.

A/N: Happy birthday, @snidgetsafan! My fandom bestie and possible soulmate. You’ve been so good to encourage the 1950s journalism AU I still have yet to write, so here’s smutty outtake from that. For those who haven’t seen my outline like L has, it’s set in 1952-1953, Emma writes for the ladies’ pages of the same paper Killian works at, and Liam (the editor) and Elsa (the boss) have a lot of angry office sex that everyone knows about instead of just talking through their problems. I think that’s the highlights of what you’d need to know.

Anyways, you guys know how previous smut stuff has just been smut-adjacent? There’s no adjacency here. It’s smut. There’s descriptions and terminology. I still don’t know how it happened. Enjoy?

Thanks to @thejollyroger-writer for being my pinch-hit beta! Things I didn’t think about when I decided to write a birthday present for my regular beta...

I hope you like it - let me know what you think!

“Killian, where are you taking me?” Emma hisses, not unenthusiastically, as her beau eagerly drags her across the office. They’d just been taking advantage of the empty newsroom to trade a series of increasingly passionate kisses, none of the other paper’s staff particularly eager to be at their desks before 10am when most of them were still turning in print copy in the wee hours of the morning, before he’d broken away to grab her hand and pull her along.

Killian’s grin as he turns back is probably best described as fiendish - maybe just mischievous, if one was feeling generous. “Liam’s office.”

With those words, he releases her hand to reach for the knob, snaking his stump arm around Emma’s waist instead to still keep her close. She’s never minded the abbreviated appendage, and especially not now she’s pressed close into his firm body as Killian quickly ushers them inside. Being in here, especially knowing where Killian’s mind must be going, sets nerves fluttering in Emma’s stomach - Liam is their editor, after all, their boss, even if he is also Killian’s brother and greatest annoyance. But there’s excitement there as well - and dare she say it, arousal.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks. She has no interest in being caught, but truth be told, she hopes Killian has some kind of excuse to keep going. She’s been widowed for more than two years; she’s allowed a little leniency of this type in her love life, as long as they’re not going at it in Central Park or some such. Then again, she’s a young widow with an even younger son; as much as she feels for Killian, they don’t often have time for this kind of intimate moment, let alone the privacy needed.

“After everything I’ve had to listen to from him and Miss Frost? I think we’ve earned this,” he replies, methodically clearing stacks of paper from the heavy desk. That’s one of the odd little things Emma is so fond of in him: his meticulousness, even when she knows he must be driven to distraction by desire. Liam keeps a couch in his office as well, but if Killian has plans for the desk instead, Emma isn’t inclined to argue. Instead, she sets to methodically closing all of the blinds, creating a little private haven for the two of them.

By the time she turns around from locking the deadbolt, he’s already waiting right behind with hungry eyes and a hand that flexes and twiddles with itself, like it’s itching to wander and touch and all those other delicious, dirty things they came in here to indulge. Emma gladly allows him to crowd her back against the door, the hard wooden surface providing just the right brace for her to lean against and hitch a stockinged leg over his hip. There’s a few minutes of delicious grinding as Killian takes eager advantage of her position, the hardening bulge still contained within his trousers offering a beautiful friction even through their clothing as their tongues duel above and set those first sparks of something tingling, before Killian suddenly pulls back to stoop and secure his arms beneath her thighs to hoist her up. This pressure, jostling across the room with her legs clamped tightly around him, is just as fantastic, if not more so, and Emma only just manages to muffle her moan by pulling their mouths back together. It doesn’t entirely work, really; Killian chuckles like he sees right through it, the wonderful bastard.

(She loves him, loves him, loves him, but damn if a woman doesn’t want to keep her secrets sometimes.)

(Her dignity, more like - but then again, they’re about to happily make love in his brother’s very impressive office, so that ship has already sailed far beyond the horizon.)

“Now tell me,” she teases as Killian deposits her on the desktop as gently as his haste allows, “are we doing this because you want me, or because you want to get back at your brother?”

“Why can’t it be both, darling?” he teases right back, winking clumsily. It’s more of a facial spasm, and maybe anyone else would laugh - hell, maybe in a different moment, she would too - but right now, with his stump at her hip and his thumb inching up towards her breast, coming closer and closer with each gentle sweep… it’s somehow working for her, causing her muscles to twist even tighter in anticipation.

Maybe, in those other circumstances, she’d have another clever comeback, but now Emma just yanks on those damned suspenders she so loves on him to pull Killian back within the range of her mouth. When she twines a hand up and into his hair, eliciting a moan from Killian as she roughly tugs on the ends, she knows it’s her that he wants anyways - always her.

She’s been complaining about the New York City heat since it first intensified in mid-June, but she will admit this: the one good thing about this summer hotness is the light cotton dresses it demands, allowing Killian to snake his hand and arm up under the fabric and past the tops of her stockings to caress along the sensitive skin of her thighs in a way that the tighter silhouettes and fuller crinolines of winter don’t allow. This time, it’s Killian with far too many layers - the suspenders and the crisp white shirt and the soft cotton undershirt, all of which she’s usually so fond of but today drive Emma mad, keeping her away from his bare skin and the glorious expanse of black hair furring his chest. There’s no time to undress fully; if they’re going to do this, it’s going to have to be quick. That doesn’t stop her from yanking at shirttails to weasel her hands underneath. It’s probably wrinkling his shirt beyond all respectability, but Emma can’t bring herself to care. At least the suit coat was left outside; one less layer between Emma and her treasure.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs in her ear as he reaches the scalloped trim of her underwear. Maybe one of these early, solitary mornings, she’ll wear something special for him to discover underneath her skirts, but today it’s just a practical cotton pair.

As much as she appreciates the courtesy of his asking, the question feels a little ridiculous; if he’d just move those fingers slightly to his left, he could tell just how much by the growing dampness seeping into the fabric.

“So sure,” she says instead, releasing Killian to lean back upon her elbows so she can lift her hips. He takes the hint easily enough, thankfully, working the cotton down her legs to leave her exposed to the humid air. As he stands back up, Emma quickly works the skirt of her dress out from underneath herself to try and avoid any damp stains on the cotton.

Without that barrier, it’s easy to pick up where they left off. Emma could enjoy the way their tongues duel and teeth nip all day, but she’s forced to pull away on a breathless gasp as Killian’s fingers begin to stroke the flesh around her entrance before one presses in. It’s easy to get carried away on the sensations he sends shivering through her, so she doesn’t resist it, resting her head on his shoulder and letting Killian mouth at her neck as he adds a second finger and begins working his thumb again her nub. It’s good, so good, and as simple as it sounds it’s something he’s perfected, hitting all the right spots with just the right rhythm. Emma’s tried to replicate it on herself, when she’s alone at night and plagued by thoughts of Killian, but it’s never quite the same, the coordination or angle somehow lacking, and she inevitably turns back to her own methods to get the job done. What he’s doing, though… God, it’s so damn good, and she can feel herself starting to ramp up towards a spectacular climax.

Blindly, she begins fumbling at his own buttons and zippers, desperate to make him feel just as good as he’s making her feel and really get down to the main event. Still, Killian stops her before she can even pull him out of the front of his trousers, murmuring thirsty pleas in her ear.

“Not yet, love, not yet,” he begs. “Come for me first. Let me make you feel good, I know you’re almost there, just come for me, darling, and I’ll give you what you want, I’ll give it all to you —” As he talks, he picks up the pace with his fingers, adding a little twist with his fingers and she’s gone, the maneuver sending her flying into that pleasurable abyss with a soft cry and a burst of pleasure.

As soon as she comes back to herself, Emma reaches for Killian again, frantically pushing at the suspenders holding his slacks up as he extracts his fingers just to reach for the condom stashed in his pocket. Truthfully, there’s a part of Emma that wants to keep the suspenders, just so she has something to hold onto and anchor herself through the sensory overload she knows is still to come, but the suspenders are keeping his trousers on too, so they’ve got to go. They’ve got to go.

“Slow down, love,” he chuckles. “There’s no need to go that fast.” His words are interrupted by his own moan at the end, however, as Emma finally gets her hand around his cock, stroking the soft steel and hopefully driving him mad. That’s the goal, at least - the same delicious torment he’s been putting her through. She thinks it’s working, too, if the way he drops his head back and starts to breathe in pants is any indication.

“Ok, Swan, you win,” he manages to gasp out. “Help me with the condom, and we can both get some relief.”

And god, what a relief it is once the protection is taken care of and he’s sinking into her with a groan. Killian curses under his breath as her muscles instinctively clench around his length and then he’s moving, moving, driving them both towards bliss with every piston of his hips as Emma starts to lose herself again in the pleasurable drag of his cock within her.

There’s not much room to meet his thrusts, perched as she is on the mahogany desk with her legs clamped tight around Killian’s hips, but thankfully the angle is just right to allow him to unerringly hit just the right spot with each drive of his cock, sending sparks of pleasure shooting under her skin with every movement.

“God that’s good,” she gasps. “Just - oh God, Killian, right there, that’s so damn good —”

“You like that, love?” he throws back, almost mindlessly, surely too caught up in all the sensation to properly process anything he’s saying. Emma knows she can’t. “You like this, darling, love the feel of me inside you, love the way I take you just like this, half clothed and desperate where anyone might hear? I know you do, love, can feel how wet you are, feel how you tremble and clench —”

“I do, I love it, so good,” she whimpers. “I’m close, Kil, I’m so close, just need —” She doesn’t even know what she needs - maybe not anything else at all, with the way heat is rushing through her veins - but it’s true; she’s right there, so close to toppling over the edge and hopefully pulling him along with her.

Killian grunts and readjusts his hand on her thigh, and suddenly, something about the firm grip or the increased sensation of his coarse leg hair along her thighs or something but that’s it, that’s it, that’s it and she’s coming, flying, soaring across the finish line as indescribable pleasure floods her veins.

Once they both catch their breath, Killian carefully withdraws and deals with the condom before stooping to retrieve a handkerchief from one of his pants pockets to clean her up.

“Mr. Prepared,” she mumbles with a smile.

“Aye, that’s me,” he agrees genially. “Now, after all that,” he whispers more deviously, “do you still doubt that it’s you I wanted?”

“Perish the thought,” Emma replies, borrowing one of Killian’s phrases. And it’s true: he’s made it perfectly clear that she’s the one thing he wants more than anything, and she’s never had any reason to doubt it.

Never has, never will.

[unfolded73]

What Comes Next (3/8)

Summary: They lived happily ever after. And then what happened? (A Post-S6 story.)  Starts about a week after the final battle, and explores the highs and lows of newly married life between Emma and Killian as they deal with work, friends, and family as life in Storybrooke settles down somewhat.

Captain Swan, Explicit, ~4100 words this chapter

WARNING for some anti-Rumbelle opinions expressed in this chapter.

Thanks to @j-philly-b for the beta.

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2

Killian shifted the box he was carrying from one hip to the other and knocked on the door to the Gold house. He glanced through the beveled glass beside the door, worrying that his knock hadn’t been heard, but afraid to ring the bell lest he wake up Gideon. Then there was a blur of movement and he shifted back, waiting for the door to open.

Belle smiled brightly at him. “Killian, I’m so glad you called.”

“Are you sure this is a good time?” He shifted the box in his grip again.

“It’s perfect; I just put Gideon down for a nap. Come in.” He followed her through the foyer to the kitchen. “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.

“I’m fine, love, thanks.” He set the box down on the counter. “As I said when I called, I just wanted to drop off these things you left on board the Jolly Roger.”

“I appreciate that.”

“How are you? How’s motherhood?” He looped his thumb in his belt, rocking on his feet.

“It’s wonderful,” she said, her eyes twinkling with happiness. “When I think of how bad everything was just a few weeks ago, and now… I’m just so grateful. And I can never repay Emma for what she did for us, for Gideon.”

Killian squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden image of his wife impaled on a sword. While it had only lasted a handful of seconds, those seconds had been amongst the worst of his life. The fact that Rumpelstiltskin had been the indirect cause of them was something he was trying not to think about; he was trying to focus on the positive, but he could only do that by pushing the events of that night, of that battle, out of his mind.

“She’s the Savior,” he said, his words clipped. “It’s what she does.”

“Well, I feel so lucky. Please tell her that if there’s ever anything we can do to help her, all she has to do is ask.”

Killian glanced around at the house, this house that Belle lived in with Rumpelstiltskin and their child. “More importantly, love, if you ever need our help…” He hesitated and sighed. “If there’s ever anything we can do to… to ensure your or Gideon’s safety, to protect you, please know that we will be there. No questions asked.”

She laughed uncomfortably. “That’s a rather ominous offer,” she said, her face falling. “You’re talking about Rumple. You mean if I ever need your protection against Rumple.”

“Given everything that’s happened in the past, you can’t blame me for worrying.”

Belle shook her head sadly. “I know that you’ll never trust him, with what happened with you and Milah, but—”

“This isn’t about the ancient history between us,” he said. Although, of course, on some level it was and always would be. “This is about what I watched him do to you when you were trying to get away from him. Trapping you on my ship. Threatening you so that you felt your only recourse was to send your own child away.”

“And that was a mistake, what I did. He was never going to harm Gideon. He did everything he could to protect Gideon. I’ve seen that now with my own eyes.”

“He’s still the Dark One, Belle,” he said before he could stop himself. He hadn’t come here to do this, hadn’t come here to argue with her, but hearing her defend the Crocodile made him furious.

“Emma was the Dark One once, and that didn’t stop you from loving her,” she argued.

“No, but it did stop us from having anything resembling a healthy relationship, and it didn’t stop her from making terrible choices in the interest of protecting me,” he said. “Don’t you see? The darkness made us do horrible things. Me especially, but even Emma couldn’t resist its pull.”

“Rumple has been the Dark One for hundreds of years,” Belle said. “He doesn’t fall prey to it in the same way that you did. I’ve seen him overcome it. I’ve seen him make choices not because of the darkness, but to protect his family.”

“I’m not saying he’s not capable of doing good things, or even that he doesn’t love you. I know he loves you, and probably doesn’t intend to hurt you. But what happens if he uses his powers against someone else you care about, and you challenge him? What then?” He clenched his fist at his side, anger at the idea that the Crocodile might hurt his family again someday flooding his system.

Belle laughed bitterly, turning away from him. “I can’t believe you’re trying to break up my marriage when I’m trying to make it work, for my sake and for the sake of my son.”

“I’m not trying to break up your marriage, don’t put words in my mouth,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m just worried about you and I wanted you to know that I’ll help you if you need it.”

Her face twisted with indignation. “Yes, please stand up there on your moral high ground and tell me about how you’ll rush in and save me from my husband. You would love that, being able to shove it in Rumple’s face.”

“No, that’s not—”

“I think you’d better just go,” she said. “I’ve got to check on Gideon.” Before he could say anything more, Belle ran out of the room.

~*~

“Hey, there you are,” Emma said as he walked through the door of the Mad Hatter’s Haberdashery. “I wasn’t sure if you’d gotten my message.”

Killian gave her a tight smile, anger still flooding his body. “Sorry, love. I was running an errand.”

“Okay, well, we’ve got another one. Clumsy forced entry, all the money gone from the cash register. Also Jefferson is fairly certain that he had an ashtray that his daughter Grace made in school sitting here on the counter, and that’s gone.”

Killian raised an eyebrow. “I don’t smell smoke in here.”

Jefferson smiled. “No one used it as an ashtray; I think it’s just easy for kids to make them.”

“Oh yeah, I remember making ashtrays in my day,” Emma said, laughing. “They were all terrible.”

The shared laugh between Emma and Jefferson made Killian scowl. “You never told me that,” he said.

Emma looked at him like he was crazy. “Yeah, it… never occurred to me. I’m sure there’s lots of school assignments I’ve never told you about.”

Her light-hearted tone made him angrier, and while he knew it was unreasonable, he couldn’t seem to control it. “Back door again?” Killian asked. On Emma’s nod, he stalked back through the curtain that separated the public part of the shop from the rest of it.

An alley ran behind all the businesses on this street, each of them with nondescript back doors. Killian looked at the broken lock, and then stepped outside, wrinkling his nose against the smell of the garbage dumpster. He looked at the doors on either side of Jefferson’s shop, taking in the types of locks that adorned them. He studied the ground for anything that might have been dropped by the criminal, but came up empty. Satisfied that he’d found all there was to find, he went back inside.

Jefferson was holding Emma’s left hand, leaning down to study her rings. “That’s a nice rock,” he said, flashing her a flirtatious smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she said, grinning back at him.

“All the shops up and down the alley had deadbolt locks on their back doors,” Killian announced. “Your lock was rubbish and easily broken. That’s why the thief targeted you.”

Emma widened her eyes at him, in a gesture he was certain meant he shouldn’t be so rude with the victim, but just now he didn’t care. He didn’t care for this man and his stupid hats and his stupid inclination to flirt with his wife.

“Are we done?” he asked Emma.

She pressed her lips together, looking angry. “I’ve got a few more questions to ask, but you can go back to the station if you want.”

“No, I’ll stay,” he muttered, folding his arms across his chest.

With a dismissive sigh, Emma turned back to Jefferson. “About how much money was taken, and what kind of bills, to the best of your recollection?”

“Mostly twenties,” he said. “A handful of ones, fives, and tens. Maybe one hundred, stuck underneath the drawer insert,” he said, ejecting the cash register drawer and showing her. Emma jotted down some notes on her pad.

“I don’t understand the habit of people in this town to just leave money in their cash registers when they go home at night,” Killian said. “Don’t you have a safe to lock it in? It’s idiotic.”

Emma glared at him. “I’m sorry for my deputy’s attitude,” she said through clenched teeth to Jefferson, “but given this rash of break-ins, I am going to ask Mayor Mills to issue a statement recommending that all businesses do just that. A safe for valuables, deadbolt locks on the doors. In the meantime, we’ll be increasing our nighttime patrols.” She tucked her pad away. “If you need anything else, please feel free to call me at the station.”

As soon as they were out on the street and far enough away from the haberdashery not to be heard, Emma wheeled on Killian. “What the hell was your problem in there?”

“I don’t like him. There’s something about him I just don’t like.”

“Yeah, he’s smarmy and an incorrigible flirt, so the fuck what? That doesn’t mean you can’t be courteous and professional when acting in your capacity as a Sheriff’s deputy.” She stomped over to her car and got in. Killian followed more slowly, climbing into the passenger seat.

“I apologize for my rudeness. It was a trying morning,” he said softly.

“What happened?”

“I saw Belle. It didn’t go well,” he answered.

“Shit. What did she say? What did you say?”

He leaned against the car window. “Can we discuss it later?”

Emma focused on the road. “Yeah,” she said, her voice coming out harsh. “Whatever you want.”

The rest of the day was strained between them, both of them working on separate tasks around the office and giving each other a wide berth. It felt like a dark, rain-filled cloud was hovering over his head as he completed his paperwork and dealt with the people who came in to pay off their parking tickets. The cloud lingered as they drove home together and as he went about the process of preparing dinner for Emma and Henry. He could hear the sound of the canned laughter from some comedy program Emma was watching on television, and every laugh was like an icepick to his brain, making his shoulders hunch with tension until there was just a constant ache between them.

The meal was silent. Henry seemed to pick up on the mood in the house and spent the entire dinner scrolling through his phone, with the occasional surreptitious glance between Emma and Killian. As soon as he reasonably could, he excused himself to his room and shut the door.

Emma washed the dishes while Killian put away the leftovers. “I’m going to spend the evening working on my navigation plans, if that’s all right, love.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she answered, still facing the sink.

An hour spent hunched over his maps, studying the patterns of currents and estimating the optimal route to travel down to the Caribbean was soothing, and even though it was tedious work, his shoulders started to unknot. Pleased with his progress, he went in search of Emma.

She was lying on the sofa under a blanket, staring at the television.

“Emma, can I show you something?”

“Sure.” She followed him into the study.

“I’ve charted our course down to the Grenadines in the Caribbean.” He pointed on the map. “I thought we could dock here, at Port Elizabeth on the island of Bequia. The reading I’ve done using Henry’s computer tells me that it’s not overrun with tourists, and the beaches are supposed to be quite beautiful.”

Emma’s mouth was pinched as she stared at the map. “And we can just do that? Bring the Jolly Roger into a port in the non-magical world? Don’t you think people will question the presence of a ship that looks like it’s out of one of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies pulling into port? Especially without the full crew it would definitely need if it weren’t enchanted?”

“I don’t think people will be that interested in her,” he said, gently correcting Emma’s tendency to refer to the Jolly Roger as ‘it’. “But if that’s a concern, I can probably find a hidden cove around one of the even more remote islands to drop anchor, and we can bring a rowboat onto shore.”

She shrugged, her lack of excitement starting to kill his own. “It just seems risky.”

“It will be fine, love. The Jolly Roger can make this trip in a few days, and then it will be nothing but sun and sea and those fruity cocktails you told me about for as long as you like.” He tried giving her an encouraging smile. “I spoke to your father, and we can leave in another fortnight.”

In response, he got another tired shrug. “I don’t know if we can leave Storybrooke, not with this string of break-ins going on.”

“You seem rather determined to take the wind out of my sails.” He set his pencil down on the map, frustration boiling under the surface. “Your parents are encouraging us to go. Regina is encouraging us to go. People will fill in for you. So what’s the issue?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to travel with me?” he asked.

“You know that’s not it, Killian.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort, love, not with the way you’re acting.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I know you’ve been cross with me all day. I tried to apologize for my behavior earlier, but you seem determined to continue to punish me for it.”

“I’m not punishing you. I’m not even mad at you, I’m just…” She sighed, stepping away from him.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she said in a small voice. “I guess I’m afraid that if we leave, something will come here and threaten our family.”

That didn’t explain the fact that she’d been cold to him all evening, but he let it go for now. “No one is going to threaten our family, Emma, I swear it. And if they do, there are plenty of heroes in this town to fight any new threat in our absence.”

She folded her arms, giving him a stubborn stare.

“So what’s your solution then, to never go anywhere, ever?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “To just sit here in Storybrooke for the rest of our lives, waiting for the worst to occur?”

“No. I don’t know.” He could see tears glistening in her eyes, but she fought them back, kept them at bay. “I just don’t think I’m ready for this trip right now. I’m sorry.”

He looked into Emma’s eyes, trying to read her, trying to determine where her reticence was coming from. He could see anxiety in the strain on her face, in the set of her shoulders. He remembered how many evenings since moving in together that he’d sought to soothe her, pressing his fingers into her shoulders and kneading knotted muscles. She was afraid — afraid that the fear and grief, constant for so many months, wasn’t over.

Killian sagged, going over and pulling her into a hug. “I didn’t mean to put pressure on you. We don’t have to go.”

He felt Emma relax, her arms coming up around his back and squeezing him tight. “I just need time. Is that okay?” she whispered.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I’m so… messed up right now.”

Killian brought his hand to her cheek, shaking his head. “You have nothing to apologize for. I let my disastrous meeting with Belle this morning color my mood for the rest of the day. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Emma leaned up and pressed her lips against his. “It’s okay,” she mumbled against his mouth. “We’re okay.”

“I love you,” he gasped as he pulled her tighter into him, kissed her harder. He felt a flare of arousal, a sudden desire to fuse their bodies together, as if he could burn away any remaining unhappiness by making her feel good. Emma responded, pressing her hand against his lower back and pulling their hips together. She tilted her head and opened her mouth wide, deepening the kiss.

“Mom?” came Henry’s voice from down the hall. She and Killian pulled apart quickly.

“In here,” she called back, absently running a hand through her hair. Killian adjusted the front of his jeans, and then sat down behind the desk for good measure.

“Hey,” Henry said, coming into the room. “I’m supposed to get this paper signed for class,” he said shoving something at Emma.

Emma looked at the paper. “A C-minus? What happened?”

Henry waved off her concern. “It’s no big deal, Mom, my English teacher is letting me turn in a rewrite, so that won’t be the actual grade.”

“Oh,” she said, “Okay. Do you have something to write with?”

Henry handed her a pen, and she scribbled her signature at the top. Killian could see Emma’s brow wrinkled in concern, but she didn’t say anything more about the grade.

“I haven’t been paying a lot of attention to Henry’s schoolwork,” she said after Henry left the room.

Killian got up and put his arm around her. “I’m sure we can rectify that, now that we have more time.”

“I don’t even know how many classes he might’ve missed because of everything else going on. And I’m not sure Regina’s been able to do much better, what with the whole Evil Queen situation.” She closed her eyes, exhaustion written plain across her face.

“Let’s turn in early, darling, and we’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

Emma sighed. “Okay.”

He checked the lock on the front door and turned off the downstairs lights before ushering Emma up the stairs. The two of them went through their bedroom routines in silence. It wasn’t strained silence this time, though, it was comfortable, a brief touch between them as they passed each other going to the bathroom. Emma came over to his side of the bed and helped him unbuckle and remove his brace, her hands gentle on his skin. It had always made his heart skip a beat, the way she embraced both his hook and the scarred skin underneath as part of him; from the first time he had removed his brace in her presence, she had been unflinching in her acceptance.

He went to get pajama pants from the dresser, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Emma was stripping down to a tank top and her underwear, pulling her bra out from underneath the tank top and not bothering with pajamas. As he approached the bed, she was already burrowing under the covers, settling down into her pillow, her long blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo.

Killian settled on his own side of the bed (sometimes it still struck him, after so many years in a narrow bed lulled to sleep by rum and the rocking of the ocean waves, that this bed fit for a king was his to share with the woman he loved), leaning over to kiss Emma on the forehead softly.

“Sleep well, my wife,” he whispered.

Emma just arched an eyebrow. “That’s all I get?”

“Well, you are quite exhausted,” he said as she reached out and trailed her fingers down his chest.

“Yeah, but I’m also in the mood for sex,” she said, “if you are.”

He chuckled, nipping at her bottom lip. “You’re quite difficult to resist, love.”

“So why resist?” Emma asked, her hand continuing down until she had grasped his erection through his pajamas, tracing the outline of him before giving him a few hard strokes. His hips moved against her hand, seeking more friction.

“Are you sure?”

Emma grabbed his hand, moving it down underneath the waistband of her underwear and between her folds, letting him feel how wet she was. “I need you,” she spoke into his mouth as they continued to kiss.

She kept her hand over his as he continued to touch her, parting her flesh with gentle strokes, sliding a finger inside before drawing it back up to circle her clit. Emma was soon reduced to clutching hands and panting breaths, her kisses sloppy against his mouth and throat.

Just as the comfortable bed in his comfortable home still amazed him sometimes, Emma’s desire for him occasionally did the same. They had seen evidence that their love was true more than once; she had asked him to move in with her, had married him. Beyond that, he’d known she was attracted to him since that kiss in Neverland so long ago. And yet sometimes just the way she wanted him left him breathless.

Emma’s response to his touch had him deciding to bring her to climax with his hand, but before he could, she pushed him over onto his back and pulled her remaining clothes off. He barely managed to get his pajama pants off before Emma was swinging her leg over his hips, straddling him. She dragged herself over his cock, grinding down, taking her pleasure from the pressure of his erection against her clit.

“That's it, darling,” he said, enduring the delicious torture of being so close to being inside her without getting what he really needed. “Use me to make yourself feel good.” She made a small choked-off noise in response. “You're so beautiful like this. The flush of your skin and gods, the way I can see the pleasure playing out on your face.” He moved his hips, focusing on making her come. Emma gasped and then let out a tiny whine of frustration. He could tell she was close, but struggling to bridge that final gap.

“What do you need, love?” He pressed against her back with his left arm, angling her down over him. “I'll do anything you need.” He kissed the sweat from her brow. “Do you want my tongue on you? My cock inside? Tell me.”

“I don't know.”

“I can use that delightful buzzing toy of yours, if you want,” he offered.

She shook her head. “I think I need…I need you to fuck me.”

He nodded, running his hand along her back. “Lie down on your stomach, Emma. First I think you need to relax.”

She did as he asked, and he reached over and began working the knots out of her shoulders with his hand. Every press and flex of his fingers brought a moan from her lips, and he could feel her dissolving into the mattress as he worked.

“Roll over,” he rasped, and when she had he continued his massage, squeezing with strong and calloused fingers along each arm and then over each breast. When she seemed lax enough, he grabbed an extra pillow and tapped her hip with his blunt wrist. “Up.” She lifted her hips and he put the pillow underneath before spreading her legs and positioning himself between.

“Are you ready for me, darling?”

Emma nodded. He slowly entered her, staying up on his knees and gripping her thigh for leverage as he seated himself fully. With the first slow drag in and out, she swore, quickly ramping back up in arousal. She slid her hand between her legs, reaching down and touching him while he fucked her for a while before pressing her fingers on and around her clit.

Killian gritted his teeth, the sensations of this angle almost too much, clamping down on his own approaching orgasm as Emma’s breathing accelerated. Her eyes went wide just before she crested over, then clamped shut as she fell, and he could feel the spasming of her muscles and that was all it took to follow her. Both of them cried out with their release, and he was grateful once again for the silencing spell that kept Henry oblivious when he was staying here.

“Jesus, Killian, that was incredible,” she finally said, a long time after he had cleaned her up and they had settled under the covers together.

“It’s my pleasure, Emma. Literally,” he added, making her laugh.

“I love you,” she murmured, and was very shortly thereafter asleep.

CHAPTER 4

[gldngrl7]

Karamel Fic: Permission to Flourish (1/11)

Title: Permission to Flourish

Author: gldngrl7

Date Started: February 12, 2017

Rating: T for Teen (I know!  I can’t believe it either!)

  Author’s Notes:  

This story is the sequel to Bulletproof. Please read that one-shot before diving into this one.

I swear – sometimes I have no idea where some stories come from – and this is one of those stories that’s a complete mystery to me. It just came to me not long after writing Bulletproof of the vocation where Mon-El would find his calling after leaving National City and I just couldn’t NOT write it.

There is angst in this story but I promise a happy ending.

There’s a few original characters in this story. I hope you like them.  I hope you love them.

Comments are welcomed, flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.

  Chapter 1/11

         I've been around for you

                       I've been up and down for you

                                         But I just can't get any relief

        I've swallowed my pride for you

                        I've lived and I’ve lied for you

                                         But you still make me feel like a thief

         You got me stealing your love away

                           'Cause you never give it

                                           Peeling the years away and we can't relive it

           I make you laugh

                    And you make me cry

                                            I believe it's time for me to fly

       --REO Speedwagon - “Time for Me to Fly”

  Six years after leaving National City:

Mike Matthews’ day job was stressful and noisy and, not infrequently, leaked into his nighttime, despite his ability to work efficiently and occasionally at super speed when not observed by others. So when he had time alone in the peace and quiet of his secluded garage apartment, he liked to veg in front of the television – at least during weeknights.  He flipped on the television to watch a favorite sci-fi program – the one indulgence he seemed to be allowed during his busy week.  But just as he got comfortable, his hand tucked behind his head on the couch, his show cut away and a news crawl immediately appeared on the screen.

A nationally recognized news anchor appeared on the screen, her face stricken and pale.  Mike knew immediately something was horribly awry somewhere and straightened up, sitting at the edge of his seat.

“Breaking news from National City this evening.  Reports are pouring in, confirming that…what appears to be alien spaceships have arrived on the outskirts of the city near the Port.  We are hearing reports that these aliens are hostile – I repeat…they are hostile.  Forces are gathering in the city to repel the aliens at this time, with Supergirl being at the forefront of this fight…..”

The news report droned on but Mike heard none of it, his attention diverted by the buzzing of his cell phone on the coffee table. Sensing who was on the other end of the call, he answered it in a flash.  “I’m watching,” he announced, before the caller could even ask.  “Am I ready for this?  I don’t see how I have a choice.”  Mike whisked out of the room and returned with a duffel bag, dropping it on the floor at his feet.    “I’m already getting my things.  Just going to lock up before I leave.  See you there?”  Mike hung up the phone and dropped it into his bag.

It took less than a handful of seconds to lock the deadbolts on his door, hoist the duffel over his shoulder and take to the sky like he’d never known anything else.

*****

 Dominators!  He should have known.  After Kara fought the Dominators years ago on Earth Prime, it seemed only a matter of time before they’d show up here on Earth-38.  Arriving just in the nick of time to join the fight, as Supergirl, Superman and Martian Manhunter, along with a throng of heroes he’d never seen before, struggled to bring down a horde of berserkers, Valor wasted no time jumping into the fray.  And ‘fray’ it was, to be sure.  It appeared Supergirl and her team had invited others to their fight, including heroes he could only assume were her allies from another Earth.  Mike caught sight of Guardian fending off a Dominator with his shield, as well as Alex using her powered exoskeleton to toss one of the aliens into the waiting blast of fire from a man he can only assume was Heatwave.

He hovered over the Dominator shuttle plying it with his heat vision until is sputtered and then exploded.  Gathered Dominators stopped for a moment, realizing that their ride back to the mothership just bit the dust, which allowed Valor to invite himself to the party.  Landing on the ground, he puts his weight behind a single punch that sent one careening back into the ship’s fire.

“One down,” he told himself.

“Behind you,” someone shouted.  An orange streak flashed before his eyes and the apparent Dominator behind him disappeared to…he didn’t know where.

A second later, the orange flash materialized into a person beside him.  “I’m Barry,” the man in the blood red suit announced, an open grin on his masked face.

“Ah!”  Mike immediately recognized the name as the speedster from Earth Prime who befriended Kara long before Mike’s arrival on this planet.  “Barry Allen…nice to meet you finally.  I’m Mike…uh…Valor,” he indicated his suit.  “Is there a plan here?”

Barry tossed him a small bag.  “Put one of these behind the ear of each Dominator you come across.  Other than that, knock them around until the tech geniuses get their stuff set up. Then get clear when we get the signal.”

“And the signal is…?”

“You have super hearing?” the speedster asked.

“Yes.”

“Then keep your ears tuned to the comms. You’ll hear the signal when it comes,” he answered cryptically.

So they went to hand-to-hand, taking out the horde and trying to stay alive.  Dominators were extremely strong, their strength rivaling that of Superman, Supergirl and Valor, so as they fought, it was best to avoid physical contact whatsoever. He concentrated on using his speed to place the tiny transmitters.  At one point he looked around, but Supergirl was nowhere to be found.

An ally went down and Mike went after her, pulling her from the melee of attacking aliens.  He dragged her from beneath the body of a Dominator and removed her from the fight. She looked up at him and smiled behind her red mask.  “I’m Speedy and you can fly.”

“Valor,” he provided his codename for her. “And…yes I can.”

“Cool.”

“Are you okay?” he shouted over the noise.

“I’ve had worse,” she pluckily replied, rubbing at an injured shoulder.  She came off as much more petite than she actually was, and she wore an outfit made of thick red leather.  Whipping an arrow out of her quiver attached to her back, Speedy notched it into her bow. “Thanks for the assist, but there’s no rest for the wicked,” she said with a roguish smile, before diving back into the fight.

Valor flew up for an overhead view, taking out a few Dominators with his heat vision and by diving down upon them with his super speed and a punch combination.  It went on and on, a seemingly endless supply of attacking Dominators, until finally the signal was given and Mike soared above the crowd to watch as high pitched whine pass over the city in a giant wave, taking out all of the remaining Dominators.  The creatures grabbed for their “ears” and screeched in pain before crumpling to the ground, dead.

When it was over, he dropped like a stone, slamming feet first into the pavement, his knees bending to absorb the impact, his royal blue cape fluttering dramatically around him.  Clark was the first to approach him, their matching grins telling the tale of a long-held friendship.

“Clark,” he greeted, joyfully.  Clark’s impossibly strong arms wrapped him in a welcome embrace, his hands slapping Mike powerfully on the back.  Mike returned the embrace with equal back-slapping fervor, as men do.

“What kept you?” Clark joked.

“Can’t believe you started the party without me?” Mike shook his head.

“Well, if you hadn’t decided you needed to make a dramatic and well-timed entrance….”

“I’m on the other side of the country,” Mike reminded his friend and mentor.  “Philadelphia isn’t exactly a stone’s throw.  Besides, it looks like you had everything handled.”

“Come and meet the rest,” Clark grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the milling crowd.  He took them through each of their names, assuming that the others had already experienced their introductions.  He had already met Barry and Speedy, but there was also Vibe, Black Canary, Mr. Terrific, Wild Dog, Jesse Quick, as well as the team of time travelers that included Heatwave, Vixen, White Canary and Firestorm.

He looked for her.  Surreptitiously, unwillingly, his eyes darting away from each face, hoping to find hers somewhere in the crowd, but to no avail.  He felt his heart sink, though he hadn’t been wholly unaware of the hope he’d been carrying within.  Even through the supersonic flight to National City, he hadn’t really taken the time to truly consider seeing her again.  He’d been more concerned about an alien attack and what it might mean.  Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to examine the possibility too closely.  

“She’s with J’onn and Bruce,” Clark told him.

“I wasn’t—“

“You were,” Clark insisted firmly.  Mike’s shoulders slumped with defeat, finally admitting to himself that his heart had been searching for her in the crowd. “It’s okay,” Clark said, his hand grasping Mike’s shoulders in comfort.  “She’s returned to the DEO.  They managed to capture a Dominator and they wanted to secure it before interrogating it. Kara’s there to keep Bruce from killing it.”

“I see.”

“Do you want to join them?” Clark asked, expecting his friend to jump at the chance to see Kara again.

“No,” Mike replied, shaking his head and taking a step back.  “Probably not a good idea.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Clark exclaimed. “You’re going to come all this way and not even see her?  After six years?”

“Just a coward, I guess,” he shrugged, a kernel of truth hiding beneath the sarcasm.

“She doesn’t think that about you, Mike.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Mike said, placing his hands on his hips.  “It’s been six years.  Maybe it’s best if we just…forget.”

‘Then why haven’t you done that already?” Clark needled him.  “You think I haven’t noticed that there hasn’t been anyone in your life?”

‘There has—“

“Anyone real, I meant.  Sure, there have been dates here and there, but no one you’ve considered committing to long-term.”

“You know as well as I do, it’s not that easy.  Not every woman is like Lois,” Mike pointed out. He hadn’t seen Lois in over nine months, not since Samuel was born, and though they emailed on a weekly basis he still missed her.  She was the big sister he’d never had.

“You’ll never find your Lois if you don’t try,” Clark argued.

“How do you--?”

“I know you,” Clark cut him off.  “I know you – maybe even better than you know yourself. Maybe you’re not looking because you know you’ve already found her.”

“C’mon, Clark,” Mike begged, studying the tips of his blue boots.

“I know it’s hard,” Clark placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder.  “The first step is the hardest.”

Mike considered Clark’s position a moment before shaking his head.  “I can’t,” he decided.  “I just…can’t.  I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

“You could never disappoint me,” Clark promised, a sad smile on his face.  “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.  I’ll tell her.”

“Damn it, Clark!”

“She asks about you,” Clark confessed.  “When you were training, I made a promise to you that I wouldn’t talk about what we were doing or how you were progressing.  And I’ve kept that promise, even though it made her angry.  But those days are gone and all she wants is to know how you are.”

“Really?” Mike asked.  Why would she possibly want to know about his life?  He left after coming to the realization that she would never feel about him the way he felt about her.  He wanted to respect and honor that, so he removed himself from her sphere in hopes of easing her awkward discomfort.  “Why?”

“She cares about you, Mike,” Clark replied. “Maybe your leaving made her realize just how much….”

“No,” Mike shook his head.  “She was very clear.  She did not have those kinds of feelings for me.”

“We have a saying here on Earth about absence making the heart grow fonder.”

“I don’t want ‘fond’,” Mike answered, sadly.  “I never did.”

Clark tilted his head to one side for a second and listened to something outside of the human range of hearing.  Mike attempted to tune in, but without knowing where to focus, Clark could be listening to a football game on a television set three miles away for all he knew.

“Apparently defending the Earth against alien invaders makes the humans hungry.  Big Belly Burger?”

“Nah,” he answered, nonchalantly.  “I’m not—“

 “You don’t need to rush back,” Clark said, ramping up a pitch to convince him to stay, that Mike already knew was going to succeed.  Mike rarely denied Clark anything.  Logically, he knew that Clark was simply playing for time, in an effort to get Mike to stick around for a while longer.  Time he would use to try to convince him to see Kara, or worse, orchestrate an ‘accidental’ meeting.  But he’d rarely been able to withstand a full on Clark Kent Mid-western charm offensive. “Stay for one meal.  Meet the rest of the gang.  Get to know them for five minutes.  I know they have a lot of questions about you.”  Clark chuckled, indicating that Mike was going to be in for an intense but friendly interrogation, before adding, “You just flew three thousand miles across country at hypersonic speeds and then fought a cadre of Dominators.  You need to eat.  I insist. I’ll even pay.”  Clark used his mentor voice, which made staying for dinner non-negotiable, but then lightened the conversational tone by grinning, “And I’m sure Bruce would love to see you.”

“Great,” Mike sighed, his voice notably lacking in enthusiasm.  He had a complicated relationship with Bruce Wayne, a.k.a. The Dark Knight.  They were allies and, with Philadelphia being closer to Gotham than Metropolis, had proved over time that they would always have each other’s back when in a tight spot.  

But Bruce wasn’t his friend, so much as he was Clark’s and it was a dynamic not unlike befriending the best friend of one’s older sibling.  While anyone who gave Mike a hard time would feel Clark’s wrath, Bruce was given carte blanche in this arena and took a nearly sadistic pleasure in running roughshod over Mike at every opportunity.

“Clark, please tell me you haven’t told Bruce about what happened with me and Kara six years ago,” Mike’s stormy grey eyes begged. Between the three of them, Kara hadn’t been a forbidden subject, after all, she was Clark’s beloved cousin.  But Mike had always steered clear of divulging the specifics of the night that drove him away from National City.  Away from her.  Instead, Mike had always chosen to speak of Kara’s positive qualities whenever the subject came up in Bruce’s presence.  To that day, Clark and Lois were the only ones that knew the full extent of Mike’s heartbreak.

Clark’s grimace was all the answer that Mike needed to his query, but he compounded the already sinking feeling in Mike’s gut by adding, “How could I predict that a situation like this would bring us all together?”

“How could you not? This,” Mike indicated the field of battle, strewn with Dominator corpses, “was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Clark looked around and nodded.  “Point taken.”

“All you did was give him ammunition.”

“You know he’s just baiting you.  You should try standing up to him.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s just baiting me.”

After a moment a wide grin spread across Clark’s face, and he sighed in a somewhat melodramatic fashion, a hand over his heart. “The student has become the master.  I couldn’t be more proud.  I’ll tell him he can knock it off now.”

Mike did a double-take, his eyes widening to a nearly impossible size.   “Are you kidding me?” he asked, stupefied.  “This is all been some sort of an elaborate test?”

Clark’s laugh was hardy and unrepentant, his eyes sparkling with mirth.  “In the beginning it was just supposed to be a joke, but then it just became a kind of tradition.  We wanted to see what it would take to break you…but we never could.”

“Good to know I make an excellent verbal punching bag.”

“Hey,” Clark defended.  “It wasn’t without purpose.  You’ve seen how it can be, people wanting to tear you down even though all you want to do is help them.  Sometimes it’s hard not to lash out, not to get angry—sometimes it’s hard not to say, ‘I quit.  These people can save themselves.’  Bruce and I just wanted to thicken your skin a bit, especially in light of the reason you came to me in the first place.”

“My skin wasn’t the problem,” Mike pointed out. “It was my heart.”

“Well, you know what I think.  You’ve made your heart so bulletproof nothing’s getting through, and that’s no way to live.  You need something to remind you of why you keeping fighting.”

“I have something,” Mike reminded his friend.  “I have twenty-four somethings, which is why I need to get back to Philly sooner rather than later.”

“Let’s get changed and we can meet the others at Big Belly.  It’s just a few blocks down.” Clark threw an arm over Mike’s shoulder and led him from the field of battle, leaving the agents of the DEO to clean up the mess.

TBC