#he tries to look normal and friendly and unassuming and then he fucking kills you brutally or just by turning you to stone

[waywardsalt]

drawing is difficult for me and writing is something i’m considerably better at sooooo…

written list of ideas i have for a humanoid design for bellum bc i think im finally zeroing in on something after a few uhhh years of brainstorming

(if you read this and have like. some ideas you want to share or some possible [constructive] criticisms go ahead and share them if you want)

Not actually properly humanoid; he can take on a fully human look but it isn’t his default and requires a bit more energy

Therefore, he usually lacks ears (they’re just. holes), finger or toe nails, a navel, an adam’s apple, or basically any kind of human detail that could be easily overlooked at first glance (maybe leaning into a bit uncanny?). He does have these traits when he actually puts the effort in to pass as human

The traits shared between his usual humanoid form and the more explicitly human form are: an eyepatch over his left eye (he doesn’t have a left eye or eye socket in either form. it’s like one-eyed willy in goonies), yellow hair (actually the same color as link’s), a lack of a nose (effectively like it’s been torn off, just leaving the nostril lines/openings), and a lot of large scars pretty much everywhere (some are just normal looking scars, like one across his face that looks like items from a wound that cost him his nose, while others vaguely resemble the markings on his body when he’s in demon/normal form), so either way he’s going to draw attention

In his usual form (more obviously nonhuman) his left eye is his usual black and orange eye, and he has sharp teeth, but he can switch those to appear more human if he’d like

He’s below the average height and appears to be only slightly muscular, logically more built for flexibility or with the build of a dancer, but his demonic strength remains, though his speed and flexibility is limited by the form he takes

His hair is a mess and mostly short, and if he’s in the more demonic-leaning human form, it’s usually got streaks of black (black is in there in some way, how it appears is still a wip) in all of the yellow

Clothing can vary but most commonly he chooses something loose and casual, he doesn’t particularly value his clothes and doesn’t really have anything to hide and so pick stuff that won’t drag him down or get snagged in a fight, flimsy loose clothes are good

Other times he’ll wear boots and gauntlets and gloves in a more serious context, usually opting for designs and materials similar to what he gives his phantoms, he doesn’t fully lean into the phantom-style of armor or fighting unless he needs to focus on defense, however

In either of his human forms, he’s still capable of fighting (and in his more demonic form he can use his tentacles, the come from his back), and doesn’t so much as have a fighting style as he generally just kills with whatever seems most convenient or entertaining at the time, ranging from creating a weapon for himself to use to just bashing a guy’s skull in with his bare hands

He’s very violent but can talk just fine and can be just about eloquent if he wants but usually leans into being more chaotic and acting the part of a brutal ruffian if the job can be completed using force, so a lot of the time he doesn’t even bother with looking explicitly human most of the time

He greatly prefers his demonic form and uses the human form for specific reasons, and can’t actually use it if he’s too weak

[gnocchighoul]

The boys (+undateables?) reactions when they discover MC is actually a vampire?

....so I’m a dingus and didn’t realize that this was also for the undateables and just wrote it for the brothers, my bad 😅 Part two maybe? 👀

WARNING: as this is about vampires, it’s a little bit morbid. I strayed away from being too graphic, but y’know. Vampires. There’s death and blood and such. 

Enjoy! :D

~

Lucifer

In hindsight, he really should have figured it out on his own.

But it’s not like he’s been around enough humans lately to know what Normal human behavior is. 

So he just kinda took your... quirks at face value.

So what if you’re far too comfortable with the Devildom’s constant state of nighttime? Solomon doesn’t seem to mind it either, so maybe humans are just more nocturnal now.

And perhaps your Very Strong aversion to garlic is a little odd, but Mammon wouldn't eat it either for the first 600 years of his life, so it’s not that weird.

You’re also not phased by constantly being surrounded by demons and monsters, which is a little strange, but maybe you’re just like the ancient greeks. A monster fucker.

You feeling right at home in the Devildom is auspicious for the exchange program, so he doesn’t bother dwelling on it.

Though maybe he does find it a little bit weird when you really insist that he start drinking cranberry juice.

(It’s just for health benefits of course, totally has nothing to do with you prepping your next meal)

So what, you may ask, triggers his big lightbulb moment?

You fall off the roof.

And you just get right back up.

Now he knows that humans aren’t supposed to be THAT durable, so he stops you from scaling the side of the fucking house with your bare hands, and very eloquently asks you, “What the fuck?” 

You shake him off. “What? Mammon and I are playing roof-ball.” 

Lucifer stares. “You fell. I saw how hard you hit the ground. You should be dead.”

You laugh. “Dead? Just from a little fall like that? Are you serio-ohhh wait. You don’t know, do you?” 

You give him your biggest, cheesiest grin and—oh. 

Fangs.

...And now he understands why you want him to drink cranberry juice.

Mammon

You are, by far, the weirdest human he’s ever met. 

Which is saying something, because Solomon is literally just a few blocks away.

Seriously, despite camping out in your room nearly every single night, Mammon has never seen you sleep, he’s pretty fucking sure that sometimes you don’t even breathe, you won’t step foot into the House of Lamentation unless someone invites you in, and who the hell hates garlic that much?? 

But you’ve also expressed your intense dislike for crosses, so he supposes that you’re not unredeemable. 

Just weird.

But it’s incredibly annoying how you wont sleep. Your tossin’ and turnin’ is killing him, why the fuck can’t you just settle down? You need to just put your DDD down and sleep already, dammit.

He sits up, ready to tear you a new one—and pauses. 

“Um,” his voice is high, somewhat uncertain, and your eyes snap over to look at him. “Why are you looking at coffins for sale?” 

You sigh, a bit wistfully. “I just can’t stand sleeping in a bed anymore. I didn’t want to be rude, so I really did try, but it's been a couple hundred years since I last had one and it’s just murder on my back. I think I’m gonna just have to get a coffin. They’re so much more comfortable.” 

Briefly, Mammon considers running. 

Instead, he says, “What the fuck?” 

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You do know I’m a vampire, right?” 

...What the fuck—

Mammon lays back down—crosses his arms over his chest with a huff and pretends that he isn’t totally freaked the fuck out. “‘Course I do, don’t be stupid. Now go to sleep already.” 

So that he can escape before you try to eat him.

“Mammon,” you sing, leaning over the bed to loom over him. He swallows hard—can’t look away from your sharp, toothy grin. 

You coo, “I can hear the scared little pitter patter of your heart, darling.”

He squeaks.

Levi

Honestly, Levi is so so happy to have another irl friend who’s into video games that he looks past your strangeness.

You like to stay indoors and play games!! That’s something he has in common with you that his brothers don’t, and that’s all that matters!

...Though he does find it a little weird how sometimes you just kinda sniff him. 

The first dozen times he nearly had a heart attack, and when he asked why you were doing it, he Really wasn't expecting you to shrug and say “I dunno, you just smell tasty” 

Seriously. Tasty? Are you Beel or something, what’s that supposed to mean?!

He’s not entirely sure why you’re a bit of a shut in gamer though, because despite your, ah, quirks, you’re still so much cooler than he is, so what’s the deal with that?

When he asks, you just shrug and say, “Old habits die hard, I guess. Real sunshine hurts, but virtual doesn’t, so I just got kinda used to living through games and staying indoors.”

“Oh.” Levi’s a bit surprised, but sympathetic. “So, you sunburn easily?” 

He’s not entirely sure why you’re laughing now, since that wasn’t a joke. He was just trying to be friendly :(

But then you hug him and he’s too flustered to be offended anymore jndcks

So, when does it finally click for Levi that you’re a vampire?

You guys are having a game night in his room.

He accidentally takes a sip of your caprisun and realizes, very quickly, that it is not the refreshing juice of a caprisun pouch.

He throws up a little bit.

And screams.

And maybe blacks out for a few seconds.

But when he finally calms down and lets you explain, he’s pretty damn enchanted, because this is just like Help, My Roommate Is A Vampire And I Didn’t Know Until A Vampire-Hunter Mistook Me For Them And Attacked Me!! :D 

Satan

Satan considers himself to be somewhat of a detective, y’know. His brain is just filled to the brim with Big Smarts

Naturally, he puts that jelly thicc thought tank of his to good use and realizes very quickly that you aren’t totally human. 

At first, he isn’t totally sure what you are.

And then a coffin gets delivered to the house, which upon seeing you cheer “Oh sweet, my new bed!!” aaaand he puts the pieces together.

You become somewhat of a case study to him. You’re the first vampire he’s ever encountered and he just wants to know everything and anything about your life.

He’s so intrigued by you.

But you frustrate him SO much.

He wants to know about how you were turned!! It’s not like he has any other vampires that he can ask about their experience!! And you fucking tell him a different story every day!!

“A cat jumped over my deceased body!”

“I was stabbed and the wound wasn’t treated with boiling water!” 

“On a dark and stormy night, I came across a palace and the owner, a hospitable gentleman, let me take refuge there. But then, I quickly realized that I was actually a hostage, and when I tried to escape, that fucker turned me!”

“Nobody put an obolus in my mouth to pay the toll of the Styx, so Charon the ferryman sent me back! What a great guy.” 

“A chupacabra bit me!”

Needless to say, he considers breaking the wooden leg off one of the dining room chairs and stabbing you with it, but the lecture he would get from Lucifer just isn’t worth the effort. 

He’s gonna pull the truth out of you one of these days.

Asmo

“My my, darling, what sharp teeth you have~” Asmo purrs, lifting a finger to brush against them, doe-eyes wide and curious. “The better to eat me with, hopefully?” 

You smile. “Something like that.”

And you fuckin’ bite his finger.

His scream is fantastic. If you actually draw blood next time, maybe he’ll even shatter the windows! 

He swats your leg sharply with a silk folding fan and cries, “What if you had broken my skin!? Do you have any idea how much time and effort goes into maintaining this soft, supple skin?! What’s wrong with you, you psychopath?”

“Don’t hit me,” you pout, scooting away from him. “I couldn’t help it! You just smell so sweet and I haven’t had any blood in a while, so—”

“Huh?” Asmo blinks, looking a bit confused. Then recovers far too quickly and waggles his eyebrows at you. “Oh, so that’s what you’re into! What a pleasant surprise~” 

You thunk him on the back of the head. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to tease a vampire?”

Asmo’s grin could rival the sun.

“A vampire?! Well why didn’t you say so sooner?” 

He’s already taking off his shirt.

“Get over here already and take a bite out of me~”

Beel

When he finds out that you’re a vampire, his first thought is to worry over if you can eat normal food or not.

He’s very relieved when you tell him that you can, so long as you’ve had enough blood, but that garlic is a very big no-no.

Naturally, you two bond over how both of you never quite feel full. 

It’s not uncommon for the other house members to find you two laying face down on the floor, tummies rumbling, whining about how you’re staaaaarving

You carry around snacks for him, and Beel makes sure that you’ve always got access to blood (whether that means stashing blood bags, letting you feed from him, or a combo of both ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) )

He’s probably going to be the least weirded out by your ~undead tendencies~

Honestly, he’s a bit relieved by how strong you are. The last thing he ever wants to do is hurt you or see you get hurt, and it gives him peace of mind when he realizes that you’re actually pretty durable!

But it does give him a fucking heart attack the first time he sees you yeet yourself out a second story window to crush poor, poor unassuming Mammon.

He also really loves how your body temperature naturally runs cold. He’s a space heater, you’re an icicle—it just works. Snuggle time is good :)

He totally compares the size of your incisors with his jkdcnkj

He just thinks you’re really neat!!!

But he is very sympathetic about how you cant eat good garlic bread :(

Belphie

Listen.

We all know this emo boy is a vampire fucker, probably even more so than Asmo.

(He read Twilight. He saw all the movies. He had merch.)

(Fuck Edward and Jacob though, he was Team Alice all the way.)

(If he can stay awake long enough, he reads really shitty vampire romance novels.)

He just thinks vampires are hot, okay? He can’t help that his soul longs to be a vampire fucker.

Just accept it into your heart. Belphie already has.

So needless to say, he’s THRILLED when he finds out that you’re a vampire. He tries to play it cool though and pretends that he isn’t immediately trying to jump your bones dfghjkjh

He overheard you telling Satan that you got bitten by a Chupacabra, and they’re known for going after cows right? 

He is a cowboy, y’know, guess you’re just gonna have to go to him now when you’re thirsty, y’know, since you were bitten by a Chupacabra. it just makes sense, really ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(No it doesn’t)

(But let’s be real, are you gonna pass up the chance to snuggle the shit out of him AND get a snack out of it? No. No you’re not.)

(He totally makes you arm wrestle Beel to recreate the “Iconic” twilight scene with Emmett and Bella.)

(When he realizes that you’re strong, he’s gonna make you give him piggyback rides, just like Edward and Bella :) and no he doesn’t care how ridiculous you both look)

[cryptid-bloodhound]

The Pride of Life

Ao3 

Words: 2.4k+

Characters: Bloodhound, Arthur, Bloodhound’s kid, Unnamed Security Guard

No Warnings, it’s just pure old fashioned FLUFF.

I said I was gonna write it and I did. Special shoutout to @ajays-lullaby for the term ‘ada’. That was a lifesaver.

--

Summary: They may often find peace in the bloodied valleys of battle but they’ve learned that the hunt is not the only place to find tranquility.

Or: Bloodhound has a kid and keeps forgetting that people don't usually show up to said kid's school in full battle gear. 

---

Life in the Legends’ compound was always interesting just after the conclusion of a game. The contenders tended to their wounds, cleaned the blood from their suits and weapons, and chatted quietly amongst one another. Exhaustion weighed heavy on their shoulders as they waited for the ‘all clear’ from the higher-ups. Some liked to find the ever-present paparazzi and bask in the fleeting limelight before limping to their quarters. Others couldn’t wait to make a break for the city and revel in their victory - or drink to their sorrows. 

In those tenuous moments between work and freedom laid a razor-thin tension. It lined their bodies, drawing them stiff as they dabbed their wounds. Friendly grins were always just the tightest bit strained at the very corners as they chatted with their friends. Jokes and laughs were traded as the phantom pains of bullets and blades shifted like a nightmare in the backs of their minds. No matter how close they are, it’s hard to look in the eyes of the person who put a gun to their head and pulled the trigger without thinking twice. 

But the wondrous thing about Legends is that those moments of bitter pain and loss were so very fleeting. They were a rare sort, able to place those memories of death and torment to the wayside. To not take it personally. At the beginning of the day, they’re competitors and at the end they’re family. It was the sort of lifestyle that few could handle. Even rarer was the ability to be a Legend and have a life outside of the games. Between the fame and fear garnered for their feats that seemed to separate them from the rest of society and the strain of competing at all, it was nearly impossible. The veterans of the game, Legends who had truly been through the wringer, have learned to cope with those brief, insidious emotions and the struggle with the duality of their lives with stunning expertise. It would take far more than a bad game to truly bring them down.

Sitting by their self was a Legend who seemed just outside of the norm. As they meticulously wiped blood from their hunting knife and hatchet, they felt a sense of serenity only ever present after a game. The threat of death and pain at the hands of their friends never really bothered them. If they were to fall by another’s hands then that is simply the way it was meant to be. If they had to fell a friend in combat, then so be it. Bloodhound found peace in the carnage that combat brought with it. If one listened close enough, they could even hear the faint sound of a soft battle hymn hummed under their breath. Perched just to their left was their faithful companion, Arthur. The large raven busied himself with cleaning the game’s grime from his feathers and preening.

They took this brief reprieve as an opportunity to send a silent prayer up to the Gods. All they could hope for was that the day’s kills pleased the Allfather. Then, when their worship came to a close and their blades no longer ran a deep crimson, they rose from their seat. A few heads turned at the unexpected motion before that lull in conversation picked back up. It was not uncommon for the enigmatic hunter to disappear post-battle for hours or even days at a time. Still, as they neared the exit they gave a parting farewell. They could grant their brethren that much.

“Fara vel, I will return shortly.”

After a chorus of well wishes and waves, they departed the facility. Once upon a time, they would have made their way to where the wilderness called their name. Since they had a child, however, they found their priorities shifted. Instead of heading for the forest, they made their way deeper into the city to their kid’s school. Never would they have guessed something could rival their sense of wanderlust let alone beat it. But these moments with their young one proved them happily wrong.

As they approached the school, the astonished looks and whispers of other parents didn’t go unnoticed. It was something they’ve learned to live with. At first, before they truly grasped the scope of their fame thanks to the games, they were understandably shocked to see people wearing eerie replicas of their mask and nervous fans approach them for autographs. It was uncomfortable at first but as the years rolled on and victories mounted, they’ve adapted just as they always do. 

So, the shocked stares and high whispers didn’t faze them. Though, perhaps it should have. If they had paid attention to what was being said and just where it was that people were looking, they would have picked up on the problem. Or, if they had made a mention to the other Legends where they were going, someone could have spoken up to stop them. But no, that was not how it was meant to be. 

The problem for Bloodhound is simple. Their way of life - constant hunting and battle - is so utterly ingrained in them that traversing a city armed and armored was normal in their eyes. Just as one puts on a coat to leave the house, they don a mask and combat gear. It’s as natural as breathing to them. Approaching a grade school fresh from a blood bath just wasn’t something that rang alarms in their head. That’s why when they approached the doors and were stopped by a visibly uneasy security guard they just tilted their head in confusion.

“Uh, I’m- I’m gonna have to ask you to uh, to leave your weapons in your vehicle. They aren’t permitted on school grounds.”

It all suddenly made sense to the hunter. The horrified whispers, the beads of sweat dotting the guard and rolling down his face… They could hardly fault the others for being wary. After all, it is just the nature of prey to grow anxious in the presence of a predator - especially when that predator is baring its teeth and claws. This was not their prey, however, and so they gave a slight apologetic bow of the head.

“Ahh, my apologies. I was veiðr and forgot. One moment.”

Disarming was quick and easy since they carried scarce more than their varying blades when outside of the arena or away from a hunt. Still, there was a degree of amusement to be found in seeing the wide-eyed looks of the few parents approaching the school as they removed one large blade after another from their sheaths. They knew it wasn’t simply the weapons but the one who wielded them that upset the populace. At this point, Bloodhound would have thought they’d be used to it. After all, they could openly admit that this was far from the first time they forgot to leave their weapons behind. 

As they neared the doors once more, a raven’s call caught their attention. Reflexively they lifted their arm for Arthur to perch upon it. Once more the guard blocked their way. Bloodhound frowned ever so slightly at the motion. They had relinquished their weaponry, was that not enough? This time, the man rubbed the back of his neck and looked for the world as if he wished he was anywhere but here.

“Your bird-’

“Artur comes with me.”

There was a firm note of finality in their voice. It was clear they would entertain no negotiations on this front. Arthur was their oldest and truest friend. Where they went, the raven went. That authoritative tone sent a jolt through the guard. Eyes widened and stance stiffened, he seemed at a loss for a moment. Then, he gave an unsteady grin and a nod that was just a bit too enthusiastic to be natural.

“Of course! That’s totally what I was gonna say. Nice ta have you back!”

The tightness behind his clenched grin and the minute tremor in his hands was all the evidence needed to know that was decidedly not what he was going to say. However, he seemed to have weighed his options and found that complying was the best way to go. Not wanting to cause the poor guard any more undue stress, Bloth gave another polite nod and made their way inside. As they passed the threshold, they could just make out the faint crackle of the guard’s radio as he spoke into it.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do? …...No, YOU tell them their bird isn’t allowed inside! ..….I am not telling Bloodhound that. I do not get paid enough for that! …...I like my life more than this job, dickhead. …...Hnng, fiiine but that’s it!”

They shook their head slightly in amusement. A faint, breathy laugh left their lips at the - in their opinion - entirely unnecessary commotion. This was rather routine for them by now. They took an empty spot in the open corridor and casually folded their arms as they waited for the children to be released. After losing his perch on Bloth’s arm, Arthur made the short journey to sit on their shoulder. Once more they ignored the blatant stares of the others around them. 

It wasn’t but a moment after settling in their spot, stance wide and exuding that quiet pride they’re known for, that the guard made his return. This time, he tried to be as unassuming as possible as he stood back and to the right of the Legend. The forced casual display didn’t fool the hunter but they made no motion to acknowledge the man. He was simply doing his job and keeping an eye on the obvious threat. Bloodhound could certainly respect that. But, to their surprise, the guard coughed a little awkwardly and tapped their shoulder. They half-turned to give the still perturbed guard their attention. 

“Uh, you...you got a little..somethin’ right there.”

He made a faint little gesture toward Bloth’s shoulder and, after shifting a bit, Bloodhound could see the ruddy stain he spoke of. It was initially hidden from their gaze due to the shoulder guard blocking it from their perspective. They hummed as they ran a finger over it and scraped the flaking substance off.

“I thought I had gotten all of the bloth off. You have my gratitude.“

At the confirmation of the substance, the guard looked just a tad paler and nodded a bit too quickly.

“Yep! No problem, any time!”

His voice was pitched an octave higher, belaying just how daunting this entire scenario is for him. After that, there was a lapse in conversation. It lulled into an uncomfortable sort of quiet - at least on the guard’s end. Bloodhound just went back to their casual stance, seeming entirely at ease despite the awkward tension filling the air. Arthur busied himself with staring almost menacingly at the guard from his perch.

It wasn’t much longer until the pitter-patter of hurried little feet caught their attention. Moments later, a bustle of kids rounded the corner and elated cries filled the air as they happily made their way to their loved ones. All it took was a cursory sweep to spot their own little one. With a head of wild curls and bright eyes, they came running to Bloth with wide open arms and a large, gap-toothed grin. 

“Ada!”

A consuming, aching warmth spread from their heart throughout their body at the unabashed affection in their child’s voice. This was a brand of love they never fathomed they would have but they thank the Gods each day for it. Without hesitation, they dropped down low and opened their arms invitingly. Just before their child jumped into their waiting grasp, Arthur flew up and circled around the pair. It was an easy affair to lift the young one up and settle them on a hip as they hugged their parent. After planting a kiss on the cheek of Bloodhound’s mask, the smiling kid leaned back to look into the goggles.

“Hi! Did you win your game? Did you?”

The child had an accent much like Bloth’s but not quite to the same degree. It was there, in the curl of the syllables and pitch of the words. There was no denying where they picked up the rather unique manner of speech from. It didn’t matter how many games Bloodhound was in, their child always eagerly waited to hear about it. They gave another soft chuckle and a little nod.

“Indeed. The Allfather graced my and my brethren’s spirits.”

That earned them an excited clap and wiggle. They had to tighten their grip ever so slightly to keep their child from squirming right out of their grasp. A call from Arthur caught both of their attentions. The circling raven was getting impatient and needy. He was quite the little attention hog. Shifting their grip, Bloth held out their arm once more for the bird to land. Once he did, their kid immediately cooed and started petting the bird. If they didn’t know any better, they’d say Arthur was nuzzling into the affectionate strokes.

“Hello, Artur! Did you help ada in the games?”

As if he understood them, the bird squawked and ruffled up his feathers proudly. After taking just another selfish moment to watch their two loves, Bloodhound spoke up.

“Do you wish to visit the others?”

It was a silly question as their child adored the other Legends - and the Legends adored them right back. After more excited wiggling and affirmations, Bloth lowered the kid back to the ground and took their backpack from them. It was almost comically large on the young one and hilariously out of place against the pristine white and gold armor of the hunter. Still, they slung it over their shoulder opposite to their quiver and gently gripped their kid’s hand. Then, they made their way out of the school, completely unflustered by the gawking people around them. The guard from before still looked rather anxious but the smile on his face was much warmer and more genuine than before. They gave a polite nod as they left. On the way to the vehicle, their child rattled off one story after another with a little skip in their step. Contentment filled their chest in this domestic moment. They may often find peace in the bloodied valleys of battle but they’ve learned that the hunt is not the only place to find tranquility. Once more, they sent a silent prayer to the Gods, thanking them for their blessed fortune.

[thorne93]

Stan Lee University

Prompt: What would the Avengers be like in college, more importantly, what would they be like if Y/N existed around them?

Word Count: 2559

Warnings: drama, language, betrayal 

Notes: This is based on a HC from @carryonmyswansong. They helped brainstorm and write part of this series. In this AU, no one will have powers, everyone is a normal human. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong

~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Monday.

It’s busy.

It’s hectic.

It’s nerve wracking.

It’s college.

Your junior year to be exact, the beginning of fall semester. You shouldn’t be daunted by this though, you were only nineteen, whereas most of your peers were twenty-one. Thanks to your desire to learn, and some strings pulled at your small-town high school, you’d had advanced through the grades, and when the seniors graduated at eighteen, so did you at sixteen.

From there, you joined them at college. A lot of people have to deal with saying goodbye to their friends in high school. Friends that most of the time were people they literally grew up with. But in your case, in your small city, pretty much everyone you ran around with in high school came to the same college.

It was a quaint, small college with roughly twelve-hundred enrolled students on a rather green campus, and sixteen of your friends had come over to join you.

Now, all you had to do was get to your morning class -- Physics 3000.

You skated into the classroom and located Tony and Bruce quickly, already sitting on one side of the four-chaired black top lab tables.

“Hey, hey!” Tony greeted happily. He stood up to give you a quick hug before you slid into your seat, five minutes to spare before class.

“Hey, thought I’d never make it here. Four freshman needed help, decided to pick me to be their tour guide,” you explained.

“You could’ve said no,” Bruce retorted.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I know that word,” you teased with a half smile.

Tony and Bruce were very good friends of yours. The three of you shared a strong love of science, known each other since freshman year of high school… well, your freshman year. Tony was double majoring in engineering and computer science. Bruce decided to double major in chemistry and biology, while minoring in engineering.

Meanwhile, you were a psychology major - pre med. Everyone called you crazy for wanting to do pre-med, and especially for putting time into a major like psychology. Nearly everyone said it would just be easier to major in chemistry, and minor in psychology, since you had to have so many chem courses for pre-med. But you didn’t want that. Psychology was your life, it was your driving force. Nothing got you more excited than the idea of finding out what makes people tick.

Just then, a student sat down beside you. You’d never seen him before, and on this campus, with this population size, that was nearly impossible. He began pulling out his notebooks while you and The Science Bros (the nickname nearly everyone had given Tony and Bruce long ago) stared at him. The three of you shared a quick look before the new student glanced up at you all.

“Uh, hi,” he greeted with confusion, his eyes touching on all of you. “I’m sorry, do I have something on my face or…?”

“Sorry,” you began, blinking quickly. “We’ve just never seen you before,” you remarked, taking in his appearance. He had dark, short hair. He was tall. Blue eyes that seem to cut anything they looked at. His presence alone was intimidating, even before he opened his mouth.

“That’s probably because I just transferred over. Went to Bransford University before this,” he explained matter-of-factly. Bransford was a huge college about two hours east of your university.

“Oh, why the switch?” you inquired, leaning a little more towards him, your body involuntarily shivering at his voice, and his piercing eyes.

“Wanted a smaller school,” he answered. “Got tired of the faculty treating us like cattle at BU.” He scoffed slightly and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I’m Stephen.” He held out his hand and you took it, giving your name. After that, the others introduced themselves.

“Nice to meet you,” you said.

“Yeah, you too.”

“Good morning, everyone,” the professor said, standing up in front of the class. “Say hello to everyone at your table. They will be your new lecture and lab partners for the rest of the semester.”

Stephen looked back to you briefly, his expression unreadable until he put his eyes back on the professor. He tried to hide it, but you saw a small smirk on his face and you were curious if he had felt a spark like you did.

---------------------------

As soon as lecture let out, Stephen went on his own way while you and the science bros began making your way to your next class. Tony had some robotics engineering class, while Bruce had biochem coming up. As for you, it was off to Ethics in Mental Health.

The three of you diverged around the middle of campus, where Tony had to go to the business building, Bruce to the science, and you to the social science building. It was there, that your best friend had started walking across the courtyard and you nearly exploded from excitement.

“Clint!” you called, waving at him to get his attention before running full force at him. You slammed into him, wrapping your entire body around him. Your legs went around his waist, your arms around his neck, while he wrapped you in a tight embrace, spinning you around before sitting you down.

“Hey! How was your first class? I’m headed to mine now,” he informed.

“Interesting. We’re going to go into centrifugal force first, and I’m really excited because--”

Clint held up his hand. “Too many big words for this early in the morning,” he remarked.

You laughed at him. “It’s like… ten-thirty in the morning, Clint,” you teased, nudging his elbow.

“I’m not changing what I said,” he confidently responded. “Where are you off to?”

“Ethics in mental health.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you really need that class. Bad.”

You punched him playfully. “Hey, fuck off, Barton.”

“See! You just hit me. That needs anger management. When you’re a psychiatrist you can’t just go off the handle like that, Y/N. You need to reel it in,” he said, laying into you, teasing you.

“Oh, don’t worry, if anyone gives me a hard time, I’ll just lobotomize them.”

“You’re a scary person.”

“It’s always the most unassuming,” you said with a shrug before bidding him a goodbye and skipping off to class where you ran into Wanda. She was another psych major, but she wasn’t pre-med. She planned on getting her Masters in counseling. She wasn’t sure if she was going for children, marriage, school, or general. She was still on the fence and constantly grilled you about how you just knew you wanted to be a psychiatrist, when she was always so uncertain.

“Hey,” you greeted with a smile as you plopped beside her in the medium sized lecture hall.

“Hey. You ready for this?”

“Of course,” you said confidently. You pulled out your folder. “Already printed the syllabus, the schedule, and the first homework assignments. I do have some questions about it though…”

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “You’re the biggest nerd on campus, you realize this, right? Why are you like this? Why can’t you just let the professor hand you this crap? They all do it every time.”

“They don’t always do it,” you corrected. “I’ve had several not do it, and then I’m stuck without a plan. And you know how much I hate being without a plan.”

“Don’t we all?” she muttered, but it was so low you missed it.

--------------------

After your psych class you had a sociology class, where you met up with Scott and Sam. Scott was a total goofball, but you loved him. He was constantly cracking jokes, and while he seemed like an idiot and not serious about his work, he rivaled Tony and Bruce in his intelligence and skill. His area of expertise and interest lied in microbiology. Whenever you, or anyone else asked about it, he always said he loved small things. He just thought things on a microscopic level had the capability to kill, and he found it fascinating. It sort of creeped everyone out, but hey, he was a good guy so who cared?

Sam, on the other hand, was in aerodynamics. He majored in the aerospace program, with a minor in robotics. Sam was the chillest dude around, and you adored him. He was a wise cracker, but just like Scott, he wasn’t one to be underestimated.

“Hey boys!” you said happily as you sat with them in a small room.

“How are you so cheery?” Sam asked, not moving anything except an eyebrow and his eyes to glance at you. “It’s almost the end of the day and after all my classes I’m already ready to leave.”

“Because I’m doing what I love?” you asked as if it were obvious. “Come on, you aren’t thrilled knowing we’re about to embark on some sociology?”

“Aren’t you a psychology student? Why do you care about this?” Scott asked, gesturing to the front of the class before crossing his arms again.

You shrugged. “I can still appreciate a sociologists point of view. Without knowing how society affects my future patients, I can’t properly treat them.”

“Does every class get you excited or is it just the boring ones?” Scott wondered.

You laughed. “I love all knowledge, Scott,” you reminded sweetly.

“Oh yeah, I forgot she’s Einstein-incarnate,” Sam said, thrusting a thumb at you and rolling his eyes.

You giggled and blushed before the class started.

---------------------

And thus ended your first day of classes. It was a lot to keep track of, but you would spend all night in your dorm alone creating a nice color coded schedule and reading over the syllabus for each class twice. Towards the end of the night, you thought you’d head out to grab a coffee and a late night meal when you ran into another friendly face.

He came out of his room just as you were locking your room behind you.

“Oh, hey, Steve. I didn’t know you were across from me this year,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at the tall muscular blonde.

Steve was a really great guy. He was the football captain back in high school, but he wasn’t the typical stereotype. He was actually like the perfect, all-american kid. He kept up his grades, he was really sweet to everyone. He never acted better than anyone else, and he was a great leader. He got a full ride football scholarship at college and he was a great student here as well. Lots of people thought he would go into sport science, but he actually chose business. He claimed that his body would deteriorate one day, especially if he went pro; but with business, he had a real career to fall back on, one he could retire with, and one that wouldn’t cause physical damage down the line.

Steve and you weren’t close, well, not exactly. You dated his best friend… a lot… on and off… since freshman year of high school.

Freshman year you met Bucky, who was just a sweetheart. He was a bit of a flirt, but he was a nerd like you, but hid it, for fear of being made fun of. So he put on this air of being a total player. He had a prosthetic left arm, something he got from a bad accident when he was a kid. Steve was there, saw the whole thing, seeing as they were neighbors. They grew up together, like brothers. Neighbors until they moved out and came to college, but here they had different housing.

The prosthetic arm had left Bucky a little insecure which is why he always tried a little harder at everything he did. He felt he had to prove himself constantly.

As for you, you had no problem with his arm. You honestly never noticed it. Hell your best friend was technically deaf. Without his hearing aids, he couldn’t hear jackshit. You’d picked up a good bit of sign language to make it easier for Clint.

But you and Bucky… god… it was complicated. You dated throughout most of freshman year, broke up in the summer, got back together in the winter of sophomore year, then broke up again before the end of the sophomore year… The cycle went on like that for several years. Each time you dated got shorter and shorter, and it seemed you had more dates in between your time with Bucky.

The first time you broke up, you didn’t see anyone at all. You got back together with Bucky, and that was that. But then you broke up a second time, and then you started dating another kid in your class. That didn’t last long, he was just more of someone to hang out and study with.

You lost your virginity to Bucky junior year of high school, and he to you. You would’ve thought that would’ve helped things, maybe make you closer. And it did, for a while. But eventually, you broke up again.

Throughout college, it was basically a friends-with-exclusive benefits when you two got together. There was no real relationship. It was pretty much physical except for the occasional movie or dinner date, but the romantic connection seemed to die a long time ago for you.

The two of you had broken up yet again earlier this year, early June. You started dating in the end of April, but by the beginning of June you were restless. You wanted a real relationship, not just random, casual sex with meaningless hangout sessions.

Bucky was still a really good guy, and you two were still friends. The breakups never affected that and most of the time it was as simple as a text stating, “I’m ready to take a break.” Sometimes he initiated them, sometimes you did. Most of the time it was either life was too busy for the whole FWB thing, or one of you was interested in someone else.

But, it was because of your odd relationship with Bucky that you weren’t exactly close with Steve. Steve thought it was weird that you two couldn’t just decide to be together or not. He didn’t want to get close to you in case one of these times the breakup wasn’t so amicable. He didn’t want to feel like he was caught between you two or something, so he just stayed close to Bucky and polite to you.

“Oh, yeah, moved in about a week ago,” he informed. “I don’t think I was here when you moved in so…” he explained with a casual shrug.

“Oh, gotcha. Okay, cool. Well it’ll be nice to have you across the hall!” you exclaimed. “Did you have a good first day?”

“Uh, as good as it can be. A little stressful, but I’m sure nothing like what you’re dealing with,” he offered.

“Oh, that’s no big deal,” you waved off. “Just classes. I’ve done tons of them before, they won’t be any different now.”

“That’s true. Well, hey, I’m off to go meet someone. I’ll see you around, okay?” he kindly said and you nodded, waving a goodbye to him. He went right down the hallway while you went left.

All in all, you had a rather happy good first day. Now it was time to celebrate with some food and time to think about the handsome lab partner you’d met earlier today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Forever Tag List

@essie1876

@magpiegirl80

@letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked

@iamwarrenspeace

@marvel-imagines-yes-please

@superwholocked527

@missinstantgratification

@thejemersoninferno

@rda1989

@munlis

@thefridgeismybestie

@bubblyanarocks3

@igiveupicantthinkofausername

@kaliforniacoastalteens

@feelmyroarrrr

@kaeling

@friendlyneighbourhoodweirdo

@damalseer

@heyitscam99

@yknott81

@sorryimacrapwriter

@glitterquadricorn

@xxqueenofisolationxx

@little-dis-kaalista-pythonissama

@bittersweetunicorm

@alyssaj23

@sea040561

@princess76179

@thisismysecrethappyplace

@sarahp879

@malfoysqueen14

@ellallheart

@breezy1415

@marvelmayo

Steve Rogers

@nedthegay

@camigt1999

@lostinspace33

@alwayshave-faith

@elleatrixlestrange

@ultrarebelheart

@lenawiinchester

@esoltis280

@patzammit

Bucky Barnes

@nedthegay

@lostinspace33

@alwayshave-faith

@elleatrixlestrange

@ultrarebelheart

@lenawiinchester

@its-not-a-tulpa

@esoltis280

@thirstresponsibly

@valecitainwonderland

@buckybarnesappreciationsociety

@howling-at-that-moon @sneakygitsune @whiw0lf

Loki Odinson

@lostinspace33

@ultrarebelheart

@lenawiinchester

@esoltis280

@tngrayson

@wangdeasang

@harrymewmew

@jayfantasyatyourservice

[sunshineandfangs]

Please tell me there’s a part 2 to end of the beginning I love it

Yes, it’s your lucky day! Happy Holidays! 

End of the Beginning Pt. 2

Warnings: Klaus being Klaus

Caroline sat stiff in her chair eyeing the Original across from her. It was amazing how she could feel more off balance and wary sitting at the gorgeous mahogany table in his dining room than hanging from chains in his literal dungeon/torture chamber.

She could acknowledge how diabolical it was; placing her in a setting that she knew was wrong but providing no physical reminders to justify the fear, nothing that told her to brace for pain or guard against manipulation. Even the cloak of power that surrounded him was somehow suppressed from a churning, endless abyss to a light fog.

Worst of all nothing about his body language or eyes suggested anything monstrous either, he was all charming geniality.

“Drink?” He asked, politely tipping a decanter in her direction.

She managed to refrain from pursing her lips, though she knew not even an ounce of tension had bled out of her.

“No. Thank you,” she replied with a short shake of her head.

His shoulders gave an elegant roll.

“Suit yourself, love.”

He poured himself a drink, setting the decanter aside, and took a sip. One swallow. Two. Lowering the glass to the table, Klaus eyed her with nothing but curiosity displayed.

“New Orleans is a gorgeous city isn’t it? Have you gotten the chance to see much of it? Food, music, art, culture; it has a bit of everything.”

Caroline couldn’t quite the control the way her brow twitched, though she did her best to smooth it out. Was this his idea of a joke?

“Its hospitality left a lot to be desire, I’m afraid.” Not the smartest response, though she did manage to keep all the venom from her tone, leaving it all sweet honey and Southern Belle.

She watched him carefully and yet nothing but mild amusement crossed his features. It wasn’t even the condescending or indulgent type. A chill crawled down her spine. No one spoke of control and the Original Hybrid in the same sentence, unless it was a comment on its lack. And yet here she sat before him utterly terrified because of it. There was nothing more frightening than the monster that thinks.

He interrupted the spiral of her thoughts. “That’s a shame. Perhaps, I can show you around? I am something of an expert after all.”

Klaus actually appeared genuine and politely unassuming. Friendly even. Like she said, terrifying.

“O-oh, that’s…kind of you to offer but-”

“Nonsense, sweetheart. I insist.”

And there it was, the most minuscule hint of an edge to his tone. It would almost be a relief if it didn’t send some part of her hindbrain squealing in primal fear. She swallowed.

“Well, if you insist.” She tried to infuse the tiniest bit of mocking into her tone, but it mostly fell flat.

“Wonderful-” Klaus cut off for a moment, flicking his eyes to a spot behind her. “Brother,” he nodded.

She didn’t think she could stiffen any further, but she managed. Craning her neck, she turned enough to make out the figure of Elijah, Klaus still looming in her peripheral.

“Niklaus. Miss Forbes.” With an elegant incline of his head, he acknowledged each of them. One hand in his slacks’ pocket he made a slight wave with the other, a casual gesture. “I couldn’t help but overhear my brother’s plans. Perhaps, Miss Forbes, you would like a second perspective on New Orleans?”

Well, fuck.

She darted her eyes between the two of them, but neither gave anything away. It was impossible to tell if this was part of the plan or if each brother had their own agenda. Considering the horror stories about the Originals, it could easily be both.

Two Originals were certainly scarier than one, but maybe they could distract one another? It seemed like a somewhat stupid thought, they were each a thousand years old after all, but who knew? Caroline would look for any advantage she could find.

That didn’t help her now though. However much she wanted only one Original, no Originals being the ideal, her choice would not be refusal. Sure, she could resist, but to what end? She’d only look belligerent and defensive and he’d force his way in one way or another. Either without her notice, definitely the worst option, or by overruling her decision.

Thankfully, the brothers indulged her pause, one just long enough to stray into awkward territory. Her lips curled into a tiny smile, as honest as she could manage.

“I’m sure you have much to offer.”

To the casual observer the trio appeared like a group of friends, perhaps more with the way Klaus kept a guiding hand on the small of her back. Of course, they were anything but.

So it was a shock when they snuck under her guard every so often. Elijah with his impressive repository of facts, history, and exploits. Klaus with his dry wit that was unexpectedly quite funny. They’d trade off every so often too. Elijah making a humorous quip while Klaus regaled her with some fascinating tale long lost to the annals of time.

They were disgustingly, disturbingly charming.

She understood now how so many could fall thrall to the Originals. Even as she rebuilt her walls every time they slipped, she still found her defenses faltering more often as the day progressed.

Later, when they returned to the compound, she was shown to a stunning guest room. With its intricately carved wooden furniture and attached bathroom with marble counters and giant tub, she could almost forget it was nothing but a beautiful cage.

“I will see you tomorrow, Caroline.” He must have sensed her confusion for he continued. “You did say you were here for Christmas, did you not? There’s much more for me to show you.”

“Then I shall see you tomorrow. Goodnight.” She all but shoved him from the room, which he obliged to her relief.

It was only she and Klaus this time, and he continued to guide her with his hand on her back. He brought her to some surprising locations, ones she would have gone to with her mom, but not ones she predicted he would bother with. Locations like Jackson Square for candlelight caroling and the levee for giant bonfires. Others were more expected, like the Orpheum to see the Nutcracker and a tour of St. Louis Cathedral.

Yet when evening fell, Caroline found herself standing before something relatively simple, but gorgeous all the same. It was one of the larger decorated trees, hundreds of feet of white-yellow lights wrapped around its trunk and branches until it seemed to be made of a sea of stars.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He murmured in her ear.

“Yes,” she breathed softly, unwilling to disturb the odd peace of the moment.

Days passed in much the same vein. Though neither brother spent quite as much time with her as Klaus did on Christmas, they continued to be creepily nice and accommodating. Before she knew it, Caroline felt the first stirrings of fondness for the two brothers, particularly Klaus, and she knew she couldn’t let this go on. Frankly, it was frightening that she couldn’t even pinpoint the moment her guard fell.

Steeling herself, Caroline marched into the kitchen. Only Klaus sat there this morning, a relief if she was honest. As counterintuitive as it was, Klaus was the one she felt more comfortable confronting.

Banishing her wandering thoughts, she slammed her hand on the table, letting the mild sting ground her.

“Enough,” she snarled.

Klaus raised an eyebrow, looking completely unruffled.

“Is something wrong, sweetheart?”

Unlike the first time they were at this table, Caroline could actually read beneath the genial facade. Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell if he was just letting her do so. And she couldn’t afford the rabbit hole such pondering would take her down. It would only shake her confidence.

“Stop toying with me, she bit out. “Ask your questions and end this. Just kill me if that’s what you plan.”

Klaus leaned back in his seat, at least giving her the courtesy of dropping his overly polite mask.

“Do you really think that low of me?”

“Yes,” she hissed.

He chuckled, vanishing from his seat across the table and reappearing in front of her before she could even blink.

“Such a fierce, clever little vampire,” he muttered.

She just narrowed her eyes.

He took his face in his hand, stroked his thumb across her cheek.

“I’ve looked into you of course, Caroline Forbes. By all accounts you are a fairly normal young vampire. Born in Mystic Falls, and yet not a trace of you when I was there.”

“I left after I turned. You must have just missed me.” She said this with a deadpan tone more concerned with the sensation of his hand on her face. A large part of her was still wary, but a tiny portion was enjoying it. Had he managed to burrow under her skin so easily?

“And the compulsion? Your father was William Forbes.”

She nodded, skin brushing against his palm. “Yes, he taught me how to resist it.”

Klaus let out a thoughtful hum, clearly having inferred all of this over the past several days. His eyes bored into hers, dark and intense, but oddly not particularly threatening. 

She was sure that could change.

“Let’s try this again, love. What do you know of the Originals?” His pupils didn’t dilate in the telltale sign of compulsion, but she took a breath to answer all the same. Perhaps, he’d let her go after. One way or another.

“Not much. Only the details my mother managed to gather from the sidelines and the rumors all vampires eventually catch wind of.” As she spoke, Caroline monitored his expression carefully, hoping she could catch something should he decide to act. “You’re the first of your kind. Created by a spell and impossibly stronger and faster than any other vampires.” Caroline hesitated before daring to add one more thing. “You sacrificed one of my childhood friends to become a hybrid.”

Klaus had watched her impassively as she spoke, but a dark smirk curled his lips as she mentioned Elena.

“The doppelgänger? Oh, she’s very much alive, sweetheart.”

[ndrv3winterexchange]

Title : T like Trust ( and Troublemaker )

Author : @serahne

For : @neapolite

Prompt : “Shuichi’s type, in a certain someone’s words, is busty, blonde haired girls, who wear pink.”

Characters & Ships : Shiichi Saihara/Kaede Akamatsu, Kokichi Ouma, Miu Iruma. The rest of the ndrv3 is there, too.

Author’s note : What a cute prompt it was, perfect for a Christmas romantic comedy ! Writing Kaede was really enjoyable, and I’ll hope you’ll like it ♥

It was the week before Christmas, and almost everyone was gathered in the dining room to enjoy Kirumi’s special cookies. The room was pleasantly warm, and while it would be a lie to say that everyone was getting along in the most friendly way, an atmosphere of celebration was filling them.

As for Kaede, she was busy organising the Christmas party they would throw on Christmas Eve. Eight days from then on would be the first ‘true’ party they planned since they were in the Academy ( they had actually did a little something for Himiko and Kaito’s birthdays, but half of the group hadn’t bothered to attend it ), and they all hoped it would be a happy moment - something that would allow them to forget that they had all been kidnapped and were now retained in the strangest place.

“So, what do you all think ?” Kirumi came out of the kitchen, not a stain on her dress or an hair out-of-rank. “I might need a few more tries to find the perfect balance between the different flavours, since I’m not used to the instruments in the kitchen.”

“Nyeh” Himiko let out, mouth full. “If -ou need peofle to tchy you- cooching I’m voluntcheer…”

“Himiko !” Tenko said, as intense as always “You need to swallow before talking, or you are going to choke !”

“Don’t worry, Himiko” Angie sing-songed in turn. “If that happens I’ll make sure to pray to Atua to grant your soul a platinum access to Heaven !”

Kaede was surprised by how relieved by it Himiko seemed - nevertheless, she didn’t open her mouth and started to chew methodically. With a soft smile, the Ultimate Pianist turned toward Kirumi

“These are delicious, really !” she said. “You are amazing, Tojo-san ! I’ve already baked a few things for my friend outside, but it’s never as good as that ! Would it be okay for you to teach me ? I know you must be very busy…”

Kirumi bowed shortly.

“This would be my pleasure. Though, really, as long as you are living here, I can take care of any request you would have. I’m very glad that you all seem to find my cooking… acceptable.”

Of course, K1-B0 felt the need to butt into the conversation with his usual self-pitying expression.

“I wish there was a way for me to enjoy the cookies too. Despite being here, I feel excluded.”

Kaede and Rantaro didn’t lose a second to reassure K1-B0 that he belonged in the group just as much as anyone else, while Miu rolled her eyes and took another cookie from the plate, grumbling that ‘she would take his part, since she needed sugar and to feed her amazing brain and fat to feed her amazing tits. No one decided to dwell too much on that.

“I’ll keep the rest in the oven for the rest of us” Kirumi said. “I didn’t see Shuichi, Gonta, or Kokichi this morning, this is quite strange.”

“Yes, it is !” K1-B0 said. “Though the one I’m worried the most about is Ouma-kun. He seems to enjoy playing the troublemaker. He selfishly creates more work for Tojo-san. Someone should really talk to him about it.”

As if on cue, the doors of the dining-room suddenly slammed open to reveal Kokichi Ouma. From the smile on his face, Kaede could swear that he was up to no good. She smiled at the thought that she was already starting to read the others better - whether she was just getting used to them, or Shuichi’s detective skills were starting to spread to her. She liked the second hypothesis better.

“Whatever you were saying about me” Kokichi said, walking swiftly near the table and stealing a cookie on the plate Kirumi was holding “It’s probably the absolute truth ! But now that you boring people are done with the gossip, I have something that you are all going to find interesting ! Nishishi, you can see it as an early Christmas present !” He announced proudly.

Kaede tilted her head on the side, curious. Yes, Kokichi could be annoying, but she knew he could also be smart when needed. And, well, they had been in this school for weeks, now. Nothing had happened after the first motive to have them kill each others had completely failed. Not that she was unhappy about it. Days could be long, and she was restless.

“Do you have any info about the way to get out ?” She asked.

“Nope, better ! Look at this !”

With an immature ‘tadah !’, Kokichi threw something on the table, and it slid on the middle of it. It was a small notebook. Nothing was standing out about it, it was just small, black, without anything written on it.

“Is it a Death Note ?” Tsumugi asked, worried. “Is that Monokuma new motives ? Because I can feel it work on me already - no one can resist testing the Death Note.”

“Shhhhh” Kokichi replied. “It’s not Monokuma’s motive. It’s something a loooot more precious than that. Because what you are seeing now is….”

He paused a second, making sure that everyone’s attention was on him, and his face was suddenly split in a wide shit-eating grin.

“… Saihara-chan’s diary.”

And then, it was chaos.

*

“That’s a terrible thing to do, you know that, right ?” Kaede said in her most serious tone.

She was really trying to force Kokichi to understand that picking Shuichi’s lock and enter his room to steal his diary wasn’t something that normal, decent people did. She always tried to stay calm and patient when talking to the boy, partly because she knew that her getting angry was what he was after, partly because she enjoyed being the better person.

Could anyone blame her for that.

“Akamatsu-san is right” Rantaro said, and Kaede gave him a thankful nod. “You can’t just trample on someone’s privacy like that.”

“Uh ? What do you mean I can’t ?” Kokichi asked. “Isn’t it what I did already ? I stole Saihara’s diary, and I brought it there so ~everyone~ could enjoy what’s inside.”

“We are not going to read Saihara-kun’s diary” Kaede replied immediately. “He is our friend, and he trusts us. If he wants to say something to us, he will. We don’t need to read his secret thoughts, alright !”

It was really, really hard to not blow up. Think sonatas, she admonished herself. Not military march. Yet, it was easier to decide than to actually do it.

“Really ? Oh, man, and I went through all that trouble” Kokichi whined, falsely-annoyed. “I also thought you would be the most interested in reading it since you’re in it, after all.”

Kaede froze. I’m in it… Well, it made sense. Shuichi and Kaede spent a lot of time together. Since day one, they had helped each others, almost naturally. She couldn’t imagine how this whole adventure would have turned without Shuichi by her side. If Shuichi was writing about his days inside the Academy, of course Kaede would be in it.

“Probably a fuck-ton of erotic dreams, am I right ?” Said Miu - very loudly - with a snort. “Okay, now I’m like… half curious. Just to see what kind of crazy kinky shit this virgin is into. Maybe it could inspire me for my next invention !”

Kokichi turned toward her, deadly serious.

“Do you think anyone care what you think, you dirty whore ? I was talking to Kaede because it’s obvious that Saihara-chan is talking about her in his diary and…” Then he stopped, as struck by a sudden idea. “Wait… maybe not.”

“Maybe not ?” repeated Kaede. “What’s going on ?”

“Nishishi, oh man, this is amazing !” Kokichi laughed. “I wanted to mess with you a little because you and Saihara-chan are so chummy. See, the main information in the diary is that our little detective is actually in lurve, can you believe it ? He never says who he is in love with, though ! A blond-haired girl, dressed in pink ? Sounds like Akamatsu, and sounds like Ituma too. That’s what you get for being so un-original in your design.”

Kaede’s eyelashes fluttered under the surprise. Shuichi was… in love. But she hadn’t noticed. Well, he was a sensible boy, who blushed a lot, but she didn’t think… Was she a terrible friend for not noticing, or was Shuichi very good at hiding it ? Also… was what Kokichi say true ? If so, was Shuichi in love with her or with… Miu ?

She was confused, and she didn’t know which option was the best for her. Sure, she liked Shuichi and she enjoyed pushing the boundaries a little, and watch him being flustered, but love was…

Love was a serious thing. As a musician, she knew that more than anyone. Love could built empire and inspire an entire life. It could create and consume and wreck you into pieces. Was Shuichi really that passionate ?

“Blond hair, pink clothes ?” Rantaro repeated, trying to resolve the mystery. “That’s… vague. Are you sure there is no other hint about the person ?”

“You can check, you know ? You never believe me, and now that I bothered to bring a proof, you don’t even look at it ?” He sighed. “Good to know for next time ~ Anyway, he talked a lot about his secret love’s balloons, too. but I thought it was a polite conversation so I didn’t bring it up because I’m that considerate !”

“Tch !” Miu snickered. “Then who he was talking about is obvious ! Between Kaediot and me, only one of us have a pair of tits that are worth writing about. Not that I’m surprised that Poo-ichi is jerking off to me, I mean, who wouldn’t ?”

Everyone did their best to ignore her, but Kaede frowned at these words. She hadn’t noticed any interest on Shuichi’s part for Miu, anyway.

Well, maybe she could use her newly-acquired detective skills to investigate, right ?

*

“Good morning, Saihara-kun,” she greeted him when she found him absorbed in a book outside the dorm.

He raised his head and smiled at her. It was such shy, unassuming smile, as if he was apologizing to her already, that she almost wanted to lecture him about it, but she was a woman on a mission. Quietly, she sat beside him.

“Are you alright ?” she asked. “I was worried when I didn’t see you in the dining-room.”

Shuichi chuckled, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m still not used to this routine of taking our breakfast together on mornings. Back at home, no one really cared, so I skipped it more often than not.” His expression turned thoughtful for a while. “I promise I’ll try to go tomorrow. As long as I’m here, I could try to catch good habits, right ?”

Kaede nodded, then remembered that she had something for Shuichi and looked for it in his backpack. She took out too pieces of cookies, wrapped into a napkin, and was glad to see that they were mostly intact.

“Here,” she says, handing them to Shuichi. “Tojo-san baked us some cookies, and I didn’t trust Momota-kun to not eat all of them before you could taste one. Ah, you can keep them for later if you’re not angry, of course !”

Shuichi seemed sincerely surprised - and touched - by the attention and Kaede felt her heart miss a beat. Do you think everyone forgets about you as soon as you leave the room, Shuichi ? The Detective took one of the cookies, and broke it in two, offering a piece to her.

“Let’s share one ?” He suggested.

She gladly accepted, and they ate their half-cookie in a comfortable silence. Kaede wasn’t sure if she had always been hyper-aware of Shuichi’s presence whenever they were close, or if it was all because of the incident in the dining-room, but she could feel the other’s warmth reach her, even though they weren’t touching.

Shuichi didn’t seem to share her trouble.

“That’s amazing,” he said. “I’ll have to thank Tojo-san when I see her.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear your opinion. It’s a trial batch, she is testing her skills for the Christmas party, you know ?”

The reminder of the future celebration seemed to break the peaceful atmosphere that had settled between the two of them.

“Oh ! The party, of course !” He said, turning toward her, very seriously. “Akamatsu-san, I’m sorry to ask you that so suddenly, but could I ask for your help ?”

“Eh ?” She blinked. “Of course you can ! We are a team, aren’t we ?”

He smiled at the answer.

“Thank you. I was thinking that I should find a gift for Miu,” he said.

Kaede froze. Maybe she wouldn’t have reacted that way the day before but now…

“That’s” she replied, her voice sounding awful at her own ears. “… Unexpected”

Was there even a reason to be jealous ? Shuichi and her weren’t… like that ? Right ? They always shot down everyone else’s remarks about how ‘lovey-dovey’ they were, laughing about it between them, then. But at the same time, she was used to be with Shuichi. She wanted him to get friends and to fit even more into the group, of course, but she didn’t want to compete for his attention.

What an awful friend she was, right ?

“It is, but I really wanted to thank her for her hard work. Thanks to her, we were able to install surveillance cameras in the library and to stop anyone from using the door behind the moving bookcase. We really dodged a bullet here. I just feel like we didn’t thank her properly, you know ?”

Kaede felt her entire body being filled with affection for the detective. It wasn’t the first time that she was floored by the boy’s kindness and caring nature - she had been on the receiving end of this kindness enough time to appreciate it - but in contrast to her own new ugly feelings, it was even more shaking. She didn’t know if Shuichi liked Miu like that, but if that was the case, she silently promised to support him, and to be the best friend possible.

“That’s a great idea !” she replied with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m glad you asked me to help you, maybe we’ll even have fun !”

Shuichi seemed a little overwhelmed by her reaction, but he eventually nodded, a frank, non-apologetic smile finding its way to his lips.

“Of course I would ask you, Akamatsu-san. We’re a team, aren’t we ?”

*

Thirty minutes later, Kaede was drowning under the gifts and still adding more to the pile.

“What about this one ?” Shuichi said, holding a piece of cake. “Everyone likes cake, right ?”

Kaede hummed, and threw away the flower that she had just unboxed on the pile before answering.

“Maybe, but there will be so much food at the party already. I’m not sure this will be at the level of Tojo-san’s delicious food.”

“Ah, probably not.” Shuichi’s shoulder slumped down. He sighed, and sat on the floor. “I’m losing hope, here. Does it matter, though ? I just can’t think of anything that Miu would like.”

Kaede kneeled down next to him, sympathetic.

“I’m sorry” she said. Then she bit her lips, pondering on if she should let out the words stuck in her throat. “That seems really important to you. I guess you really like her, uh ? I can understand, she is so bright and pretty.”

She could recognize that, at least. Shuichi shook her head.

“And slightly terrifying too.” He grimaced. “Maybe it’s a bad idea. I’m sure some people are going to think I’m doing that because I’m in love with her, and I’m starting to realize that I could spare me some of Ouma-kun’s mocking remarks.”

Kaede’s breath was cut short.

“So” she managed to say, anxious. “You don’t like Iruma-san ?”

“Like ?” Shuichi repeated. He laughed a little, trying to hide his embarrassment. “One part of me really admires her, but she isn’t my type.”

“Your type ? What’s your type then, Saihara-kun ?” Kaede asked, half-teasing half-serious.

Shuichi looks like he wanted ro run away.

“Ha… I mean, she is really beautiful, you’re right I just… it’s going to sound stupid, but I don’t think I could ever connect to her ? That’s the most important, right ? Finding someone you’re comfortable with and that you can laugh and share a lot of things.” His cheeks were so flushed, Kaede almost felt bad for asking. “I don’t even know why I’m answering, you must think it’s really cheesy.”

Kaede shook her hand and put her hand on Shuichi’s shoulder.

“No, I think you’re right. I’m sorry for asking, it was uncalled for. It’s just… Ouma-kun said something that lead me to believe you could like her. But if you tell me it’s not true, I have no reason to believe him over you. Because… I trust you, you know ?”

Shuichi looked at her, still red, but not as mortified that he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Thank you, Akamatsu-san. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

*

Kokichi was alone in the dining-room and Kaede walked inside, decided to make light on the matter.

“Hi, Akamatsu !” The Ultimate Supreme Leader grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Back so soon already ? I’m sorry but I’m scared that Momota-kun ate all the cookies that left. You can lecture him later if you want !”

Kaede didn’t answer him, and walked to the table where Shuichi’s ‘diary’ was, and reached for it, holding Kokichi’s curious stare all the way. With barely a second of hesitation, she flipped the notebook open.

Blank. Nothing. She smiled at Kokichi.

“Surprised ?” He teased her.

She still didn’t answer, threw the notebook back to the boy, and walked out of the door.

Surprised ? Not as much as she thought she would be, actually. She trusted Shuichi’s words more than any convincing proof. Because they were a team, right ?

[pulitzerpanther]

Time Drift (4/?)

/At anon request. Well, kind of. The fic I was not asked to update that’s 2 years old but that I did, anyways. Maybe next time Anon will be more specific.

Chapter Title: And Now You’re Mine

Fic Description:

Cat Grant, a young journalist desperately trying to crawl her way up at the Daily Planet and start her own brand, becomes delightfully sidetracked by an unassuming, friendly lounge singer in a nearby bar. The only problem being that said lounge singer happens to be from the future...and doesn’t remember it. Supercat!Fic/AU *kind of. (With some Alex Danvers/Lois Lane for good measure. Yep. You read that right.)

Chapter Description:

"I'm not easy to love." Cat tries.

"I don't think that's for you to decide."  Kara immediately supplies and a writer's stomach ties knots out of what could have been a noose, years ago.

This chapter’s song-- Put A Spell On You Performed By: Samantha Fish

Chapter 1: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 2: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 3: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 4 (Current): AO3 | Tumblr - Below.

Wood scrapes along gravel, the faintest hiss piercing through the night air, lost underneath an even louder grunt from the heavy, sagging weight of someone being jostled from the motion.

“Come on, Nightwing.” Flamebird’s voice is exasperated even through the distorted, robotic twang of a helmet, underlined by the crisp hint of frustration through Alex’s earpiece, “I thought we didn’t do the tie up and torture thing.”

“No time like the present.” It’s a near chirp as treated leather creaks underneath trained knees, bending down in front of the squirming form tied to a chair, kneeling, robotic voice reverberating through the empty, rusted walls of a warehouse on the docks. The wood of the chair is chipped, but they made do with what they could find.

“Nightwing.” It’s snapped but Alex’s gloves curl in the tattered, bloody fabric of a sweat-stained shirt, bringing a trembling man’s face up to the mirror of faceless mask.  

“My partner hasn’t perfected good-cop, bad-cop, yet. So let me just go ahead and promise that I have no problems killing you.”

“Go to hell.” Spit spatters against the dark sheen of a helmet.

The blue wings of a bird glisten underneath flickering warehouse lights as an arm soundlessly swooshes upwards to swing downwards—a little dramatic, kind of like a 90’s soap opera slap—and before a blink or a lazy, knowing smile might tuck up cracked lips, that arm is gently caught underneath a red-lined black glove in a practiced, easy motion.

Good cop, bad cop was actually pretty easy between the two of them.

“Step back, soldier.”

The distortion keeps the smile from reaching Kara’s stern tone and Alex can only dream up how many ways she can tease her sister for it with a scrunching nose and stuck out tongue, later.

It’s the only hint of levity they have after days like these.

"Soldier?" Alex asks through their radio, instead. 

"What? It adds flair, right?"

Eyes roll. Boots skid along the dirtied, bloodied warehouse floor as the soldier does dutifully step back, arms thoughtlessly falling behind hips, at ease.

Old habits, watching as red swoops down like a phoenix, offering up tattered remains of a burned branch in a way only Kara ever can.

“Hey, we’re trying to help you, Vic. I promise, we’re really not the tie-up kind.” Flamebird kneels down in front of him and when his mouth opens—tutts, the noise staccato through the garbled, sharp notes of a voice modulator, finger raising up to wag. “And before you spit again, see this?” A decidedly less professional gesture of waving in front of her helmet, Nightwing’s chuckle hidden underneath the mute of her mask but undeniably heard in a sister’s ever-attentive ear. “Very effective at the spit-repelling. You’ll just be hitting yourself in the face with it. Not that people tend to listen to that, I mean—you guys like to shoot people even when you know they’re bulletproof. Well, you will like to. You're currently not. But that's besides the point.”

A beat.

Kara adds, after muting herself:

“I think.” Her crouch doesn’t ease up from the floor, forearms hanging on knees for a moment, “Alex, I think I hear a hiss. Do you want me to—”

“No, no, I’ve got it. Grease him.” Arms stay crossed, their conversation staying where it should—their helmets.

“So,” Kara continues and Alex’s eyes bop upwards towards their surroundings, taking in those ever vaulted, rusted ceilings of Metropolis’ finest shit hole of a dock. It's amazing, really--crimes always happen in the docks and all of the buildings always look the same. “I’d spend less time spitting, more time talking. Vic.”

Vic's mouth snaps shut, a sneer contorting bloodied features as Alex’s itching fingers roll over the blunt edge of a baton, stance casual but always ready to have her partner’s back, lingering for a few moments. Just in case, the hiss momentarily forgotten.

“Fuck you.” Vic might not muster up saliva, this time, but he sure as hell musters up enough ire, wrestling against restraints with a rattling, pained breath. His sweat pools on his brow—in the crevices of the lines of his face—drips down a dirtied neck before settling in the thirsty, swelling wood of his rickety chair.

A thin line of red raises slowly, casually, as Kara pops the first button on her visor, barely sliding black up enough to reveal a chin—lips—the smallest hint of a nose as her smile spreads.

Vic the thug freezes, visibly stunned from the effortless manipulation of Kara Danvers and that thousand watt smile. Alex is sure of many things about her sister, but one of them? That smile could convince an agnostic to have a little bit of faith. Sometimes it’s pretty infuriating and...sometimes? It’s just downright useful.

“I’m good, thanks. Not really interested. But, hey, really, you don’t have to be rude.”

“W-why are you—” A hint of confused fear curls up his throat, now, sweat-lined eyes widening at the sight of something close to an identity. Never a good sign, from masked vigilantes. Usually it means their captors are as good as dead, from Metropolis to Gotham. 

It's the company standard.

“Because,” Kara’s hand stretches over to loosen the small vat at hip, metal sliding underneath the popping belt of leather, “I told you, we’re not the bad guys. I’m not going to hurt you, Vic. We just have a few questions so…excuse my partner, they’re a little annoyed we had to fight with you to tie you back up.”

Annoyed is an understatement but used to it would also kind of apply and Nightwing doesn’t bother hiding her grunt of acknowledgement from either her vigilante-in-arms or their current captive, the note sounding out like the thumping start of Daft Punk intro thanks to the voice modulator.

Kara had called her a few hours ago from a payphone about an attempt on Cat Grant’s life and the men she’d managed to corral and tie up near a wall before asking Alex to make another call, entirely (her sister, apparently, had other places to be—

It’s a little hard for me to chase him down, right now, Alex. Secretly, I mean. I have to get back to Cat, I left her by herself up on the—

She’s still tailing you?

What? Tailing me? What is-- this isn't a buddy cop movie—

I don’t know, Cagney—

Okay, I know I’m blonde, but I’m pretty sure you’re Cagney—

You think you're Lacey? Only if you settle down and have Cat Grant’s babies. Okay, what the hell is that noise?

I’m looking for heels in the—Okay, first off, that’s so—anatomically impossible. I'm not--who said anything about having Cat's--you know what? I know you're just trying to...rattle me, so I'm ignoring you now. And—and, secondly, you know all those memory-recall studies we read are so right. Re-enaction is something. I’m suddenly having flashbacks of running through the city looking for Cat Grant’s heels before--like at least five different times--but—wow, I miss cell phones, this cord is not helping me look ar—

Okay, even without memories, how whipped you are is depressing.

Alex!

After an ambulance arrived earlier that evening to tend to apparent injuries sustained, Jim Harper from the MCPD had only managed to detain two of the men tied up for charges they were wanted for, but Vic? He scrambled free before arrest and Alex had managed to track him down through the depths of Suicide Slum’s darkest streets, the heat settling in puddles of piss and alcohol wafting in through her senses, sticking to her boots.

Kara had joined her halfway through with apologies and dodged questions and a voice that trailed a little too high at the edges to be normal, filing it away for later before a quick survey of the warehouse lead to a tactical slip-in.

It wasn’t hard to neutralize one scared, messy goon, but it was hard to neutralize him without hurting him and eventually Kara just literally sighed, made a show of very human-like tackling him to the ground, and sat on him with a bored elbow resting on her knee—chin falling to a palm—while Alex rustled through the warehouse to find a chair and some rope.

The good news about working in the shadows was that they didn’t always have to look professional. Usually, they just had to get the job done.

They don’t really look professional, now, but Kara always—always—gets the job done. Alex trusts her with that--trusts her with her life--but she’s still not sure why Victor Martin came here of all places, it was a dead end if either of them ever saw one and it's difficult to ignore the nerves curling knots out of her stomach. Nothing about the call in on his record gave them any clue.

Victor Martin, divorced. In and out of jail since a drug addiction revoked his visitation rights to his son, though he apparently had been trying to contest after being clean for five year. A few petty thefts. One assault. Two arson charges for insurance scams. Otherwise clean.

(There's a voice, sometimes, in the back of her ear--something that sounds so familiar, someone reading off victim's taglines with so much ease).

“Hey,” Kara’s voice is gentle, unfiltered as she tucks up that small little vial, “It’s just water, I promise. You have to be thirsty. Come on.” Dark eyes flick up from the cracked cement of the floor, watching Kara carefully tip up the water to their captor’s lips like he hadn’t just tried to assault Cat Grant, a masculine throat bobbing in a rough, dry swallow before he blinks, searching the line of an easy, genuine smile. It takes only a few seconds before he nods, eagerly drinking from it like a man in the desert.

“Rough day, huh?”

“You’ve got,” He gasps—coughs a little—

“Woah, woah, easy. Take it easy. I’m not going anywhere, and, hey—” She knocks the wood with an endearing chuckle that, surprisingly, makes Vic laugh, low and rumbling, “Neither are you, huh?”

“Fuck you.” But it unravels a little around the edges like fraying ropes by his wrists--a little more at ease--water dribbling down a grimy chin, rolling what’s likely a weary neck on shoulders. It’s amazing what a little kindness will do to someone in desperate straits. “What do you care.”

“I care about why you tried to kill Cat Grant, today. Why would you do a thing like that, Vic?” Kara’s voice is casual and Alex sighs, idly thinking maybe she should stick to the interrogating because his spine tightens like a pole as red hands gingerly set down the water. “From what I read up on you, you used to be a good guy, before everything happened with your wife.” His sharp inhale is palpable and it’s something, really, to watch. Because if Alex had said that, he would have spit a second time, but he seems to sag a little underneath the sincerity in Kara’s tone. It almost makes her remember—almost makes her imagine— “Look, I’m not after you. The truth is—and you probably already know this—is that the guy you’re working for, Vic, is kidnapping children.”

Surprisingly, his frame tenses more, but there’s something different in his eyes—something lasting. Something that might taste like copper, or the Suicide Slums, or ash—and his jaw rolls in a way that must sound like a tight roll of pennies scattering on the floor after the seal’s been ripped open to her sister’s ears.

“Did you know that, Vic?” Alex finally intervenes, distorted voice causing the grinding of his teeth to halt for a moment, “That they’re taking kids? That how you get your rocks off—”

“No!” The anger licks his tongue like a flame eating up oxygen and shadows composed of leather and blue stalks forward, “No, look, I’ve got nothing to do with that, I just—”

“You just what, Vic?” Nightwing presses, boot kicking away the small little canteen her partner had settled on the ground, “Smuggle in shipments for Luthor on the docks and pretend like none of it’s happening?”

“I…”

“What’s the shipment?”

“Fuck if I know, we don’t even get to see the containers--”

“So then where are the kid—”

“Look, I know shit, a’ight, so unless you wanna bring your cop buddy back in—”

Alex’s hand snaps forward with precision, landing right next to his jaw against the rickety wood of that splintering, dusty chair, that idle threat dying in a quick suck of air against barely-wet lips. Kara doesn’t flinch from where she’s crouched, lips staying in a thin line, visible underneath the Metropolis moonlight sifting through the broken windows above them.

For a moment, Alex wonders if Kara can smell this building—smell his sweat—his blood.

There were some perks to the mask. Alex can't smell much of anything, at all.

“Where are the kids, Vic?” Her sister’s lips part, unburdened, voice gentle—soothing—like a lullaby over orphan’s heads, fingers fanning out in the air around her knees, knuckles flexing. “Killing a defenseless woman is unconscionable--being responsible for children’s deaths is unforgivable.”

“Cat Grant is a bitch.” It's spit and Alex watches normally-kind fingers spread with restraint out of the corner of her eye, eyebrow raising behind the mask. “She shoved her nose where it didn’t belong. I would’ve done the world a favor if I—”

In one fluid motion, the visor snaps shut and that flexing hand is curved around Vic’s chin, snapping it upwards.

“That’s not very nice.” Just like that, Kara disappears in a sea full of obscured black and red, smile gone, replaced with something faceless. Victor's face, horrified, is reflected to himself.

“What happened to no torture?” It’s gasped, rough, from the jostle of her closing his mouth, teeth clenching underneath force.

“Who said I was going to torture you?” Flamebird innocently husks and wordlessly lifts the chair into the air and human muscles scramble against the tight curl of rope, a faint yelp of a startled scream starting in a bobbing throat that’s cut off by a rush of air when the vigilante hefts him up further up, holding him up only by her finger, curling underneath the wood. “You clearly don't want to tell us anything, I think I’m just going to drop you off at the police station—”

“Oh, God. Oh, God—What—What the fuck are y—”

“Don’t make me gag you again, Vic.” Nightwing calls up, humming from her casual stand, elbow leaning against the baton. “Can’t have you causing a commotion in the—”

"Tell us, or the cops."

Just like that, he breaks. Frantic.

“If I go to the cops, Luthor knows. Luthor knows and I’m dead—my kid—please! Please. You gotta—”

Well there’s a surprise, Vic the family man back in full force. Maybe the police report was a little useful, after all.

The chair settles back down on the cement with a clattering thunk, a sagging, nervous body absorbing the impact like a sack of meat dropped from the top of the Daily Planet onto the street below and Alex’s helmet perks up, then, the faint sound of hissing meeting her ears with a little more insistence, head whirling around to locate the noise. It’s getting louder. 

Did something get damaged in the fight, earlier? Was something damaged before they ever even came?

“What about your kids, Vic?” The visor is popped back open, now, voice unhinged by tempered glass but Alex doesn’t look over at her sister's attempt at bridging the gap, too busy trying to locate the sound of the small disturbance, walking across the warehouse where they’d first tangled with the wannabe-killer, Alex tackling him into what’s now a dusty, toppled pile of containers.

“Oh, God, he’s going to know. Fuck, they’re—the other guys, they’re gonna tell that cop and Luthor—you’re right, it’s gotta be Luthor—he has my—he has—” The voice is frantic now and Alex doesn’t really register Kara trying to placate it with soothing explanations as her own footfalls squelch against the dirtied cement floor. Each step is a squeaking, heavy noise and she pops open her own helmet—huffs into the slit of her visor and inhales and—

Brows knit.

It smells familiar, swelling lungs.

“Vic. Vic, calm down. Focus. Who does he—”

“He has my kid, you don’t understand. He's been watching them. Mary. Sam--” Vic’s voice seems far away, now—frantic—and Alex’s nose turns up, the faintest hint of something in the air catching on her tongue. "Look, I found these files, once. Nothing--nothing big, or anything, but he's--there's these...these experiments--that--that--"

Realization, the sound of a frantic voice and Kara's pressing, calm one lost underneath that hiss, because she knows that smell--

"What experiments, Vic--"

It’s a marked odor. A marked odo—

The hiss is louder.

Eyes snap upwards, heart hammering, glove swiping over one of the containers' mussed labels, not quite years of dust coming off of the peeled surface of peeling paper. Like these were brought in recently, the wording of a container catching eyes, its valve clearly opened before they got here. Acetylene.

Ethyne. The simplest alyne—hydrocarbon—and the formation pops into a scientist's mind out of habit as knowing legs stumble backwards, away from the canister, gut sinking even as the hair on arms stands up straight.

“I can’t let you. I won’t let you—”

One spark. One small ignition, and this place will blow.

“Shit, Kara—” The name tumbles out unbidden because there’s a chance she’ll never have a chance to say it, again. Head snapping up to meet exposed lips and a back that immediately turns to steel in response, the sound of Alex's heartbeat and the scent likely finally registering. Alex doesn’t even have time to run towards her. Warn her. Do anything but suck in a sharp inhale of breath as she snaps the visor closed--

They didn’t check him before they tied him up. It’s the nineties. Everyone fucking smokes.

“Wha—” The t cuts off with a sharp noise when that rickety, half-broken chair snaps backwards, wood splintering against unforgiving cement, Vic's grunt of pain underlined by the crack.

It's a judgment call that will linger as long as all of them do--longer than Kara will likely ever mention--those visible lips parting as Kara moves towards Alex, instead of Victor, the split second of reaction allowing the calloused, blood brunt of his thumb ample reaction time to flick the wheel of a lighter in his pocket.

A spark.

The ethyne ignites in a fell swoop of a backdraft, the heat of it not noticeable at first, but one ignition is enough and it’s almost like slow-motion, watching the flame crawl across the air, feeding it, filling the room with a hiss and a roar, and the boom of the second canister right next to it, leaning precariously against the wall, sounds like a dropping thud. 

Alex doesn’t have to have x-ray vision to imagine the widening of Kara’s eyes and there's not enough time for features to crumble or for blood to run hot or for the world to still before it’s all turned into a whirlwind in front of flames, wind knocked out of gasping lungs from an impact her heart understands, but brain somehow never expects. Another second ticks by and fingers curl into the bunched leather of her sister’s shoulder, one second flying underneath overwhelming heat, and the next second she’s on the ground outside, stumbling. Gasp spattering air and heat and spit against the newly-cracked visor of a helmet, falling to knees—

Gasping.

And then Kara’s gone in a blur of black and red and all Alex can do is weakly scramble after her before Flamebird bursts back through the door, stronger than the incoming explosion that might knock them both off of their feet if she wasn’t prepared for it, all of the oxygen in the room sucked up into a blast of fire, igniting, and Alex knows, knows--

Kara's trying to get the fire out of the building--away from Victor. Away from the canisters. Away from Alex.

But it's too late.

There’s something familiar about the way that Kara throws herself into an explosion—how she’s been throwing herself at explosions in front of Alex one way or another for three years now and maybe a lifetime before that—that makes knees tremble above cement that can't hold her before instinct and training take over, falling to a kneeling crouch behind her sister’s indomitable form, absorbing heat and flame for the both of them.

The unmarked odor burns the back of a clenching throat and Kara whirls around to check on her the moment the air crackles with the hint of heat dissipating from the backdraft.

Alex lets in a singular, quaking breath before she nods.

She can't speak, not yet. But she nods, gingerly bringing the burned flesh of her knuckles, barely caught in the fire, up to her chest.

Flamebird disappears into the warehouse a moment later and Alex stumbles backwards until her weary back meets with the adjoining building in the alley, helmet thudding when a heavy--heavy--head falls back to rest against its rough surface, the entire heart currently lodged in an aching throat likely the reason she doesn’t feel like she can breathe, at all.

And, yeah, okay. She needs a moment, hands shaking as they lower back to knees, the hint of adrenaline settling in a gasp as she shakes her head, again, not risking reaching a hand up to pop the visor before weak, trembling knees stagger forward at the sound of Kara’s faded, angry voice meeting her ears, tipping her head to activate the comms.

“Talk to me.” It's a wheeze, pushing through the adrenaline—the lingering fear—the sweat and fire eating at the back of her throat—

Get up, soldier. Get up—

“Flamebird.” It’s louder, more insistent, moving towards the front of the building where the flames have barred any form of passage, but she'll have no problem digging through the rubble if she has to, whether her sister is made of steel, or not, wounded knuckles flexing in preparation. “K—”

A frightened noise of a syllable doesn’t even break the stuffy air of her helmet before that silhouette appears in front of the rubble.

Flamebird looks like a paragon of her namesake, fire roaring at the spread wings of shoulders, highlighting the black, glistening flame of shining, treated leather like a painting of reds and yellows smeared along a night sky. Arms hoist up the burnt flesh of a sacrificial lamb—cradling a villain of choice against her chest as she takes the slow walk through the door, no need for haste, now.

Alex's stomach clenches from far more than nerves, now, ultimately--seflishly--grateful for the mask still tucked over her nose. They both know what burning flesh smells like, now, and it's something that lingers far longer than fire ever could. He was likely dead not long after the ignition, the doctor might have informed her sister years ago, but Kara walks like a soldier, now and Alex knows—she knows—there's no need to tell Kara anything, anymore.

(When did that happen? When did this city make soldiers out of symbols?)

But there’s no soldier in the way fingers gingerly ease the charred flesh that a few moments before had contained a trembling, frantic voice—there’s no soldier in the way Kara lays a dead man on the sidewalk like a mother who's lost a child, even when that man had tried to kill someone else she cares about like a phantom a few hours before, fingers sliding down eyelids that stick with a crisp snap against the thin remains of what he could have been.

How many times has Alex watched this, now? Watched Kara gently close eyelids so that a soul taken by a God from a planet He let fade might be able to look at the stars? How many times has Kara quietly helped people ascend up into the air even without flight, eyes no longer seeing what the rest of them do? Heroes. Criminals. Bystanders. Children.

Without a word, gloved hands raise to untuck a helmet, blonde locks flowing in the wind as Kara’s head bows, a look of determination settling on hardening features.

“He wanted us...” Kara's voice sounds even, unmoving, in the space between them, "To find his son."

A small piece of black tucks up in her sister's fingers that Alex hadn’t noticed before—a picture burnt from the explosion, melted in potholes of ash along its small 4x4 gloss. It’s indistinguishable, especially in the night, city lights drowning out the stars and any hope of recognition that might have been reliable in the keepsake. The only thing Alex can see is the barest hint of a boyish before it's peeled away and brought up to the stars, too.

“His name is Sam.” Fingers gently tuck the picture in the man’s chest by his heart, fabric crisping to ash underneath unyielding steel and Alex doesn’t move, baton ready at her hip so that her sister’s doesn’t have to be. “They took his son. It doesn't--it doesn't excuse what he--”

The wind whips through Kara’s hair before she slowly stands, shoulders rolling back and a bird spreading its wings from the motion, the edges of it glowing from the faint light of the fire. Alex's hand curves over her shoulder, knowing--halting any further argument. A moment later, a helmet covers any hint of blonde remaining, both of them looking up towards the stars, the sound of sirens bouncing off the brick of the alley.

Alex steps behind that symbol of a shining bird, arm moving to wrap around a waist, hold firm as she taps her baton against her boot twice before kicking it up into the air with the back of her heel, firm voice drowned out by the sound of the sirens and the air cracking as Flamebird launches them up into the sky, one arm wrapped around a Nightwing and the other wrapped around a baton.

“And we’re going to find him.” Alex promises, throat still tight from the impact.

This guy tried to kill Cat Grant, a few hours ago. Kara stopped him. And they couldn’t stop him from doing this.

It doesn’t matter, anymore. It doesn’t matter what criminals do—it doesn’t matter who they were, or became; their choices, their decisions—it doesn’t matter who they are, what the fire might have burnt into the leather surrounding their bones. Photographs are always gray after they burn, even if they started black and white. Everything's so...gray, now.

All of Metropolis seems so gray.

It doesn’t matter.

The Sams of the world, on behalf of the Vic's or not--

They’re going to find all of them.

--

“She’s not here--never came in for her shift the other night.” It’s so stereotypical—like a shot out of a low-budget Noir film, sideway angles and a mussed, non-descript white rag curled around masculine fingers as they dip in and out glass, cleaning its scuffed, dirtied surface. But The Sam sounds so non-plussed about it that Cat wants to wrap that rag around that annoyingly rugged, hair-dappled neck, instead, “Haven’t seen her in a few nights, actually.”

“Is that normal?” It’s pressed before Cat can remind herself that she shouldn’t care—that it’s none of her business—but it’s completely normal to worry about a girl who’s obviously ill-equipped for the city to not be heard from in a couple of days. 

Well, maybe not as ill-equipped as Cat had initially thought.

After all, the last time the unassuming, karate-kicking, guitar-playing, orphan-soothing Kara Danvers had mysteriously appeared in the night, it had been after she’d saved Cat's life from people who would clearly kill her, if they discovered who she was. Cat has a paper to hide behind. Kara?

Well, she has this guy. 

And her sneer is palpable to reflect that little unfortunate fact. Scotty’s lips barely twitch upwards and long-manicured nails drum along the sticky edge of a bar so that they don���t slap the glass out of his hand.

“Depends on who’s asking me questions. Normally, I don’t like journalists sniffing around, even if Kara’s got a soft spot for you. Must be the Gotham in me.” That rag is thrown over a broad shoulder before stacking the glass on top of his little drink tower, the bright light of the city settling into the dingy, dust-filled air of the bar between them, reflecting off its smooth surface. “You’re not the first journalist who’s tried to get her number.”

Eyes slit and, oh, she doesn’t have time for this, today.

“Fine. Tell her I came by.” A notepad is elegantly flicked out, elegant script gliding along the page, writing down a number of her own. “And don’t,” She waves the paper underneath his nose like a fine perfume before slapping it on the bar, “Let her get a big head about it. I just want to thank her.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Plenty of people try to get her number for that, too.” His hand wisely raises to stem her before she can cut that little smirk of his down a size. “Alright. Fine. She called. Told me she had a few loose ends to tie up, and would be back playing in a few days.”

“Loose ends?” An eyebrow arches over the rim of sunglasses.

“This is why I don’t do journalists. Yeah, a few days.” There’s a long pause as he moves back towards the bottles tossing over his shoulder, “But you know, we’re not the only place she plays. Give it to her, yourself.”

The eyebrow lowers, slow smile curving up lips, instead, as she slides that number into her pocket. He doesn’t give her the name, but it’s a lead, and Cat knows what to do with leads.

Unlike Perry White, it’s not bury them.

“Hah. Hah. Oh, you’re hilarious,” It’s drawled, huffing through nostrils a few hours later, the sound of ringing phones and idle chatter a constant backdrop of any conversation at the Daily Planet, “Look, Chloe, I’m not turning into the paparazzi. I’m just trying to find someone who might be in a bit of trouble after fishing me out of a hmm…tight.” Fingers wave in the air as she scribbles the address down on a small scrap of paper. “Spot. The other ni—

The dull thud of a heavy paper sounds on the hollowed, chipped wood of Cat’s cheap pressboard desk, a singular eyebrow hiking up into blonde. The phone hangs against the rock of her shoulder and chin for a moment before she realizes it’s their paper, obituaries facing upwards.

Fingers curl a little tighter around the phone, a quick goodbye lost underneath the sound of the receiver slamming downwards, righting itself in its holster.

The date is from a few nights ago.

“Did you chase this?” Perry’s voice is gruff—the sort of sound Cat imagines Ernest Hemingway makes over the rim of a glass of whiskey, brutish and misogynistic with every breath. Then again, maybe that’s just how everything sounds when it’s filtered through a salt and pepper mustache.

Cat’s fingers skim along the name, brows knitting. Victor Martin.

Breath catches against teeth like the sound of a heel breaking in the sidewalk—sharp. Quick. Stifling. But when her chin tips upwards, features are impassive, a low hum sounding out between them.

Whether Perry knows her better, or not.

“Perry, I really don’t understand why I should care about...Greta Donalin from 6th st—”

“Don’t.” Perry slaps the desk, palm smothering the name of her final (useless) lead. Her final, useless, murderous lead who is now apparently useless and dead. “Did you chase this? After I very clearly told you to keep your shit-sniffing nose out of it? Of course you did. Because you don’t know when to quit unless it’s a good fuckin’ thing, Grant.” The gruff is a thin veil for fury, voice ticking upwards and upwards and that hum buried in her chest turns into a sharp hiss of an inhale through teeth, now, her own palms flattening on this cheap desk like the hill she's very, very ready to sacrifice her career upon.

“Well, no one else here is going to do any—”

“A good friend of mine,” The paper is snatched from under curling nails, “At the MCPD called me this morning to tell me that an anonymous tip from a payphone in the slums listed three tied up men on the street. Two of them wouldn’t talk. The third mentioned a blonde who loved shoving her nose in their business, and Victor Martin. By name. Victo Martin. Who’s dea—”

“Oh, so your substantiated evidence of my involvement in a murder is based on the fact that I’m not a bottle blo—”

“This is the last straw, Grant.” It drops from the yell to the simmering roll of a boil, "Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tell them you were the last one to see him alive, because we both know that you’re pulling my final string, Kitt—”

“Other than the fact that it would be political suicide to throw me under the bus?”

“No, chasing down Lex Luthor is political suicide. Because, in case you didn’t look into this, you were chasing down a company that specializes in medical supplies for children with cancer, Grant.”

“Oh, no, Perry, I just shoved my nose up in the air, sniffed around, smelled you fifty floors up and decided it would be a wonderful day to ruin children’s lives. Yes, of course I looked int—”

“Then you know.” The paper is thrown from the room, its pages scattering in front of them--behind them--like everything else has, these past years-- “That you shouldn’t be looking into this, Cat.”

“What do they have on you, Perry?” Her voice is serious—borderline treasonous—but she’s one foot out of the door, anyways. Maybe further, if Perry keeps pushing her out of it. “Because the man I know wouldn’t bury a lead like this.”

“Kill it, Cat.” Perry’s finger lingers, pointed, but there’s something so deep in his eyes that her shoulders barely slacken. Quieter, grating and conflicted and so fucking furious that it hopefully covers the worry—

“Perry—”

“Kill it.” The finger lowers, hand lingering on the trim in his furious departure, head hanging, and for a moment he...looks like the Atlas outside of the door she’s walked into every day for the past ten years, shoulders hunched, the pale ring of skin along his hairy knuckle catching the too-bright sunlight of Metropolis. So much has changed for everyone here, hasn't it? A lot can, in ten years. She used to have a son, and Perry used to be happy, and Lois-- “Before it kills you. That’s not a threat. That’s someone who—” A sharp, gruff breath through that mustache, sinking a little further towards the hell he's dragging them to before he stands straighter than a phone booth. “Kill it. Some stories? They’re not worth the collateral damage.”

Lips part, watching the space where he left, for a long moment, before she picks back up the phone to listen to the long, drawn out dial tone on the other side, lingering before she hangs up, grabbing her coat on the way out, an address tucking safely inside her pocket, next to her own number.

Some collateral damage is worth the story. 

--

The heavy fabric of a mask clings to skin as aching fingers slowly peel it up and off, sweat soaking the hair that falls and hangs like wet rope along the flexing muscles of her neck the moment skin is free of the weight, sucking in a deep breath of stagnant apartment air.

Their dingy little apartment is still better than the stifling weight of a mask, after all.  

“Nothing.” The frustration curls up her tongue, tossing the mask across the distance of their room with a wet slap, starting to peel off gloves, next--ginger around her left, the wrap around her burn still fresh--both of them hitting the wall before falling into a small, toppled over basket.

God, the heat in this city never lets up. As if to mock her, the air conditioner rattles in greeting for two seconds before it peters out, Lois’ whistle of greeting from the corner met with a roll of eyes as Alex starts to peel off the long sleeves of a black athletic shirt, next.

“The docks. The slums.”

“Okay, eww—” Kara points towards Lois’ hunched form in their corner (reading through a magazine from last year, casually propped up on their linoleum counter), “And hey!” Her sister’s smiling face appears from the bathroom and Alex can see it—can see how it doesn’t reach eyes—but it almost does, and somedays that’s enough. Like today, when Alex is so tired she’ll take almosts in stride.

Hell, today she’d even take a kind of close-ish over anything else. It's good enough.

“What, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. Oh, wow,” Lois deadpans, holding up the magazine to a flash-filled perp shot of Paul Reubens, “Peewee was arrested.” She tosses the magazine back onto the floor from where she got it.

Okay, so maybe the magazine is more than a couple of months old.

“Double eww.” Kara points towards Lois, again, nose scrunching up in a way that really makes it difficult for Alex not to push into it just for a little bit of relief on this hellish day. A fact Kara clearly picks up on, whirling around to point towards Alex, instead, “Don’t want to know. Nothing?”

“Nothing. Dead lead.”

“Hey, I just provide them,” Lois hops up, hands raised, and Alex pointedly ignores eyes lingering on the flexing shoulders visible around a camisole, starting to unravel the tactical belt around her waist, kicking off boots, “Something I’m going to tap out on soon. Seriously, you guys are burning a lot of bridg—”

Kara visible stills and looks away and Alex shoots Lois a look.

Journalists.

“Okay, burning was a poor word choice,” Said journalist gently admits and Kara is only quiet for a moment before coming forward, any hint of that smile in her eyes receding enough for Alex’s mouth to open, cut off by her sister's nothing but business voice.

And Kara likes to claim Alex is the one that retreats. 

“Well, then it’s a good thing that the guy who hired Victor Martin is coming to the club, tonight.”  

“What?” Alex pushes hands through damp hair, peeling off socks, next, hopping a little as she does. “You know, maybe you,” A grunt, whirling around to smirk towards Lois, “Should be a journalist, you’re giving Lo’ a run for her money.”

“Kara always gives me a run.” There’s a hint of pride in that smile and it looks like they can agree on something, for once, “Which I’m so grateful for, since Cat is snooping, too, and there's only so many things I can do to keep her off the track. She's like a bloodhound. Both because she's a bit of a bitch, and because--" A sharp look from Kara, surprisingly, causes Lois to raise hands in acquiescence and continue, "Okay, sorry. How’d you manage to track him down?”

“What can I say? Sometimes lonely people just need a smile and an ear.” Kara shrugs, the sound of water running from their half-operational sink not too far away reverberating through the small, cramped confines of the apartment. The pipes whistle like a songbird in response—a sharp, high-pitched noise above them that causes Alex to look up for just a moment to sympathetically take in her sister’s wince.

A few years and Kara still isn't used to the overwhelming sounds of Metropolis, their pipes being one of them, Alex knows.

“Speaking of Cat, she must be missing you.” It’s a tease, following after the retreating blonde into the bathroom.

“Oh, come on, I’m sure she hasn’t even come by,” A squirt of toothpaste, Lois leaning up against the door frame. They’re probably violating the fire marshall’s code, right now, for occupancy in the broom closet of a bathroom.

“Oh, she’s definitely come by.” Lois winks towards Kara’s suddenly-shifting form when Alex twists a squeaking knob on the shower, peeling off pants with a little more ginger effort, given the bruises.

"You okay?" There's those concerned blue eyes and Alex pointedly ignores both pairs as she waves them off. 

"I heard her asking someone about you, today. Well, before Perry bit her head off and she stormed out." Lois isn't deterred and Alex wonders if the eldest Lane sister is as determined to set up everyone to their happiest of endings as Kara usually is. Only Lois is fittingly more sarcastic about it, "I'm telling you, Kara, she likes you likes you--"

“Oh, God,” It’s murmured like a prayer as Alex peels off the rest of her tank, next, tossing it towards Lois, who catches it, pulling off underwear once she’s actually in the shower, for her sister’s sake more than anything. Not that it really matters, anymore, ignoring them both for a moment. “For once I am so glad we’re broke and this shower is always so fucking cold.”

She's far more ginger taking off the bandage about knuckles.

“What?” Kara’s laughter is too nervous, perking up into her hairline like a choir boy’s falsetto. “Come on, she’s just—she wouldn’t—why would you—” Seriously, a moment later, feverishly whispering, “Wait, did she say anything to you?”

“I can still hear you.” Alex calls over the shower. And then groans at the cold water, feeling it wash away a few layers of dirt and blood and sweat that this city has sunk into her bones over the years. No matter how much she scrubs, there’s always a nice little undertone of it beneath her, now.

“You need some alone time in there, Lexi?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Okay, did you both miss my eww, earlier?”

“No.” Alex and Lois both supply and she’s glad the faintest flicker of a smile pressing upwards on features is hidden by their curtain.

“I hate you both.”

“No you don’t.” Is the once more uniform response but Alex leans out of the shower to raise eyebrows at Lois, all the same. “So." A smirk. "Did Kara’s crush say anything?”

She was going to ask for a washcloth, anyways, so it's really only convenient when Kara throws one at her face.

“Alex.”

“Maybe.” Lois' sly smirk is only doing Alex any favors.

“I get it, okay? It’s not a crush, Cat’s just—wait, what? Really? What did she—not that I am expecting her to—" Kara looks between both of their smiling faces before she huffs. Blushes.

It’s nice, really. So much of the city has sunk into both of their bones, Kara’s included—blue has seeped into black in a muddied mess between them—and Alex’s look turns a little softer. Enough noticeably that Kara leans forward to wipe a hint of sud from her brow before it can get into darker eyes with a mutter.

“Anyways.” A cleared throat, leaning forward to pluck back up the abandoned toothbrush near the sink. “Moving on from my failure of a love life, he’s going to be at the club later today. Let’s…focus on that, and not my definitely not a crush. Tag-team at the club?” Alex nods before once more disappearing into the shower.

"Bait and switch sounds good, unless you can actually get anything from him." 

“Speaking of getting something. Am I ever going to actually get any of this on the record anytime soon? You know, anything I can actually publish and pay for my rent with.” Alex can hear it—can hear the way Lane leans so casually up against the doorframe and weary muscles lean a little further into the stream, the chill of it causing a shiver down a curving spine. Tightening muscles and flexing fingers along tile that never cleans no matter how much either one of them scrub it.

It's always easier to focus on work.

“How do you feel about your red-k days?” Alex asks through the stream, thoughtful, giving herself a few more moments of scrubbing before Kara must hear her heartbeat calm, tossing a towel over the sliding rings of a cheap white curtain, knuckles puckered with torn, but cleaned skin wrapping it around and tucking it in after shutting off the water.

The pipes whistle in gratitude.

 “M’ wh--t?” A confused voice is muffled around the hanging handle of a toothbrush, popping it out through a mouth full of foam before Kara spits. “Red K? What are you—oh.” Kara sighs—groans, a little, chin tipping backwards as eyes skim along the pilling popcorn of their ceiling when Alex disappears into the bedroom—careful not to brush against any part of Lane as she goes—leaning over into the actual closet to grab soft silk, shoving a dress into sister’s hands. “Okay, what I remember of those are…not good days.”

A black, very tight, very intentionally slutty dress that is absolutely Kara’s size, not her own.

“Payback is a bitch.” It’s sing-song because she told Kara she would get her back for last year when she had to play the eye-candy at a party.

Kara pouts.

“Did you get his name?” Lois pecks Kara’s brow as she plucks up Alex’s sunglasses from the table, burying their arms in dark hair.

“All I have is Bloom. Alex, I am not wearing—”

“Bloom.” Lois repeats, memorizing it, letting out a second whistle of the day when Kara holds the dress up. “Yeah, it’s a shame Cat won’t be there to see this.”

“Okay, if Cat did see me in this, I am almost…nearly one-hundred percent positive that she would just—”

“Drool?” Suddenly Lois' smirk isn't endearing.

“Yeah, now it’s my turn to say eww.” Alex shrugs on a t-shirt, thankfully something not form-fitting or sagging from sweat. “Besides, it’s a good thing that you haven’t seen Cat. Right?” It’s pointed, looking up towards Kara, whose fingers curl in the thin fabric of the dress for a moment before she lets out such a quiet sigh that Alex almost feels guilty.

It’s the day for almosts.

“So, Bloom’s a lead.” Lois offers to break the silence, sliding those sunglasses down onto the bridge of her nose. “Time to go digging. Both of you try not to get into too much trouble, tonight, alright?”

The Danvers sisters meet eyes before innocently smiling towards Lois.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

A moment later, to a closing door, Alex yells as she shimmies up shorts:

"You better bring those back, Lane!"

--

If she thought Clark’s was full of smoke, this place is a living Bonnie Tyler music video in comparison, Halloween parody levels of fog filling the room from its slick floors to its high ceilings. Dark wood clings to every corner of the place, lights bright and stage even brighter, the place packed with more bodies than Cat would have expected for a Saturday, let alone a Thursday.

And there’s no surprise as to why, when fevered whispers mention who’s supposedly playing, tonight, like some kind of underground return-tour.

The journalist in her is aware of confirmation bias—now that she knows Kara Danvers exists, she seems to feel her everywhere in the city; see her in flashes around corners and in hanging signs; in bars and clubs and on colleagues’ tongues—but it’s still a little out of place, like something tucked away and secret has been put on display.

Then again, it seems Kara has that effect on people.

Especially--Cat realizes around a half hour after arriving--while wearing that.

The lights swamp the stage in a basking glow and when Kara gracefully walks onto it with that charming, spreading, thousand-watt smile, she seems to absorb them—like every inch of the girl’s skin is filled with light, alone—and Cat is caught by the sight of it for only a moment, noticing a lack of glasses (contacts?) before eyes skim downwards to take in the flowing lines of a particularly tight dress.

It’s not something she would have pegged the girl for wearing, but it’s not something she’s particularly unsatisfied with, either, watching the way it hugs curves as heels click. But, oh, there’s not a piano on stage, tonight.

No, apparently, it’s the girl who a recent memory had claimed to be sheepish about playing the guitar, tucking an electric one up on her body to a series of calls and whistles.

There's obviously nothing to be sheepish about and if Kara wasn't so unnervingly sincere all of the time, Cat might even feel played.

The guitar rings out skillfully into the club with such an overwhelming, hanging presence that the room is smothered to silence by it, the weight of it just as captivating as that smile—that dress—those eyes—

I put a spell on you—

There’s no smile on Kara’s face as she plays, tonight, and Cat wonders why. Wonders where the weight of her voice has come from—wonders how much more there is to her other than that smile and ever-listening ear, band slowly coming to play in the background alongside her.

Cat orders whiskey, tonight, swallowing the whole glass as she watches those fingers skim along frets with such ease and grace that the song might as well be true. Drowns her throat with clenching thighs and a tight stomach and playing Perry's words about collateral damage in her head like an athem.

And now you're mine--

A sharp breath, eyes closing, letting herself, for a moment, just listen. 

An hour later, Kara is far from the stage and hasn’t seemed to have found her, yet, and Cat wonders why each second curls her stomach tighter and tighter, the noise in this place too loud—suffocating—

A laugh warms up Cat’s spine like trilling fingers—like fingers dancing up ivory keys—but it’s far away and, oh, why is it that she immediately recognizes it, now? Kara's laugh.

“—Sam?” Cat hears at the edge of her ears over the loud din of the bar, leaning over on the stool to take in the sight of Kara leaning…comfortably close to someone around the corner. Her hand so familiarly skimming along a man’s shoulder as that laugh lights up the dark corner between them, eyes flicking down to his hip before settling on his eyes with a bright, bright smile.

But it looks a little…different, somehow. Forced. And suddenly Kara looks so out of place in this bar laughing with that dress clinging to her like a second skin and curiously, Cat’s fingers dip along the rim of her glass, eyebrow arching. Leans a little closer to listen—

“Look, he trusted me to look after Sam. All I want to know is that he’s okay. He told me you have…kids, right? A…boy and a girl—oh, gosh, sorry, are you—”

There’s a commotion as someone jostles into the pair when Kara leans up, both of them bumping into the man. A woman raises her hand with a scoff—a brunette, leather jacket wrapped comfortably around shoulders like she had just hopped off a motorcycle.

“Hey, whatever, just watch it, blondie.”

The brunette looks…familiar, slipping out of the bar door the moment she’s passed them and Cat’s eyes linger on her exit, watching smoke seep up into the night air in tendrils, and, oh, there’s that feeling in her stomach. That clenching, twisting feeling of anticipation—a gut feeling of—

Wasn't that—

Brows knit, turning back to the bar.

Blondie?

“You stalking me, Ms. Secret?” It’s quiet and smiling and low and skims right up the base of Cat’s fingers like fingers could, but Kara Danvers isn’t skimming her fingers along anything but a bar as she leans next to her, comfortably. Always so comfortably. Leaning a little close, maybe, to be heard over the noise of the club, even as her voice isn’t much of a yell, at all, and Cat’s eyes skim up the long lines of bare arms to bare shoulders to a bare neck before settling on a familiar, too comfortable smile. Always so comfortable.

Maybe it's just Cat's ever-present ego that assuages itself with the fact that Kara does look far more at place here than she had up against the wall with John Doe, or maybe it's something else, entirely.

Either way, Cat isn't comfortable with it.

“Hardly.”

“Because if you wanted to say thank you, you could’ve just showed up at the bar and—”

“Funnily, I did.” Cat turns on the barstool and it doesn’t creak, here—not like it does across the city. “And you weren’t there.”

“Oh.” Kara looks surprised and her smile quiets into something other than comfortable—something more than just familiar—and Cat waves her hand with a discarding notion, not wanting her to linger on it.

“You know where I work, now, too.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Just like you’re not supposed to know my name?”

“The only reason I know where you work is because of Lois Lane.” Kara, surprisingly, supplies, but Cat shouldn’t be surprised, should she? The girl is nothing if not honest. It doesn’t appear like duplicitous is in her nature and Cat is thrown by it, given the fact that she hasn’t heard anyone outside of newsprint be honest for years, Lois Lane included. “If you wanted me to know where you worked, least of all wanted me to show up there, you would’ve told me, Cat. This isn’t a creepy romcom.”

“It’s not?” Lips perk up at the edges.

“Maybe a romcom,” Kara shrugs that bare shoulder and leans on the bar, fingertips skimming up the wood by Cat’s wrist, not touching. But so close to touching that the hairs on her wrist might ache upwards to greet her. “But not the creepy kind. We did have a nice meet-cute, didn’t we?”

“Maybe.” A hum, lost underneath clinking glasses and music.

“Maybe.” That smile just spreads. “So, yes, I do know where you work, but so far that hasn’t been how this works. You come to me, not the other way, around. Unless…you’d like me to say hi, sometime?”

Cat’s chin barely ducks, thumb dipping along the rim of her glass. She wonders if it’s as clean or cleaner than the ones that Sam Malone was buffing at Clark’s, earlier.

“So…” It’s humming, tipping the glass back instead of offering anything else other than just conversation, “You do do blues. Lois mentioned that—mentioned jazz, too—but I was starting to think it was a myth.”

“I told you I had a couple of places I play around town which, you know—” Kara’s fingers come up to gently wave down the bartender with that charming, easy smile, “Club soda, please? This,” Eyes settle on Cat’s, “This seems a little out of your range, Cat.”

“Mmm, yes, well, maybe I was just lured here by that siren voice of yours.” It’s smirking.

“If that’s the logic, I’d think you would have come here, before. And trust me, if you did, I would have remembered.” And Kara’s eyes linger like her fingers had on the bar, Cat sees it—sees the way her eyes skim down from the line of her face to her chin—and dark eyes skim up that curving neck in retaliation, noting where sweat has pooled in the dips of it, highlighting the faint flex of Kara's swallow. This is the first time, Cat realizes, that she’s seen the girl sweat, at all, “You’re doing something that’s likely going to get you chased by a bunch of people in an alley, again, aren’t you?”

“Why? You fight one little Bruce Lee battle and suddenly you think you’ve got a job as my personal security guard? Is that a lust for danger I'm hearing?”

“If that’s the excuse that works.” Kara offers and, oh, Cat’s lips shouldn't twitch. “Although I’m not sure how I would do in security, but I could follow you around. Sing a theme song for you, or something.”

“That won’t alert people to my presence, at all, when I’m trying to be covert.”

“I can sing quietly behind you. In your ear.”

“Ah.” Cat’s tongue darts out over lips to cover her smile, turning around fully on the stool, their knees faintly brushing, “Isn’t that disturbing.”

“And here I was going for romantic.”

“If that’s what you’re going for, go again.” Cat advises, smiling through the murky amber of her drink.

“How about the fact that I was hoping it was you who would be walking through the door? The fact that I was singing because I was hoping you would hear it? Is that…a little more romantic?” Kara’s teeth are biting at her lip. There’s too much sincerity there. Enough that Cat searches her face, thumb slackening on the glass. "Or is that too much?"

"Hmm..." A small breath. “That’s a start.”

“So are you...following a lead?”

“Maybe. Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”

“Positive. I can't even get my names on checks, let alone on an article. Anything I can help with? A girl hears a lot more than just herself up on that stage…”

“Actually…”

“As long as you promise it won’t lead to anymore guns.”

Cat laughs.

“I can’t promise that.”

“Cat.” Suddenly that charming voice hardens into something surprisingly serious—like there’s a hint of steel in those shoulders, after all—and a nail that's finally been manicured this week trails down the ridge of the glass anchored on the edge of the bar between them.

Well, Kara can't be the only one bold. 

 “Would you be so surprised if I told you that you were the lead?”

“What?” All that smooth black dress bunches upwards into a straight, straight line as Kara sits up straighter, fingers falling away from the motion of it.

“What if I told you I was tracking you down?” Cat presses, further, and she can’t tell if Kara looks relieved or nervous. Offering: “To thank you. You weren’t…entirely off the mark, earlier.”

“Oh.” A breath, shoulders visibly easing, and there those tactile fingers go, raising up to skim familiarity along a slim wrist, heartbeat pressing up against the skin between them, which is suddenly...far less space, at all. “I was kidding. I told you before, Cat, you don’t have to thank me, right place—”

“Right time. Yes, yes. How noble. My hero.”

Kara’s lips part—that smile falters—and she looks like she might say something before her head snaps upwards, leaning forward to catch someone before they can roughly jostle into Cat with a surprisingly quick motion, catching their drink before it can spill all over her blouse.

Which is good, given the fact that it's new. And, oh, Cat can't even be too angry at the drunken idiot behind them, regardless of whether or not her latest acquisition was almost tarnished, Kara's quick gesture bringing long plains of open skin close enough that Cat can feel the heat radiating from her like a tall space heater, a sharp inhale of breath visibly tightening Kara’s shoulders. Kara, who must realize how close she is and moves to pull away—probably to do something ridiculous and…noble, like apologize—before Cat’s fingers wrap around that apparent boulder of a bicep, halting her.

Smiling, an inch away from that warm jaw. And that warm chin. And that warm smile--

“You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you? Right place, right time. Save my life. Save my blouse.”

So close that Cat can almost taste that sheepish grin and anything the girl might think of saying seems to be forgotten in favor of something else, entirely.

“Would you like to…go somewhere? Quieter. Not like—I didn’t mean like—” A cleared throat and, oh, Cat shouldn’t find it so endearing. “I just meant that it’s loud in here. The park, or—Clark’s isn’t far. I’m not working, tonight, and…anything I was going to do earlier doesn’t seem nearly as important, right now?”

“Why did you say that like a question?” Cat laughs, a little low, sheltered away from the rising smoke in this building underneath the awning of Kara's jaw.

"Because I wasn't sure you would like to go, at all." It's murmured, any of that bravado fluttering away like a little bird and Cat's glad they're close enough that she doesn’t have to yell over the rest of the noise in the bar. "Or maybe...I'm a little surprised at how much I want you to say yes."

“Hmm…I could use a little air. And a drink.”

“Clark’s it is.”

Kara leans up and away from her and the bar, the space between them suddenly cool, offering a palm to help Cat up, eyes lingering on lips instead of legs.

If Cat doesn’t drop the hand as they make their way into the city, well—

Whatever. Kara’s probably too polite to mention it, anyways.

--

“I’m so glad that I’m not the one that has to be doing the illegal things, anymore.” It's an easy, familiar snipe from Lois as Alex holds up the wallet, eyebrows raising when a journalist's excitement plucks it away, immediately rifling through the contents.

“I don't know what you're talking about, he dropped it.”

“Oh, really?” Lois laughs, leaning up against the brick of a nearby building, heel coming to rest by her knee. Idly, Alex thinks it’s the sort of thing that could be in a poster.

She wouldn’t remember, but it seems like the sort of thing that could be, anyways.

“It just happened to drop into my hand.” An easy smile, leaning up next to her, relaxing, just for a moment, letting the cooler city air sink into weary lungs.

Even smelling like smog and cigarettes, the air out here feels much better than the fire that’s been clinging to her lungs this week. The faint heat that’s sizzled up her spine.

“He has kids?”

“Two of them, a boy and a girl. Kara asked me to give her back the picture so that she could get it back to him.”

“Of course she did. Only your sister would help you steal a guy’s wallet and then—”

There’s enough of a pause for Alex’s eyes to open from where she’d rested against the wall, taking in the city-highlighted profile next to her.

She knows that look.

“What?” Lois quietly slips out a business card. It’s nameless, but there’s the faint emboss of a non-descript number on it. “Lois, what—”

Lois shoves the wallet in her hands, voice even and chin dipping as she sighs.

“This…” A sharp suck of a breath and when Lois looks back up at her, it feels like years ago when she last saw her truly laugh, because it probably was, “This is my father’s number.”

Alex wordlessly tucks the card back in the wallet along with the picture, sliding the whole undone pandora’s box into the back pocket of jeans, leaning forward to wrap the woman in a rare hug.

It’s a little more telling that Lois actually lets her.

“Don’t tell them.” Lois murmurs against her neck and Alex’s breath rattles as it spreads out her shoulders. “Not yet.”

Clark. Kara.

It’s a long second before Alex closes her eyes, fingers curling a little tight into Lois’ shoulder, and nods.

--

“It’s been...a particularly tough week at work.” Cat admits before she can wonder why, thumb running along the rim of a glass, unsurprised when Kara slides just a little closer--when that girl’s hand slides up the bar to settle right next to her own like she wants to remind her of her constant presence--chin tipping back as she searches those eyes, clearer underneath the smoke here than the smoke anywhere else.

Maybe even clearer than they had been, in the city. 

“Well, most people go to bars for that reason. If it was a good week at work, I would think you would have invited people from those...fancy business meetings of yours to bury in that bottle along with you, instead of…finding me somewhere, in a club.” 

“I doubt anyone in the office would celebrate with me, right now. They’re not exactly getting t-shirts printed with my face on them.” Cat grouses, tipping back a glass and looking up at Sam Malone, who is giving them a more than knowing look that’s easy to ignore through a martini. “I’m going to need something stronger if we’re going to keep talking about my job.”

“No Ms. Secret fanclub?” Kara turns towards that ever-knowing bartender with a resolute look, “Scotty, get us both a straight whiskey.” Tipping a little over as if to share with her out of the corner of her mouth: “It’s the nicest thing we have that doesn’t get watered down.” 

Cat blinks, “I thought you didn’t drink?” 

“I don’t. But I can’t let you go on thinking no one in the world will drink with you. I, for one, am happy to be here for your successes and failures and--oh, God, this is disgusting.” Kara’s nose wrinkles the moment she tips back the glass and Cat can’t help the faint laugh that rumbles on the edge of lips. Because Kara’s normally happy face looks like a cat who’s hacked on the edge of a hairball, features screwing tight before she turns around on the stool, offering up a glass with that same, determined smile, handing Cat hers.

Well, there's another new little fact to add to the steadily-growing list in Cat's mind:

Kara Danvers isn't a quitter

Fingers curve around the tumbler, amusement coating lips just as well as moisture does when her tongue runs over them, “You realize you consistently lose whatever I tip you on the drinks you buy me, don’t you?” 

“I’m not working tonight—well, here—and we have different definitions of lose.” It’s a little brazen and the girl seems to realize it, clearing her throat but not backing down as she tips the glass in a toast, “To...whatever it is you think is going wrong in your life?” 

“Ah,” Cat shrugs, “To everything, then.” 

“To everything, then.”

A beat, lingering on Kara and despite her better judgment, admits, “Well…maybe not everything.”

And there’s that fucking smile.

Their glasses clink and Kara somehow schools features into something stoic as she downs the glass in one long sip, an impressed whistle from the bartender resulting in a flourish of a bow from their resident musician.

“You’re supposed to sip it, you know. Not do shots like a college frat party.” �� 

“No way was I sipping that. Gross.” Her nose wrinkles underneath a small little laugh, Cat's amused chuckle creating a perfect harmony alongside it. “I told you, I don’t drink. But, um...you know. Solidarity? I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Of course it did.” A shake of the head before downing her own because, honestly, that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Solidarity, even, seems like a wonderfully novel concept. It’s warm and cutting and Kara beams at her, fingers raising up to curl around her shoulder like an old friend and suddenly that warmth spreads from Cat’s throat down to curling toes, stockings bunching beneath the calloused pads of feet. "They always do." Cat's swallow is dusty, lashes fluttering as Kara's eyes flick down to lips--that endless smile skipping a beat like a syncopated rhythm--and blonde ringlets shake between them as the other woman pulls just enough away from her to raise those curled fingers around a dipped shoulder to shuffle glasses that...aren’t there.

A small little laugh at herself.

Sheepish. Annoyingly charming. 

“You know, not everyone in the world is out to get you. Lois Lane speaks the world of you, not that I told you that, and I just had a drink with you so...at least two people would rock your face on a t-shirt.” Kara offers and the laughter settles gently between them--as faint as the night-time wind rattling the bar's window panes.

“I wasn’t aware you and Lois were close. Outside of telling you where I work.” A breath of a noise, wishing that hand was back on her shoulder, but glad that Kara leans against the bar near her. Equally glad for the hint of space between them. What a contradiction. “She’s who recommended I come here.” 

“I know.” Kara admits and the surprise grows when the girl just smiles, a hint of something almost impish in those eyes--intoxicating--and Cat has the strongest, strangest urge to reach up to close the distance between them. “I asked.” 

“Did you, now?” That’s more intriguing than the drink. Kara hums but leaves it at that when eyes flick over Cat's shoulder to settle on stage.

“You know…when I go on, there’s always some point in the night that you love doing a disappearing act. But, you—” A hint of a nervous laugh, surprised—like Kara can’t believe she’s saying it, herself, teeth tucking a lower lip behind the gates of a nervous smile, “Why don’t you ever stay? After. I would share another drink. Club soda counts. You could tell me all about your journalism blues—I would always even pretend to understand half of what you say.”

“Somehow, I doubt you’ll have any difficulty understanding.” Cat murmurs, eyes barely slitting as she weighs the offer. Weighs the soft din of this smoky little hole-in-the-wall that does nothing to mute the hopeful light of blue above her. “Is this the piano-player version of a confessional? I thought the bartender was supposed to offer to hear all my worldly woes, not you.” 

“Scott’s got a full schedule on his plate with Rick.” Kara jokes, leaning just a little closer, “And...while I feel like saying this out loud might actually hurt my chances, I like to think that I could…be a friend to you, during the rough weeks. If you’d let me. Or...a stranger that looks a lot like a friend that would love nothing more than to be here for you. More than just--more than just what we already do.” 

“Why?” Cat asks before she can help herself--looking for this girl’s angle. For her motive. But that smile doesn’t dim underneath the faint lights and that hand slides a little closer and Kara just keeps smiling. Keeps biting her lip. Keeps shuffling like she doesn’t know how to do anything but ask, in the first place, and Cat can’t understand why. 

“I don’t know.” Kara seems to admit, humming, “It just...it’s something...it's something about you. I mean, it's something I want to do. Be here for you. If not, that’s okay. I know this is...new for you." A beat, almost rushing to add, "Us. New for us. I'm not trying to--” Another rap of knuckles along wood, leaning up to whisper something in the Sam’s ear before stepping away, “I’ll be right back. Before I shove my foot further in my mouth, like I'm currently doing a really, really good job at.”

And she slides away from the bar like she was never there in the first place, leaving Cat staring after her. It’s a little easier to watch her go in that dress, admittedly.

Oh, good, Cat  suddenly turns to objectification in her darkest hour.

“She does this for everyone, doesn’t she?” Cat asks even though she has a sinking suspicion that that’s not the case, at all. 

“Make friends with everyone? Yep. Listen to their problems? Sure. Drink with them? Nope.” Scotty hums, cleaning out a glass before setting down a singular martini in front of her and a glass of water that, undeniably, was also requested a moment before. Breath sucks through teeth. “Usually she’s actually kind of a recluse. She told me she doesn't want to get involved with anyone. Which is fine, we're all running from something, here.”

A hum of response, curious and lingering and thoughtful, gaze settled on the place where the girl just slipped away. 

What is Kara Danvers running from, then, if it's not from her? This. Whatever this...little tryst is, fizzled and barely under the surface.

And how big would Kara Danvers’ beam be, if she stayed the entire night? If they were left with more than just a few moments at the bar, even if Cat came here nightly? A few moments—minutes—an hour or two, maybe. What would it be, if they had more nights away from the smoke and the din and the quiet, drunken ramblings of the patrons that apparently fund an orphanage down the street as much as Cat’s apparent tab, here.

How warm would Kara’s skin be—her smile—Cat’s chest; how would the edges of fingers feel like the tips of fireworks when Kara settles next to her at the end of the night, where Cat would be a little drunker than she was when the singer left? What would it be like, for Kara to say something cheesily succinct like—

So tell me about your day, Ms. Secret—

And for Cat to unhinge her jaw—

Apparently, she has the gift of premonition.

“Sorry,” Those fireworks light match tips along Cat’s shoulders as fingers skim along skin, Kara settling next to her, “I had to check in with my sister, anyways, and that seemed like a really good time to go away and splash some water on my face before I babbled my way onto the street. So...”

The sister.

It clicks, Cat’s eyes flicking up to linger on Kara’s jaw, question pursing lips before Kara leans forward, shaking her head.

"Tell me about your day, Ms. Secret.”

Cat almost laughs at the knowing whisper in her ear and against every single fucking shred of logic in her brain…

Cat does. 

She tells her everything. 

Again.

She talks about her week and doesn’t stop and Kara just listens to every single word until she’s finished before reaching across the distance, squeezing her shoulder, leaning up and Cat’s certain she’ll disown ever knowing her--throw a drink in her face or finally inform her she doesn’t care or, worse, insist that she very, very much does--she’s certain she’ll say something idiotic or stupid, like it will all be alright or maybe next time? Or, worse, You're doing the right thing without any idea of how harsh the right thing can be.

Because she tells Kara about work, about the argument with Lane about the article—about the missing girls—about Perry. She tells Kara about how her business is falling through and she’s unsure how to get sponsorship, now. She tells Kara about how Perry White was threatening to pull her byline if she didn’t find something objective to focus on, about Vic Martin winding up dead, to a somber, haunted look on Kara's features than ever expected.

She tells Kara more than just words--she becomes more than just a lonely person sitting on the edge of a barstool, mysterious and enigmatic. She becomes a full-fledged person with secrets and anger and vitriol and mistakes (and, oh, she hates the mistakes). She becomes Cat Grant, a web of twisted mistakes and pointed career-hunting and passion, and she’s certain that’s far too much for this regular, happy piano player who wandered into a city that she apparently hides herself from in the tucked away corner of a stage.

Instead, Cat just blinks, because Kara whispers something like it’s the most natural follow-up to such a weighted confessional--

“Hey, do you like tacos?” A talented thumb points towards the door, “Because there’s a place around here that sells them until 2 AM and you probably need something on your stomach and I’m starving.” 

Like Cat hadn’t just bared her soul--like nothing had changed between them, at all--no expectations weighing down that raised smile. 

Cat just blinks--stares at her, lips a little agape--and nods.

--

It's nice, at least, to feel what air conditioning might be like, again. Alex sprawls out on the mattress, greeting the cool of it like an old friend with an arching spine, biting back a groan at the bruises that ache up her spine like a beaten tapestry, sinking back onto the couch with a huff. And she feels Lois' eyes on her, watching her stomach, her hips, and there's something to be said, at least, for honesty, because Lois doesn't look away when their eyes meet.

"We're not going through this again, Lois. It's moved past bad idea territory into dangerous." 

"Yeah, yeah." Lois sighs and Alex stupidly reaches up to skim fingers up her cheek--hesitating for only a moment before that finger skims down the curling rope of brunette hair that pools in her palm, fingers gently cupping the back of her skull, the glint of a ring catching off of Alex's neck underneath the apartment's lights before she tugs Lois back, once more. Closer.

There's no rules against sharing a metaphorical bed platonically, right? Because Alex, the idiot she is, had immediately acquiesced the moment Lane murmured something close to please in her--you can come over, if you want, and help me go through his files that I do have access to--

"You know, there's no guarantee your father had anything to do with this." Alex tries and Lois settles on top of her like a bag of rocks, sagging into the mattress with a sigh.

"Yeah, right. When the hell did you become an optimist? Let Kara stick with her strengths. I depend on you for your brood-y...over-pessimistic realist take."

"Hey, I'm not broody." It's grumbled, tired eyes fluttering closed for a long moment, feeling Lois shift to settle a little further on top of her and this couch feels better than their small little springboard of a bed ever has. "Clark would have come here, you know." It's quiet after a long moment of silence, the faintest quiver underneath burnt fingertips before they bury themselves in that dark hair, gently sifting through. Letting a slow, guilty breath seep out of her as Lois' nose slots against the pulse in her neck.

For the first time, she wonders if this is how Kara feels, every time her eyes linger a little too long on Cat Grant. She wonders if Kara would be doing this, right now, if they had the option. If the pull of it is just too much for weary shoulders, where her sister's have always been made of steel. Resolute. 

"He has other things he should be focusing on, right now. Stop talking about him like he's supposed to be here, instead."

A faint hiss from Alex's lips--are all journalists this annoyingly astute?

"He could have been. He's not. So just...shut up and be a pillow while I brood for a change, because we both know I'm going to have to go on a hunt after my dad and ugh--god, what if I have to tell Kitty she's right, I'm never going to hear the end of it, and this all--" 

"Hey. Lane." Alex sighs, fingers raking gently against her skull until she follows her own advice and shuts up, sagging further into Alex on the couch, the air conditioner cooling both of them with its faint little unfamiliar rumble. "We'll figure it all out tomorrow." Lois gently untucks Alex's hand and she's so glad she can't see the look on her face as a thumb gently smooths underneath burnt flesh.

It's healing.

A lot of things are, whether they want them to, or not.

"Until then, I'm going to enjoy this wonderful air conditioning, and pretty nice company, and you can stop thinking for a little while. If you're capable of that." 

Breath breaks against Alex's knuckles before Lois wordlessly brushes lips right above them.  

"I can try." Lois murmurs, cuddling into her side in a way they'll both likely deny in the morning. 

It's easier to ignore the guilt when she's too exhausted to care.

--

The tacos, surprisingly, aren’t the kind of corner-expectations that land a girl in the hospital with E. Coli.

“Does every night always end with food, with you?" A delicate lick of fingers.

"Most nights." Kara beams, "Okay, all nights."

"Hmm...so I just spilled my life story, piano player--”

“Actually, you just told me about your day.” Kara cuts her off, hastily adding before swallowing another impressively large bite of that bursting corner-street taco, “Which I was very, very happy to hear. But it’s not really a life story.” 

“Okay,” Cat drawls, heels clicking along the streets, steam from the grates not warming her heels as much as the faint heat radiating off of Kara’s…surprisingly muscular calves, “I was born in downtown Metropolis to a bitch of a writer, Katherine Grant--”

“Oh, wow, the Katherine Gr--” At Cat’s look, Kara seems to stutter and shut up. Wisely, “Um, right, well there’s obviously a sore subject, moving on.” 

“Went to college pursuing journalism--became editor--and had my hopes and dreams dashed when I interviewed with Perry White, only to become his assistant. And then...well, you know the rest, don’t you?” 

“Worked your way up through the fashion section to the gossip section. A tale you told me with no detail whatsoever, so I don’t know about know the rest, but--”

“You’re very nosey for a piano player.” 

“Ah, not just for a piano player. I am told,” Kara looks practically shit-eating around her next bite, swallowing, “That I am nosey for anyone. Particularly nosey. I’m proud of it.”

“It’s like your superpower.” 

“Hah! Right.” Kara gently bumps her shoulder, laugh high enough that Cat’s eyebrow raises despite that faint alcohol in her system because this girl is just...she must be psycho, or something. No one can be this wholesome. It’s like walking with an attractive neighbor in Leave it to Beaver. “Heh, like...people have super powers, right. Pfft.” 

Cat just stares at her, deciding when the girl moves onto her fifth taco: “They need to study you. I mean like an actual scientific study. With doctors.”

“I’m okay with that, you get paid for those.” It’s a tease. “You and Lois are friends, aren’t you. She tells me that at least weekly. Talk about similar strokes.” Kara huffs through her nose, but there’s a lightness in her eyes as she chomps down, happily swallowing before bumping Cat’s shoulder. Again. Tone bright and fingers curling, protective, along a shell. Cat can’t help but notice, even through leather, that the other woman is warm. And maybe Kara intentionally misunderstands where Cat's eyes linger, “If you want another taco, I can get you one, but stop eyeing this one, it’s mine.” 

A laugh scoffs through her own nose, shaking her head as she wipes her hands, full and unfortunately sober. “No. I have no idea how you're still eating, there's no way I'm going to finish this second one. So, what’s your story?” 

“My story?” Kara takes care wiping her mouth, making good use of a napkin before depositing it in a nearby trashcan, making a gesture for Cat’s, as well, who hesitantly hands it over, confused because the city is still steel in her bones. “You didn’t finish telling me yours.” 

“There has to be some quid pro quo, here, Carole King. It’s my job to know about people, and I know virtually next to nothing about you.” And there the girl goes, happily depositing trash in the nearby bin before trotting the small distance back over to catch up, like she wouldn’t want to burden Cat with waiting for even a second longer than she would need to. Of course. Because she's so chivalrous it's nearly insufferable. 

Cat quietly thanks her, regardless.

“Maybe I’m an enigma. That’s what keeps people coming back to the bar.” Fidgeting, tactile hands shove into the pockets of a jacket she apparently keeps behind the bar for nights like these. Cat wouldn't have pegged the girl for leather, either--maybe tweed, or something softer like cotton or bamboo weave--but she's struck, for a moment, by the image of that brunette jostling against Kara in the bar. The way the leather spread out over shoulders like an emblem--a ready, protective shrug--and it's how Kara wears it, now. The faint heat rises up off of the cooling concrete and now that the overwhelming heat of the city has tempered like anger beneath the bones of Metropolis, she feels far too comfortable for her own good.

“Drinks keep people coming back to a bar. You’re the reason they stay.” Cat hums and the city’s sprawling skyscrapers cast a beam of light over the faintest blush, despite the night. “Oh, so you’re not always suave.” 

“You thought I was suave?” A rumbling, quiet laugh that draws Cat just a step closer, both of them stopping their walk for a moment, “I’ve never heard that before. No one--and I mean no one--has called me suave without being sarcastic.” 

“First for everything.” Lips bat upwards, “Hey, stop stalling Myra Hess--”

“Myra Hess? There’s an unexpected ref--” Amusement twinkles like stars in those bright eyes but Cat doesn’t let go--why would she?

“Life story.” It’s a short demand and they start walking, again, those hands unravelling from pockets to raise in submission.

“You drop a lot of references, don’t you? There’s not much to tell, really.” 

“Everyone has a story.” Cat shakes her head, dusting off the remains of her taco from palms, “Where were you born? What do you want to do with your life? Why do you play? Why are you interested in music?”

“I didn’t ask you why you write,” Kara points out, “Do you want to know the reason I tell people to get tips, or the real, depressing reason?” 

“Hmm...both.” Cat decides, picking off a small bite of her taco and popping it into her mouth now that they have some forward momentum with more than just the faint shuffle of their feet. 

“Well, the reason I tell people is because music is a living thing--it’s impossible not to play it, when it’s got your claws in you. Usually I try to be, um...charming, or something. When I say it. Tips. I’m not very good at being charming, though.”

Cat begs to differ and the look she gives her seems to be enough to creep a blush up a long neck for a second time, Kara clearing her throat. 

“Moving on from that, the real reason I play…” Intriguingly, Kara hesitates--pauses--and there’s this faraway look in her eyes when hands shove back into pockets and this is the moment that Cat learns that pianists have the same nervous ticks smokers do, because she can’t seem to sit still. What else does she do to keep her hands occupied? From all of those protests, is there a stack of papers somewhere with unfinished stories littering the pages--half-composed sonatas or piano concertos?--does she tend to drinks or tuck up people’s cheeks with kind hands? Or does she just spend all of her idle, fidgeting time sprawling fingers out to relieve muscles before they curl tightly in fists? 

It’s still a little difficult to reconcile the image of the girl the other night--her unexpected savior--with the nervous tick next to her, eyes slitting over when Kara shifts a little closer to Cat’s side like it might ward off some kind of invisible chill. Which would be impossible, given the heat. But then the girl shakes, just a little, and brows knit, scanning over her and ignoring the ridiculous urge to untuck her own jacket and wrap it around a wide frame.

“It helps me...remember. I lost my parents when I was young and the older I get, the...less I remember them. Or anything, really. Anything about my life--” Something catches in that bobbing, slender throat and Kara emphasizes, “That life. I don’t have many memories of my childhood.” 

“Oh.” Cat murmurs, not surprised but...illuminated, an apology dying on lips because there's nothing more infuriating than murmured, half-consolations of I'm sorry against an ear. Instead, she notes, “That explains why you play so well. Art and loss do tend to go hand and hand. Or, at least a desire to perfect it.” 

The way the guitar hung in the air, tonight, suddenly makes sense. The space in Cat’s lungs where air should be that’s been lost in the notes that breathe off of Kara’s lips suddenly make sense.

Kara, suddenly, makes a little more sense and there's a breathless kind of twisting ache curling in her chest.

“Or preserve it.” There’s a hint of smile from the girl, then, almost timid as she shrugs, hands still firmly stowed in pockets, but she leans closer to her, still, and Cat lets her, because the warmth isn’t unwanted. “When I play…” Her chin tips up, like she’s reading a treble cleft in the stars like a measure with which to tempo the major key of her voice, “Music is something that you can’t forget. It’s intrinsic and my mother...she had a beautiful voice. So did my aunt. They both used to sing me to sleep, and I always that. Music. I always had music. No matter where I was, or who I was, or...when I am. Even when I had…nothing, I always had music. Or it…it always had me. Found me. And I told you, I was a singer in another life,” A breathless hum--a laugh--and Cat rolls her eyes so that she doesn’t laugh with her, “It just seemed like a good fit. I don’t need much, but it’s nice to connect with...my memories, sometimes. What I have of them.” 

“And you want to share that with the world? A young hopeful finding her way to Metropolis to--”

“No.” Kara’s surprisingly adamant and Cat pauses, turning up to look at her. “No, I’m fine just the way I am. I don’t need much, I have my sister and the bar--a couple of jobs, sure--but the music is for me. Everything else...well, I guess that’s for everyone else.”

Everyone's running from something, Scotty had said.

“And what’s that? That everything else?” 

“The Metropolis Orphanage.” Kara shrugs and then continues on, “So that’s about all there is to me. I moved here with my sister--to stay close to her--I play music, and volunteer.” 

“And...you’re okay with that. No big plans, no ulterior motives, no grand schemes--” And Cat is surprised, because she’s surrounded herself with people filled with that ever-chomping motivation for so long she had thought it was impossible for someone not to have it, at all. Even Clark Kent has a fire in his eyes, somewhere, and it’s surprising for a woman whose skin burns fire and eyes burn something deeper than a fire could ever be not to have an ounce of it. Cat looks into Kara and sees oxygen igniting underneath a fire, and she doesn't understand where heat rises to, if it's not up.

“Nope.” Kara holds out her hands, smiling, “I’m a simple woman.” 

“You realize simple can mean stupid, right?” Cat smirks and Kara shrugs, hands still stretched out. 

“Did I mention that I was raised in the country?” A little quieter, “I think.” 

“You think? Maybe you are simple.” The laugh is bright--unburdened--from Cat's lips and, oh, Kara’s smile is almost lopsided and eyes bright and...suddenly widening in surprise as the girl reaches forward to tug her close, a second before the whirring of a bicycle passes by Cat's ears. She's too surprised by the warmth of the body pressed up against her to think much of the action--of Kara saving her yet again from the most mundane of tragedies. Palm flattening over a bare shoulder and that sloping column of Kara's clavicle that's no longer lined with sweat. Husking, “Or a lot smarter than you look.”

“Sorry, there was—um a—I mean, a—” Kara clears her throat but doesn’t pull away as she helplessly whispers: “Bicycle?” 

Those blue eyes flick down to lips and Cat leans a little upwards, feeling the way Kara’s muscles flex beneath that fabric, that hold just a little tighter. Feeling the way her arms wrap so tightly around her waist like an anchor.  

“My hero.” 

She’s close, very close--so close that Cat can smell a hint of earlier whiskey on the girl’s breath when it dances along her lower lip, cautiously venturing, the sound of the city fading into a soft murmur around them so that all she can hear is the way Kara breathes against her lips. 

Since she’s not pulling away like her brain insists, body betraying her with a quiver of breath, it’s best to get it out of the way.

“So that...woman who was in the bar with you the other day--” Barely a murmur. “In the club with you, earlier—” 

“My sister.” Kara immediately supplies. “Alex.”

“That boy from—”

“A, um...orphan. From the orphanage.” Kara shakes her head, leaning a little closer, “You saw him--Winn--I didn’t steal him, he just likes the piano—”

“You offering to listen to me, tonight—”

“Was a genuine offer and something I would do every night you le—” 

“And...you,” A murmur, but somehow Kara still hears her, “Leaning in so close to me right now…” 

“Very,” Kara breathes, “Very intentional. Did I miss filling out a waiver somewhere, because if you need paperwork or something, I’ll fill it in a heartbeat. I can wait if you need a moment. I’m all about consent and I’m told,” Oh her breath curls up in that smile like the smoke in a bar, “That I interview very, very well.” 

Cat laughs and Kara beams and, God, she shouldn’t find that quite so charming, body relaxing into Kara's arms. 

“You don’t even know me.” 

“You just told me your whole life story, remember?" Kara argues.

"I told you the story about my day. Oh, are you just picking and choosing, now?"

"Maybe that's why you think I'm a journalist." Oh her wit is sharp and Cat just leans further up into her, thumb swiping along the ridge of a collarbone, smoothing up to a swallowing throat. Kara sounds a little breathless. “I happen to think we know everything there is to know about one another, Ms. Grant, and everything else, I’d love to learn.”

“Alright. Fine. Then let's stop beating around the bush--"

"You do seem like the tackle head-on type." Kara doesn't pull away and maybe that's the most damning of all.

"I’m difficult and work-driven and have very, very little time for anything outside of—” 

“Used to it. You really have not met my sister.” Kara leans closer, still and Cat can taste her breath. Can curl fingers in the lapels of that leather jacket and feel a delicious warmth radiating from her and—and, oh, damn. Damn, because she can’t remember the last time she wanted to kiss someone so badly—

"I'm not easy to love." Cat tries.

"I don't think that's for you to decide." Kara immediately supplies and a writer's stomach ties knots out of what could have been a noose, years ago. “Please give me all of your concerns so I can shoot them down. Bring it on. Stop beating around the bush, like you said.” Lust was one thing, sure, but Cat’s never wanted to kiss someone so very, very badly. 

She’s never been so curious if someone sings in the shower or if her lips would move like a song or if her fingers could dance melodies up Cat’s spine like a concerto—

"Fine, if you want a challenge. I'm stubborn and have lingering commitment issues--" 

"I'm stubborn and have more than just lingering abandonment issues, we'll have plenty to talk about." 

"My mother is unbearable--insufferable--"

"My sister will try to arrest you. We have also shared a bed for three years because we're broke and alone."  

"Well that sounds unhealthily co-dependent." 

"Well, I am." Kara's fingers skim along the dip of Cat's back and that flattened palm pushes up to curve around Kara's cheek and, oh, she leans into it like she's been waiting to mold the clay of her cheek in hands her entire life and suddenly, this little banter feels a little too serious. "But it also comes with a very loyal drive to protect the people who are closest to me. Sometimes, as my sister will readily point out, to my detriment."

"Well you're obviously a giver. I'm a taker. I'll always choose my job." Cat husks. "I usually can't even go an entire dinner without having to leave to find a lead--"

"I've never finished a single date without something coming up."

A huff.

"We're women." Cat tries the last weak excuse she has. 

"I definitely picked up on that. So did you. And I saw your interview, last week, you're one of the few openly bisexual reporters in the business." 

"That doesn't mean it will make me starting my company easier." 

"So we'll be discreet. I can be discreet."

"I'm not giving you a promise ring, Kara--"

Surprisingly, Kara leans down, nose brushing along Cat's. 

"Someone told me to dive, once. I don't swim, I dive. I'm not a casual date, Cat."

Cat licks her lips. 

"I'm divorced." It's swallowed. "And a mother." 

Kara pauses and victory shouldn't feel so hollow but any breath Cat could have had is stolen by the look of something untouchable on Kara's face, as her hand raises up to curve so gently around the one cupping her cheek, stepping impossibly closer.

"I don't have something for that." Kara admits, quiet, leaning a little closer, "Other than I'd like to learn more about who you are, because you definitely left out some of that life story."

And Cat decides to fuck it--or, more hopefully, fuck Kara—leaning up to close the distance between them when a noise sounds around the corner, a loud crash of a thing followed by a yell and she lets out a gasp when she’s immediately tugged forward and pressed against the wall, Kara’s body easing over her and pinning her there like some kind of human shield.

Just like she had on that fire escape.

She’s close enough to feel the that entire long, warm body tighten like steel—to watch that jaw straighten and her head snap up to attention like some kind of guard dog. 

Someone screams and Kara, phenomenally, apologizes—

Like it has anything to do with her—

“I am so sorry, I think--I think someone’s in trouble, I should go--” And backs away with raised hands, eyes apologetic. And it’s then that Cat realizes why the fuck she’s apologizing in the first place. “I should go check and—can you call 911? I’m going to go check on them and...and can we, um...can we pick this up—”

“Are you crazy?” Cat hisses, because her mind’s still reeling from the 180 of going from kiss her to watch her back-pedal towards a scream. She hates rollercoasters--the emotional kind being the obvious worst. “What do you think you’re going to—” 

“I have to make sure I can’t help! I’m so sorry! 9-11 and...and raincheck? Please say raincheck! I—I would come after whatever…this is, so that we could talk, or--not talk, but I don’t—I don’t know where you live and—I’m so sorry—” Kara might whimper. Might let out a frustrated grunt of a noise before running towards the scream and Cat, who’s officially lost her mind, races after her, stumbling down the street, skidding around the corner on hopping heel clicks to give Kara a piece of her mind when--

Empty. No one there. 

Kara disappears into the night and that’s that—no more screaming or explosions (gunshot?) or...anything and Cat’s eyes frantically take in the street with a quiet curse before she rushes over to the payphone on the corner, heart sinking down into her stomach and slamming down the receiver the moment someone’s dispatched. 

There goes any chance of her lips being warm and…the quarter in change she got from that last taco.

Dive, she'd said, before diving off the fucking deep end, heartbeat frantic and--

“Great.” Cat husks to the very, very empty street, hands raising towards the heavens because she just drank whiskey and ate tacos for a ghost, more than a little frustrated with how this week is going with the big fucking man upstairs, “I’m officially falling for an idiot. Seriously? No, I mean it, seriously?” It's a plead case to the Coco Chanel up in those big bright heavens, “No goals? No drive? No future, and now you throw a hero complex on top, oh, this is a cruel joke.” She waves a finger towards the night sky, “Even for you, big guy. Girl. Whatever the hell you--oh, I'm losing my mind.” 

Losing her goddamn mind because all Cat can think about is tracking Kara down to kiss her, fingers angrily crumpling up the phone number in her pocket before tossing it in the nearby trashcan. 

No one is on the street to answer her and Cat kicks a nearby piece of wayward, pulled up asphalt before stalking back towards her apartment, ignoring the sound of sirens and the worry in her chest that gets louder and louder with each and every step.