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fabllama02 · 5 years ago

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That Superhero AU

Dagur the Deranged dives into Jackson’s path during the hazy dusk of a weekday. Jackson’s been patrolling for hours now; he suited up straight after school, webbing his backpack full of civvies and calculus homework to the underside of an apartment building’s AC unit before taking to the sky. He’s chasing a couple of thugs who’s held up a local 7/11 when Dagur makes a grab for him.

Jackson flips safely out of the way. Dagur cackles, and chases after him, mouth full of wet, pointed teeth.

“Get a hobby, you maniac!” Jackson calls over his shoulder. Dagur forces him to duck and roll to the left. Those thugs and their bundles of cash must be long gone by now.

“You’re my hobby,” Dagur says.

“Yeah?” Jackson yells back. “You want me to come with you to the craft store? Help you pick out some wool, some watercolors; maybe we could pick up a model airplane to build together-”

Dagur snags his arm. He’s intimidatingly larger than Jackson. His hand wraps entirely around Jack’s bone thin wrist, almost obscuring his entire hand beneath that meaty fist.

“Uh oh,” Jackson says, right before Dagur throws him through the air and into the side of a building. Cement cracks under the force. “Ow.”

Dagur chases it with a punch. Jackson back-flips out of the way, crouching low on the pavement. The street is bustling with people rushing home from work, all of them skittering backward with fright.

“Come on, Dagster, can’t we talk this out like the rational people we aren’t?” Jack offers.

Dagur rises back up on his feet and- yup, oh yeah, he is definitely stupidly taller than Jack. He’d be getting a complex if he wasn’t too busy dodging deadly, swiping hits and ignoring the screeching whine of his spider-sense.

Dagur bares his teeth. It’s not a smile. “I don’t want to talk, little Angel. I want to see what your insides look like.”

“Thank but my insides prefer to be on the inside-”

Dagur grabs Jackson again, nails digging into the soft skin of his throat, and bodily throws him. Jackson doesn’t just crack the side of a building; this time, with a hitch in his breath and a scream of his spider-sense, Jackson goes careening through the storefront window, glass shattering and customers inside shrieking, and then straight through the solid far wall. Jackson’s been thrown through walls before. It never stops being so painful, so disorienting, like a boulder has been smashes over his head.

“Ugh,” Jackson says. He lies in the nest of fractures cement and shards of glass and wonders if numb, tingling limbs is a blessing or a very, very bad sign. Probably the latter. “Ughhhhhh.”

“My boss is going to kill me!” The middle-aged manager in a polo shirt stands behind the broken wall. The glare he wears is anything but sympathetic. Geez, a guy can’t even get thrown through a window and a wall without upsetting someone in this city.

“My super-villains are going to kill me,” Jackson snipes back.

“Look what you’ve done,” hisses an older customer, tiny, glinting glass shards in her hair. She’s not hurt, though, thank god. “I just bough this shirt! Are you going to pay for it?”

Jackson hauls himself out of the Jack Frost shaped hole, stumbling over shaking feet. “When the deranged guy comes back, I’ll probably be paying for something. With my blood.” The manager and the customers go back to cursing him out. The sharp, accusatory bite to their words sounds vaguely venomous. “Are none of you concerned about the guy that was just chucked through a solid wall? And has a giant, murderous super-villain on his tail? No?”

“I should sue you for-” says the manager. He’s several inches taller than Jack and uses his height to bare down on him, arms crossed.

“Why is it that everyone who hates me is tall?” Jackson wonders. “You, Dagur’s ugly butt. And people wonder why short people all have tempers and complexes-”

“I like your height,” Dagur says, clambering into the broken electronics store. Looks like Jackson’s lunch break is over, then.

The manager and the other customers shriek and rush for the exits. The deranged man ignores them, all his attention focused keenly on Jack- hooray for him!- as he shifts, grins, continues, “You’re conveniently small. So easy to throw. To manipulate.”

“Well, hey,” Jackson says, “at least one of us appreciates my height.”

Dagur snatches Jackson’s hand; he’s too off kilter from being ditched through a store to dodge or shake him off but Dagur doesn’t throw him again. His fist tightens, and Jackson’s spider-sense drags a warning up his spine, and then he snaps Jackson’s fingers backward.

Jackson howls and throws himself backward. Dagur is too strong- Jackson dangles from his grip, four fingers of his left hand broken crookedly, panting against his mask.

“See?” Dagur remarks as Jack gasps through the pain. “So fragile and small.”

“Go jump into the Hudson,” Jackson says.

Dagur leans in, shark-like teeth brushing against the vulnerable, hidden curve of Jackson’s ear. “I’m going to kill you next week,” Dagur promises. It’s low, not a whisper, but a quiet exchange passed only between them. “You’re going to come to come, and I’m going to pull you apart until you’re gasping, and bleeding, and dead.”

“I would never go to you,“ Jackson spits. Dagur readjusts his hold on Jackson’s hand, and yanks again. His glove twists, and his skin burns- his wrists isn’t sprained, but it’s a near thing, accompanied by stinging, heated pain.

“You will,” Dagur says like the condescending asshole that he is. He drops Jackson, and the teenager skitters away from his hold.

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, then I guess I’ll just have to come to you. Do you think the news channel would be horrified by a man being ripped open on a public street, or do you think, in lieu of an obituary, they’ll publish an article blaming you for dirtying public property?” That smile- it’s going to crawl it’s way through Jack’s nightmares like the haunting, damning thing he knows it for. “I doubt anyone would even mourn.”

Jackson’s breath is hitched, his wrecked hand cradled to his heaving chest. Dagur laughs once more, a victorious sound, before taking off into the darkening city, leaving Jackson to the approaching sound of police sirens, the judging eyes of surrounding civilians, and a growing, cancerous dread.

The injury in his hands had vanished quickly, but Dagur’s promise stayed with Jackson. He tried to ignore it, but there was something unsettling about Dagur, more so than any bullies, or criminals, or even super-villains that Jackson faced before. The deranged man is a different breed of villain. He rattles Jackson; it doesn’t matter how hard Jackson tries to ignore it, the man always manages to crawl under his skin.

But, over a week later, when Jackson flips past Oswald Tower and his spider-sense blares to life, Jackson doesn’t think about Dagur. His senses direct him downward, into a hatched window on the lower floor. His hearing picks up begging, someone crying, and then a choked off scream- and Jackson’s running before he thinks about where he is.

Jackson just wants to help. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

It’s uncomfortable to search out a crime like this. His spider-sense naturally urges Jackson’s body away from danger. To rush against it like this, sprinting further into the winding hallways, having it build louder and louder in his head, makes him uneasy. It’s like the world’s worst game of hotter/colder. Jackson’s colors slowly melts into his surroundings; making him invisible.

It’s late, and Jackson thinks nothing of the hallways being almost entirely abandoned, only a few interns shrieking at the sudden sight of him crawling along their ceiling like something out of a horror movie. He shushes them and points towards the nearest exit that isn’t blocked. They nodded in thanks before rushing past him and he turns invisible once more.

His spider-sense takes him to a closed set of doors. Jackson crawls in the room through the vents. He found two men inside. One is knelt as though in prayer, drenched in blood and shaking visibly. The other- impeccably dressed, all sharp angles and too seeing eyes- smiles before looking up. At his direction. His grin only grows, his head cocks, and when he takes one testing step forward, Jackson’s spider-sense flinches up his neck like a panicked animal and his invisibility falls off.

“Always a surprise,” the man remarks. “Always exceeding my expectations of man’s ability for blind, foolhardy heroism.” The man’s visage flickers before it completely falls and reveals-

“Dagur.” Jackson says through gritted teeth.

“Permafrost!” The man on the ground tries to reach for Jackson. “Help-”

“Oh, shut up.�� Dagur bends down and slams the man’s bleeding head into the floor. Jackson’s spider-sense is a haunting, distracting thing, urging him to run.

“Get away from him,” Jackson says.

The deranged man looks down at the slumped, unmoving man. “Whatever you say, little Angel,” he says, taking a pointed step away, towards Jackson. “He’s just a scientist that out grew his usefulness, anyway.”

“I’m more heroic each time; you’re more vague and creepy each time. We’re a match made in heaven.” Jackson doesn’t leave. He knows Dagur would only take it out on the helpless man on the floor. From the glint of teeth, Jackson guesses Dagur is well aware of the responsibility Jackson has to the unconscious man, too.

“I didn’t even have to enact the second part of my plan. You came straight to me, sought me out through the twisting burrows of my Tower. A dog returning to his master.”

“That’s not very nice,” Jackson says through the building fear. “And after all the effort I made to come visit you…”

The deranged man wearing Oswald’s skin smiles. The click of the reinforced door behind him and the spray of gas shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. The villain straps a gas mask over his smile.

Jackson rushes Dagur. He doesn’t make it to the man before chocking on his breath and collapsing into a pile of weak, useless limbs. Jackson passes out there, goes lax in the bowels of Oswald Tower, spread out at Dagur’s feet.

Jackson comes to with a weight against his throat and heavy limbs. His legs feel like they’ve been dipped in tar, a sticky, moving wetness on his legs and arms. His spider-sense is still with him, screaming incoherently at the base of Jackson’s skull. It gives a rough indicator for just how screwed exactly Jackson is.

He tugs against the wet slime. It shifts, pins him down. He tries again, but the thing doesn’t move and his palm is clenched firmly closed inside it so he can’t frost his way out of this either. It’s like being held down by chains made of molasses.

“Sssssstay,” the Venom-like thing gurgles. His spider-sense shudders down his spine at the sound. Of course, this is why his senses had freaked out; not only was someone in trouble, but a symbiote is involved. They always set Jackson’s spider-sense off, too loud, almost painfully so.

And whatever Dagur’s planning must have been a factor, too. Maybe his spider-sense wasn’t hightlighting the pain the scientist was suffering. Maybe it had sniffed out Dagur’s plan and lit up like a Christmas tree in fright.

“You walked into this one, Jack,” Jackson croaks around the dryness in his throat (how long was he out?). “You idiot.”

“With an IQ so high, you’d think you’d see a trap before you walked blindly into it.” Jackson’s head tips against the tiles to see Dagur, stood above the lain out teenager, looming like a skyscraper over pedestrians. “Hello, Jackson.”

Jackson freezes. Splutters, “I’m- I’m not-”

Dagur holds up his red mask. Jackson realizes, stomach dropping, that his face is bare.

“I’ve known for a while, Jackson,” Dagur says. “A long while.”

“You weren’t good for this city. You’re good for me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jackson says around his panic, “you’re not very good for me. I want to take this relationship back to the shop and get a full refund. The receipt is still in my other tights-”

“Your incessant babbling isn’t as sharp when you’re this panicked. And here I thought you’d be slinging clever puns until the sun burnt out.” Dagur crouches down next to Jackson’s pinned form, grin as slippery as the symbiote holding Jackson in place. He thumbs at a square piece of metal held in one hand. “Maybe I can make you shut up for once. Let’s see, shall we?”

Jackson opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the weight around his throat tightens, buts off his air and his words, before it pulses electric shocks down his nerves. This is different from the familiar sting of the police’s tazer shots aimed at him- this burns. It scorches. Jackson doesn’t have enough air to scream.

Jackson feels floaty. Distant. When he come back to himself, his chest is heaving. Fingers card through his sweat damp hair.

“You shouldn’t wear that mask,” Dagur admonishes. “It’s too nice, seeing your face. Do you have any idea what you look like when I do this?” He presses at the remote and Jackson is lost beneath another wave of encompassing, red hot pain.

“Bet- bet I still don’t look as ugly as you,” Jackson pants when the sensation ebbs. Dagur’s right- his jokes aren’t as good.

Dagur ignores that. “I’ll tell you; you’re pale. Your eyes roll back in your head, leaving only bloodshot white, and your mouth slips open.” The fingers drift from his hair to trace Jackson’s cracked lips, pressing in. Jackson tastes his fingers on his tongue. He tries to bite him, but Dagur retracts his hand too quickly. “Your whole body convulses…”

“If that hand drifts any lower, Dagur, I really will bite it off.”

Dagur laughs and plucks his hand from Jackson’s clavicle. “You’re lovely, like this.”

“Gross,” Jackson says. “You’re so, so-”

Dagur presses down on the remote. Jackson throws his head back with all his strength. His cranium bangs loudly against the hard floor. But he barely notices the tingling pain or the blood pooling there. He won’t notice the concussion until later.

It continues like that. Dagur leans in, brushes his fingertips over Jackson’s panting, sweating face, looming over the wreck of a teenager and grinning like he wants to devour him whole. The remote is twisted, the collar tightens in warning and then-

Jackson tries fighting, but he feels like he’s underwater. The symbiote holds him down. So, too, does the shocking, sporadic pain and the piercing weight of Dagur’s eyes.

“I made you this way,” Dagur whispers as Jackson gasps for air, shaking violently under the billionaire’s hand. “I made you what you are. I own the spider serum, I own you; my collar belongs around your throat.” The symbiote gurgles. It moves, crawls like a seaworm, like it’s fidgeting. Dagur laughs at the sight, “Your brother is jealous of my affection, Jack, you should be grateful.”

It’s not Dagur’s sugary words that make the half-formed symbiote anxious. It’s the collar. Each flick o Dagur’s thumb on the trigger makes the symbiote skitter along Jackson. He didn’t pick it up in the beginning, too blinded by the waves of pain that swept over him, but after a while, after even Dagur has grown impatient with this method of torture, Jackson is numb enough to recognize the symbiote’s fear. It stays away from where his nerves are the thickest- his feet, his fingertips, the inner curve of his thighs (places that, unfortunately, Dagur is not afraid of touching).

Jackson remembers; Venom had been frightened of pulsing waves of sound, like Church bells. Electricity- this one doesn’t like electricity.

Jackson upper body surges like he’s going to attack Dagur, and the villain reacts instinctively, thumbs slamming down on the collar’s remote trigger. It tightens in warning, leaving him breathless, and Jackson twists on his side. Rather than going lax, surrendering to the inevitable rush of pain, he curls and presses his lips to the writhing, black mass pinning down his arms. When the bundles of nerves beneath his skin flood with electricity, the symbiote screams with Jackson.

It’s just enough. The symbiote flinches off of him and Jack rolls, shuddering with the aftershocks, and punches the shock off of Dagur’s face. As the two monsters recover, Jackson skitters across the lab floor. His free hand reaches up and freezes the collar before crushing it. The bulky metal cracks and energy crackles inside the ice but didn’t fully reach Jackson. It hurts, burns like spitting oil, but it’s nothing like before.

Dagur roars behind his teeth, one hand pressed against his broken nose, spurting blood against his fingers. Jackson smiles victoriously, feeling a little feral.

Take that, Dagster. Jack, 1. Dagur…probably more than 1, come to think of it-

The symbiote is still squirming, but makes no move towards Jackson, skittering away from it’s master’s hands.

I kissed the symbiote, Jack thinks, staring at it. I kissed Venom’s less developed cousin.

And Dagur, Dagur- his eyes are dark and wild. He runs at Jackson and he sees a flash of metal, a loud warning from his spider-sense, before the much taller man barrels into him.

They tumble to the ground, Jackson beneath Dagur. He’s burnt out and exhausted, his collar still spitting toned-down shocks of electricity through his fried nerves at random intervals. Dagur’s teeth are red. His blood drips from his nose and wets Jackson’s maskless face.

He hasn’t don his villain’s suit yet, but he’s still the very picture of Jackson’s nightmares.

Dagur’s elbow digs into Jackson’s chest. It hurts. It pins him. Jackson makes a grab for it, but his spider-sense screams, and Dagur shoves a knife between Jackson’s ribs.

“There it is,” Dagur pants, his blood splashing onto Jackson’s wet cheeks. Some of it gets into the teenager’s open, screaming mouth. It doesn’t taste coppery; all Jackson can taste is pain. “That open, lovely expression. I don’t even need this.” He fiddles with the collar, but snatches his hand back when it splutters and chocks both him and Jackson.

Jackson grapples with Dagur, knife still embedded in his side. Dagur blocks easily enough. Jackson’s strong, but clumsy with pain. The deranged man is still not wearing his gears, but coherent and running on the high of victory.

Dagur grabs his hand and twists. Jackson feels something crack, and Dagur drinks in Jackson’s scrunched expression and breathy cry of pain.

“This wasn’t the type of father-son bonding I was picturing,” Jackson says through his teeth, because he has to, because the other opinion is to scream or cry, giving Dagur what he wants. “I thought- I thought we were going to go fishing, maybe watch some baseball, play catch out the front-”

Dagur punches him across the face, fist closed. Jackson knows how to take a punch.

“You need to watch more American family films, dude, because this? This is not how adults interact with teenagers. There’s a severe lack of baseball mitts and nicknames like ‘sport’ and ‘sonny’-” Dagur hits him again, harder. His lip splits open, and Jack swallows a mouthful of blood and spit. He slants a glare up at his villain. “You’re kind of an asshole, I ever tell you that, Dag-fart? Ha- oh my god, Dag-fart the Deranged, that’s my new name for-!”

Broad hands wrap around Jackson’s neck, ignoring the metal collar and squeezing. Jackson squirms against the chokehold, he tugs at Dagur’s hands and promptly spread frosts along his forearms but strangely enough, he didn’t budge. Even as skin seems to darken in blue at the beginning of a frostbite, Dagur’s sharp-nailed fingers dig into the soft column of his throat. He splutters up at Dagur’s face- purpled in rage, eyes wild, grin as manic as ever- and tries to form words.

“I prefer you quiet,” Dagur tells him. His grip tightens. Jackson’s fingers scramble at the tiles, at Dagur’s hands, desperate for air. “Ah, I think I like this face even more than the last one. You’re so beautiful, desperate. Dying under my hands…”

Dag-fart, Jackson thinks through the airless haze. Dag-fart.

Dagur relaxes his grip enough for Jackson to take in rattling, shallow gasps. His lungs burn. Dagur’s hands go soft, his spread fingers rubbing circles along Jackson’s shaking throat. This deceptive gentleness is sickening.

Their faces are inches apart. Less than. They’re breathing in each other’s air, and Dagur can feel the violent trembling of Jackson’s body, can feel how warm the blood beginning to seep from his stab wound is. That, after everything that has happened today, is what pushes Jackson over the edge.

His legs snap out and he kicks Dagur off of him with all the strength of a bucking, enraged horse. The billionaire’s ribs crack with the force. Jackson yanks the knife out. He resists the urge to curl around the injury or spend any more precious seconds tearing at the collar that keeps spitting electricity. With adrenaline thrumming through his blood, he clambers up and makes for the door. Dagur is still curled on the floor on the other side of the room. The symbiote lays still, as harmless as spilled out, spoiled milk.

Jackson hastily activates his invisibility and limps out of the door and down the long, dark corridors as fast as he can with a bleeding side and a malfunctioning collar.

Dagur isn’t down for long; Jackson can hear the man’s chocked off shouts of rage through the walls. He limps faster, puffing little breathy gasps with each jarring step.

His torso feels soaked through with the blood even as he iced his bleeding side. Wall crawling may be faster and give him the rare higher ground on his too-tall enemy, but it’d paint a path to Jackson. Dagur would just have to follow the dripping, bloodied handprints along the wall to find him.

No. Walk-limping would have to do.

“JACKSON!” He hears the shout muffled through the wall. Dag-fart sounds pained. Good.

Jackson’s been hurt as Jack Frost before. Concussions, jarred fingers and sprained ankles, bullet wounds to the thigh, even a stab wound or two. But there’s something different about this- something that’s visceral and real. Too raw, too much. This, limping through evacuated, empty halls, nerves burnt out and a head wound beginning to make itself known, a concussion pressing nauseous into his throat and blurring the edges of his vision, frostbite beginning to take place on his badly bleeding side, the echo of Dagur’s manic voice ringing through the walls-

It’s too much. Jackson clenches his mouth shut, teeth trapping any noise he might make, and breathes raggedly through his nose. He won’t succumb to the jagged whimpers he can feel in his throat, won’t cry, won’t let panic attack pressing against his ribs take him down.

He has to get out of here.

Dagur is a distinct point; Jackson can just hear his rough pants and the slick-slide sound of his button down and slacks against the villain gears he wears as Dagur the Deranged. Jackson just has to… stay out of his grasp. And find help.

An adult, his mother would say often, driven by worry that her tiny, fresh in his teens, son would think he had to deal with anything awful by himself. She knew he was too selfless. Too stupid to draw attention to his problems. You tell an adult if something bad happens, okay? Promise me, Jackson.

Jackson, tiny and trusting and sick of these too familiar lectures, had nodded his promise. Had sworn it.

Jackson hates the idea that he’s not enough as he is. He hates being told he’s too weak or not capable or should be protected cause he’s 15 years old and still impatiently waiting for a growth spurt. He’s a superhero. His fists are small, but they pack a mighty punch.

But even stupid, stubborn Jackson has to admit that he’s in a bad position here. Fingers clenched tight to his iced stab wound, Jackson relents; his mother was right.

Jackson needs an adult.

He finds the phone in an empty lab a few levels down. Dagur had taken him to the basement levels, floors hidden beneath the concrete ground of the city, buried in the soil. The man assumed that, after escaping, Jackson would’ve limped up. Tried to find his way out into the sunlight.

But Jackson’s seen enough animal documentaries. He knows about the feral, sharp toothed predators that wounded their prey and then stalk it down, waiting for it to slow, to eventually succumb to their injuries, before capturing and devouring it. He’s not going to crawl and get inches from safety, only to have Dagur snatch him back up.

So Jackson winds his way down to even lower levels. It buys him time.

The scientists usually manning these labs must have been told to abandon them in a hurry. Bags are still left at workstations. There’s no one here to stop him from rifling through their belongings until he finds a phone without a passcode to crack.

With shaking, wet fingers, Jackson dials the closest hero. The one that had- after snapping at him for going out, young and untrained- reluctantly handed over a phone number. Not a name, not an address; a phone number. For emergencies.

It’s one of the few numbers Jackson has memorized, outside of his mother, and his little sister, and a few other dozen friends, and-

“This is Matt Murdock’s phone!”

“Um,” Jackson says. The voice doesn’t sound like Daredevil; it’s too chirpy. “I’m looking for Daredevil…?”

The man on the other end of the line sighs. “Of course you are.”

“Is this the wrong number? Are you, like, his secretary?”

“Sometimes I feel like it.” Jackson has no idea what that means. “How did you get this number?”

“Daredevil gave it to me. We’re…we’re colleagues.”

“Winkwink, nudgenudge colleagues?”

Jackson stares blankly at the lab wall. He’s starting to feel floaty again. Out of body. Like nothing, not even a phone in his hands, not even the warm voice in his ear, is quite real. “I’m a superhero, I’m not sleeping with him or anything. That’s gross.”

“No, no, I got that-” Something shifts in the background. The man murmurs gently, urging someone back to sleep. When he returns, he asks, hushed, “What do you want? Daredevil isn’t available tonight.”

“He needs to be available,” Jackson says through his haze, heart thumping like a frightened animal. His collar shocks him every ten minutes or so, sending out a weak, painful pulse of electricity that makes him jump and lose his train of thought. “I-I need his help. I’m in tr-”

“Foggy?” Someone in the background says, words badly slurred. “Who’s on the phone?”

“No one, buddy!” says this Foggy, this man who acts as Daredevil’s secretary, this man who’s keeping help from Jackson. “Go back to sleep, you’re still too injured. It’s just a prank call.”

“Is that him?” Jackson begs. “I need to- I need-”

“I’m sorry, kid, but running around in spandex can wait. You’re going to have to be patient for a few nights.”

“Wait-” Jackson begins, but Foggy has already hung up. Jackson tries to call again, but the phone rings out. Foggy must’ve turned it off. Figures.

“Okay, Jackson,” Jackson tells himself around the chattering of his teeth (either blood loss or fear, the jury is still out). His lungs feel tight, like they’re stuffed full of cotton wool and there’s no room for his sharp, shallow inhales. “Don’t panic. So Daredevil hired an asshole secretary who won’t take your calls, you’ve faced stuff like this before. Who else do you know? Who else?”

There’s a group. A group, in their gleaming building with their famous name, who Jackson’s been snapchatting and texting, who’s number his scrambled, fried brain remembers.

He lowers himself to the ground, one hand around his bleeding middle, the other dialing quickly. E. Aster Bunnymund answers with a gruff, “Hello?”

“Bunny? It’s-it’s Jack Frost,” Jackson whispers. His mouth is wet and dripping; there’s too much salvia in his mouth like he’s about to throw up.

Bunny laughs on the other end of the line. “Frosty? Is this another prank call? Because, I tell ya, I ain’t gonna fall for it a second time around-”

“Bunny,” Jackson says, “listen, I need the Four’s help with something. Now.”

“Come on, Frostbite. You don’t call, you don’t write- I feel neglected-”

“Bunny!”Jackson’s voice pitches too high, gone crackling with panic. On the other end, Bunny audibly winces. “Sorry. Sorry. I just… I really need your help. Please.”

“Sorry, Jack, but the Four and I are off-world. We’re actually on our way out ta deal with another spacial anomaly thingy. Ye just caught us; we’re going to fly out of the range of Earth’s satellites soon.”

“Talk about a long distance call,” Jackson says idly, almost distantly, as though his heart isn’t trying to fight it’s way past his ribcage. The too wet feeling in his mouth worsens. Maybe he really will throw up, this time. Would that attract Dagur? A loud, retching sign of weakness- blood in the water, calling out to the hungry, hungry sharks.

“Good thing ya didn’t call on yer cell,” Bunny agrees. He laughs again. Jackson doesn’t laugh with him. “It’d be phone bill out of this world.”

“Do you know a phone number that will get me into contact with the other Guardians?” Bunny hums, doubtful, and Jackson begs, “Does North know? Does he have Ombric’s phone number? Someone else, even- any unknown vigilante currently living in this city?”

“No and no to da last two, I think.” Bunny leaves the call briefly. Jackson can hear him talking to the others briefly. There’s a click over the line and the telltale crackle as Jackson is put on speaker phone.

“Jack Frost!” North greets joviantly. “What’s the problem? Is it something we can advise you on? If it’s a strategic battle I could walk you through-”

”No, no.” Jackson chokes on the words, around the congested, panicked feeling building in his chest. “I need actual physical help. I need the cavalry, North.”

“We’re pretty far from being able to help, Frostbite.” Bunny’s voice is light, on the edge of a joke. It makes Jackson feel like crying.

“Do you know how I can contact the other Guardians? Or a- a superhero helpline, maybe?”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but my superhero contacts are all saved in the Workshop servers on Earth. There’s nothing I can give you-” North says.

“Nothing?” Jackson asks. Beneath his mask, tears drip down his nose. He didn’t cry when Dagur loomed over him and made him shake and whispered awful, awful promises, but this? Knowing how well and truly alone he is? It’s choking. A hysterical, knife-edged sob crawls it’s way out of Jackson’s throat without his consent.

“Frosty?!” Bunny’s voice is back. Jackson bites at his bottom lip, and curls up tighter around his knees, and presses the phone closer, like he can climb into the screen if he tries hard enough. “Are you- are you crying?”

“Jack, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” That’s Toothiana. Her voice is hard with worry.

“Blyat,” North says, panicked. Jackson is growing numb and distant and cloudy, the way he does when a panic attack is really brewing, thick and heavy, in his chest. “Is he-”

“I’m on my own, then,” Jackson cuts North off. His words are shaky and strained; concussions are awful things, especially when coupled with blood loss. Jackson swallows thickly. “It’s- alright. It’s alright.”

“Frosty!” Bunny says. “Snowflake, wait a second-”

Jackson hangs up.

The phone rings almost immediately. He silences it by denying the call, but it rings again moments later. It doesn’t even occur to Jackson to turn the thing off. He picks it up and crushes it between shaking fingers. It doesn’t ring after that, scattered as it is in warped, useless parts.

“It’s going to be alright,” Jackson says, just once more, and gets to his feet.

Jackson realizes, belatedly, that he should have used that phone to call his mother and little sister. He really may not make it out of this, not if Dagur catches him. A phone call to apologize and say goodbye would have been nice. Then again, the sound of both of their voices may have made him break down for real, and Jackson can’t afford that right now.

The pain is distracting, but the accompanying immovability is what makes Jackson grit his teeth. His whole body feels stiff. He can’t limp away from this. He can’t jump from a window and flips his way to freedom.

The collar goes off again. Jackson freezes the damn thing again and ignores it. He doesn’t have the time or coherency to pull the thing apart.

The blood running thick and slippery over his shaking fingers is alarming. Like a red flag, it shouts Jackson’s own stupidity back at him. He shouldn’t have gotten caught. He should have fought harder. Been faster. Shouldn’t have even gotten out of bed that morning-

Dagur is back.

A door opens and shuts a few hallways over. Dagur’s wearing an expensive grey suit, but beneath it, hidden from prying eyes, is the synthetic gears of his villain outfit. The same way Jackson’s suit is usually tucked away beneath hoodies and t-shirts.

Daredevil’s secretary may have denied him, but Jackson’s still grateful for the hours the older man had spent helping Jackson hone his advanced senses. He can hear the slick-slide of the deranged man’s suit against slacks as loud as a warning bell.

Daredevil may not know it, but he just saved Jackson’s life. Even if it may not matter, in the end.

Jackson immediately activates his invisibility again and wedges himself into a maintenance closet, and holds his breath, and silently begs Dagur doesn’t find him.

He doesn’t- the slick-slide of fabric passes Jackson’s hiding place and disappears further down the corridor. Jackson hasn’t stopped to hide yet, so Dagur has no reason to check all the rooms. He knows that will change the longer he evades the older man. Soon, Dagur’s going to stumble over him, and Jackson’s going to be in no condition to run or fight him off.

But, for now, Jackson shuffles further against the wall, curls into an impossibly small ball, and , with hands smothering his loud breaths, lets his looming panic attack finally crash over him.

The slick-side sound returns. Jackson is exhausted in the aftermath of a panic attack, the vinyl beneath him a sticky red, showing off his blood loss. There’s no air vents in the closet, no hidden nooks for him to disappear into. When Dagur inevitably finds him, he’ll-

“I don’t care how many laws it breaks, scan the corridor. Find whatever experiment Dagur is doing down here.” The voice isn’t Dagur. It’s warmer, a part of him thinks. It doesn’t send shivers down Jackson’s spine. “Who cares about lead lined walls? What are you, Superman? Oh, come on, Fishlegs, you’ve trained better than that-”

An intruder, Jackson thinks. Dagur’s enemy. An ally, in a nearby corridor, starting to wander away from Jackson and his hiding place.

Jackson clambers to his feet and stumbles into the hallway before he can stop himself. His spider-sense has been active since he first burst into the building, and it’s still simmering on low. A reminder that something is coming, that danger looms on Jackson’s horizon. But it doesn’t raise it’s warnings when Jackson started towards the voice,

“Wait!” Jackson blurts. The slick-slide sound fades out. For the first time today, Jackson desperately wants it to come closer.

Jackson hobbles after the voice. The stiffness in his legs is worse after sitting still for so long. His torso flares with old, inhibiting pain with every hurried step. His head lolls, too heavy. Jackson’s fighting through mud, not air, limping after the one person who might actually be able to help him.

The ache in his legs finally, finally gets to him; Jackson stumbles and falls. Shaking tremors work up his body, so violent Jackson has to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. He can’t stand. He should at least be able to sit. The cream wall behind him is smeared with red handprints, where his messy hands struggled to keep him upright.

“Wait. That’s- that’s not right.” The voice, that deep nasally voice- Jackson chokes on the hot lump in his throat. “There shouldn’t be any heat signatures. All the workers were evacuated from this part of the building, and it’s too small and bright to be a fully grown-”

The slick-slide of fabric. Fat, brisk steps. The faint whir of a machine working overtime. A tall young man rounds the corner and freezes, eyes blown wide. He flinches violently back at the sight of bloodied spandex and folded limbs.

“Help,” Jackson slurs. He thought the shaking would abate if he found another ally, but it doesn’t. It worsens. He’s too overstimulated. The shock is like a dam, blocking any relief and putting hot, prickling tears in his eyes.

The man sprints the few meters between him and Jackson. The slick-slide sound is so loud- why does this stranger sound like Dagur? The intruder’s suit is somewhat bulky yet light. Maybe- maybe it’s another kind of undersuit? Something he wears under there like an armor? Or maybe-

“Hey,” The man says, and he sounds panicked. “Hey, can you hear me?” Jackson hums, yes. He tries to nod his head, but it flops, rolls to the side, and doesn’t co-operate. “What happened?”

“Dagur. Turns out, he was right.” An arm snakes around Jackson’s neck, and the taller man tugs him closer. Jackson’s wet, ruined face presses against the man’s suit jacket. “No- no- I’m too dirty-”

“I don’t care,” The man says. The taller man is vehement, oddly so. He presses gentle fingers over the bulky collar, with it’s warped pieces sitting snug against the base of Jackson’s throat, finger-shaped bruises blooming on skin beneath it. “Oh, my gods…”

Jackson’s ruined fingers latch onto the man’s shirt. He doesn’t feel safe yet, but the guy is warm. He’s not hurting him. He’s an anchor to Jackson, who’s been floating and lost all day.

“Did you come for me?” Jackson chokes. Maybe the Big Four had managed to call someone under the Guardians before being out of the Earth’s satellites. He didn’t think anyone was coming. He didn’t think he was allowed this kind of help.

The guy hesitates for a long moment. “No,” He admits, and Jackson swallows, “I’ve been suspicious of Dagur for a long time. I knew he was up to something, and I’d been in his servers, so when I got the report that he had his basement levels evacuated without reason, I snuck in.”

“Sorry. No big conspiracy. ‘s just me.” Jackson’s fingers slip from the man’s button up. He feels less like he’s going to hyperventilate again, less stressed, just this heavy, empty kind of tiredness. “I’m a pretty sucky Christmas present, I know. You wasted your time for nothing.”

The man doesn’t let Jackson go, though. He holds on, even as Jackson’s thoughts haze over, body going loose. “Stay with me,” The guy whispers against his bloody forehead. “I’m going to get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do.”

Concussions really do suck. Or maybe it’s the extended exposure to electric shocks; that cant be good for the human body. Or maybe it’s the knife wound, or blood loss, or good old fashioned shock that’s sending Jackson in and out of awareness, everything blurry and distant. He tries to grab hold of his surroundings and pull himself into coherency, but his body won’t co-operate. For the first time in a while, his spider-sense is quiet. His body takes that as a sign to shut off.

Jackson barely registers that he’s being carried. He barely hears the sound of a vehicle door opening before he’s slid onto leather seats.

Someone sucks in a sharp gasp. “Gods, what happened to him? Is that a collar?!”

Jackson’s head lolls. He squints up at a blonde young woman, peering over the front seat at him. “Dag-fart,” he informs her, seriously.

The man’s surprised bark of laughter is nice. The other woman smiles, but the edges are wrong; she’s too sad for it to be real. “Heroes are really all the same, huh?” she says.

“Yup,” The guy says with delight. “Dag-fart. Oh, that is too good. Remind me to change his name to that in absolutely everything.”

“I’m surprised Dagur let you leave, Hiccup-”

“He didn’t, Astrid. I had Fishlegs map us a path back up to you so that we avoided the snake. I’m not sure he would have let me leave with him, and I couldn’t risk fighting Dagur. Jack Frost needs help too badly.”

“How long did he have him?” Astrid asks. She doesn’t sound very happy, Jackson notes.

“I don’t know,” Hiccup says with a choked tone Jackson’s soupy, useless mind can’t quite understand. “I didn’t even know he was missing. He didn’t even call for help-”

“I did,” Jackson says. He’s half-guessing that they’re talking about him, but he needs them to know that he’s not this useless. He can tie his own shoes, fight his own baddies, and knows when to call for reinforcements when necessary. Even if he doesn’t have any reinforcements available to him just yet. The concept of real, dependable allies- outside the sudden, accidental appearance of this stranger, who’s assistance is born from moral responsibility rather than anything more tangible, like friendship- is still foreign. An unlockable feature Jackson hasn’t gotten to yet.

“Daredevil’s secretary is bad at his job,” Jackson slurs up at the man.

“Yeah, you’re definitely concussed there, Frost. Take it easy.”

Jackson squirms in his seat. “Thought I was- was going to die,” he admits, and then frowns. “Don’t let Dag-fart get my comic books, ‘kay?”

“Your comic books are safe,” Hiccup reassures. To the blonde young woman, he says, “Fly us home.”

“Got it,” says the woman, accompanied by the soft thrum of a powerful engine as they rocket away from Oswald Tower and the monster stalking it’s halls.

Hiccup lets Jackson go limp against him. His stab wound drips onto expensive leather, and he’s wetting the guy’s fancy suit, and he’s probably a bony, uncomfortable weight on the guy, their relationship not close enough for this easy contact, but the guy doesn’t push him off, just gathers him closer. And when fingers card through Jackson’s damp hair, he leans into the touch, relaxes, and doesn’t think about the monster hidden beneath Dagur’s skin.

#jackson overland #jack frost #Hijack #hiccup haddock #superhero!au #yep #as u guessed it #it's mostly copied and pasted #i swear i just wanna share my vision and happiness #hoad's drabbles #hoad's fics

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fabllama02 · 5 years ago

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[ a concept where the dragon riders are a group of elites that are globally known. some are assassins, business people, noteworthy icons of some type. i have decided to make Hiccup the son of a CEO, building his own inventions and stuff that surprised the world. Jackson is a normal city boi with a demanding lifestyle, trying to help his family’s shortage in money. Jackson met them all in college, he is one of their dorm mates. they all grew fond of having him around and already considered him a part of their group. he also happens to have a job working in Hiccup’s father’s company, making it available for them all to see him often. Jack is a smart boi but he in a poor family. blablabla- HERE WE GO!]

The bell above the door jingled as it was pushed open. The restaurant inside was small - tables cluttered together, the walls damp and the air heavy - and empty, no customers so late into the night. Still, the newcomers crowded the front entrance.

The waiter before them stared, glasses slipping down his nose, before narrowing his golden amber eyes. “Get the heck out.”

“’Heck’”, Tuffnut said, eyeing Jackson’s attire with raised brows. “Wow. And look at your little waiter get up! Isn’t he adorable?”

“The cutest,” Heather agreed.

“Out,” Jackson repeated, as he tried to bustle his gathered friends out the door with sweeping hand gestures. They were broader and taller than him - Snotlout wearing his discreet lifts - and refused to be budged.

Snotlout looked at Jackson with raised eyebrows, his smile like a shark’s. “You’re going to throw out paying customers? For shame, Frosty.”

“Peri?” Jackson tried weakly, turning to the only responsible person among the group.

“Sorry, Jackson,” Periwinkle said, offering an apologetic smile. She was dressed in a pristine blazer and pencil skirt, her heels towering, an Ipad tucked under her arm. She stood out against the greying walls of the rundown restaurant.

“Please?” Jackson asked, glancing backward at the kitchen. “ My manager’s going to come back any moment and flip the heck out.”

“Adorable,” Ruffnut repeated his twin.

“Who says we’re here for you, you narcissist?” Snotlout said, and pointedly ignored the knowing looks everyone shot him. “Maybe we just want to eat here. Just because we’re you’re friends doesn’t mean you get to throw us out. Don’t discriminate.”

Jackson gave him a flat look. “This place is a dump, and you lived in an ivory tower with shimmering glasses, Snothat.”

Snotlout snapped his finger, pointing at Jackson. “See? Discrimination!”

“We’re here to help,” Hiccup interrupted. “Honestly, Jack. Nothing funny.”

Jackson’s eyes went a little wide, realisation a punch to the gut. “This is a flipping recruitment drive, isn’t it…?”

They smiled at him - Snotlout with a promising smirk, Hiccup tight-lipped and apologetic for what was about to happen - but before they could answer, the door to the kitchen swung open, and Jackson’s boss strode out.

“Jackson,” his manager snapped, scrubbing a hand through his thinning hair. The man always became more irritated in the late hours of the night. “Don’t just fucking stand there looking pretty. If we ain’t got customers, take your pert ass outisde and wash some fucking dishes -”

“Sorry, Mr. Walter,” Jackson said dully. He was exhausted - this was his second shift of the day, the other at his first job at the daycare - and powerless in this situation. He knew from experience he couldn’t reply to his boss without being threatened with unemployment.

Walter stopped mid-step, beady eyes blown wide. The very recognizable group of people, crowded in the doorway of their empty, dirty restaurant, stared back at him. Hiccup’s jaw tightened, and Astrid was frowning at Walter. Periwinkle had pulled out her Ipad, and was tapping at it, fingers flying, wearing an expression like cold steel.

Heather grinned, her smile sharp, and waved at the manager. “Good evening.”

Walter made a strangled sound.

“Sorry, sir,” Jackson said again. “They were just leaving-”

“Come on now Jack,” Hiccup said, stepping forward. Before, he’d stood at the back, and appeared as though he was only there to keep an eye on his friends’ schemes. Now, gaze fixed on Jackson’s boss, Hiccup was stepping into a more active role. “There’s no need for that.” His frown dropped into a soft and comforting smile when looking at Jackson; an attempt at reassurance. “We’d just like a good sit down meal.”

Walter seemed to shake himself, before positively beaming.

“Mr. Haddock, of course, anything for our VIPs,” he simpered. He motioned the group towards the largest table in the restaurant, bodily shoving Jackson out of the way as he went. “I’m sorry about my waiter, he’s a little slow. Very incompetent.”

Jackson stumbled back, blinking wide eyes. His manager was larger than him, portly with broad shoulders and wide hands. Jackson often had to let the older man push him around. Fishlegs shot him a sympathetic look.

The group took their seats at the long table. Walter pulled Heather’s seat out for her, and she managed a passable smile as she sat down.

Walter clapped his hands together, teeth bared in a smile, and continued, “It’s such a privilege to have our note-worthy city icons in my restaurant. We’re all big fans, big fans - aren’t we, Jackson?”

“Oh,” Jackson said. Tuffnut, perched in the closest seat, tipped his head back and smirked up at him. “Oh y-yeah. I’m a big fan of them. The biggest.”

Tuffnut’s smirk grew wider. Jackson fought to keep his features professional blank. The manager ignored Jackson’s stumbled words, and rushed towards the kitchen to talk to the cook.

“Hand out the menus,” Walter ordered, pointing a stubby, threatening finger at Jackson, “and take their orders. Whatever they want, they can have, got it?”

“But-”

Walter stopped. He retracted his steps, until he was inches away from Jackson’s tense form. “You screw this up, and you’re fucking fired, you hear me?” It was obvious Walter was trying to keep his voice down, but the people sat nearby were trained asassins and business-people trained to hear the whispered threats of those around them. It was obvious they heard Walter by the way their hands balled into taunt fists, lips dipping into frowns.

Jackson exhaled roughly, and nodded. His cheeks were burning. “Yessir.”

“Good. I know you’re usually useless, but try for once not to be the colossal fuck-up that you are. Get this fucking right.”

With that, Walter disappeared into the kitchen. Jackson was left in the middle of the restaurant in faded jeans and canvas shoes full of holes, a faded apron tied around his waist. His friends sat behind him, staring at him. He felt cut open, exposed; his friends only ever saw Jackson in his ever present bright smiles and cheery laughter. They never saw the small, real-life version of Jackson Overland.

Jackson took a deep, grounding breath. He swallowed down his humiliation and collected the stack of paper menus.

“Welcome to the J&K’s Grill,” Jackson said. He focused on handing out the menus and keeping his tone flat. His hands sometimes shook when he was anxious. He didn’t need that to happen now; he was humiliated enough as it was. “Tonight’s specials are a pork roast with potatoes, or a pasta-”

Fishlegs snagged his sleeve as Jackson began to draw back, stilling the younger man. “Jackson,” Fishlegs said.

Jackson shook out of his friend’s grip, and stepped back, suddenly exhausted. “Why are you guys-” He cut himself off with a frustrated huff, scrubbing a hand through his messy mop of brown hair. “Can you guys just - just please leave?”

No dice, apparently. Tuffnut and Ruffnut didn’t so much as blink. Astrid folded her arms, face disapproving, a pose often dug out when Astrid was talking with an especially frustrating reporters and members of the public. Snotlout was staring at the kitchen’s closed door with unrepentant disgust.

“What a complete-” Snotlout began. He made another gesture towards the kitchen, lip curled.

“Agreed,” Heather said.

“Fishlegs,” is all Hiccup said, his eyes narrowed.

“Fired, arrested, or funds depleted?” Fishlegs asked, looking through the Ipad Periwinkle had handed over to him. “ I can have his possessions seized, as well. He seems to enjoy tax evasion-”

“What if I dropped him off a really, really tall building,” Snotlout said. “The corpse would be unrecognisable. Just a smear on the sidewalk.”

Astrid made a soft, considering ‘hmm’ sound. At Snotlout’s words, Tuffnut and Ruffnut turned to one another, twin smirks blooming.

“No,” Jackson said. His voice was firmer than he felt.

“If he lost his job and all of his funds,” Heather said, “he’d have a motive to jump, police won’t even look twice-”

“Oh, my GOD,” Jackson said, throwing the remaining paper menus on the table. He frowned at the group. They didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “You aren’t killing my boss. What the heck? Some of you are role models! Your faces are plastered on national TV, can you please stop discussing murder casually around the dinner table?”

Half of them opened their mouths to rebuke him, but Walter chose that moment to reappear from the kitchens, overly polite smile stretched across his face.

“How are my favourite customers, huh? Jackson, you taken their orders yet?”

“Not yet, sir,” Jackson said.

“Well, you folks are lucky, one of our specials tonight is mushroom pasta. You tell ‘em about the mushroom pasta?” As Walter spoke, he elbowed Jackson in the side several times with especially sharp elbows. “Eh, Jackson?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Well, our mushroom pasta’s the greatest,” Walter told the group. Periwinkle had looked up from her Ipad, and was looking at him with a pinched expression, like he was the most annoying person she’d come across. It was a feeling Jackson could relate to. “Ain’t it, Jackson?”

Internally, Jackson was screaming. Internally, his arms were flung wide open, his head tipped back, and he was shrieking up at the ceiling.

Externally, Jackson said, strained, “I love mushroom pasta.”

That made the group of elites wrestle down knowing grins, hiding laughter behind discreet coughs.

Movie nights had always been a sacred, bonding ritual for them. The dozen or so of them would ambush a poor restaurant and order food from them till they’re out of business (while leaving an outrageously large tip) or - more commonly - raid the industrial fridge for ingredients and proceeds to help Jackson out in the kitchen when he cooks some of the best food this side of the city. Jackson had spent many nights and even mornings leaning heavily on Hiccup, too full to move, dozing off to a low playing movie and the sound of chatting.

It’s some of Jackson’s fondest memories.

However, Jackson was also a young growing teenager with an abnormaly low metabolism and a demanding life style and not enough money. When he was around that much free food, he sometimes overacted. As in, ‘shoveling pizza slices heaped with friend rice and dripping mushroom pasta into his mouth’ overact.

That had made his friends laugh at the time. Now, they smirk a little, remembering how Jackson had looked, sweaty hair mused and dozing off after another attempt at shoveling another plate despite his already full state.

“Of course you do!” Walter laughed, one hand on his meaty belly. His other hands rested on the back of Hiccup’s chair, as the manager grinned at the CEO in supposed solidarity, and said, “I reckon, why pay the help in cash when they’re just as happy with greasy leftovers? It’s probably worth more than their paycheques, anyhow!”

Walter laughed once more, expecting Hiccup - a man firmly within the 1% - to laugh with him. Hiccup managed a forced kind of chuckle. At his side, Astrid was cracking the edge of the table with her white knuckled grip.

“You folks enjoy the food,” Walter told them, cheeks flushed with mirth. He clapped Hiccup’s chair once for good measure, nudged Jackson with clumsy strenght, and retreated once more to the kitchen. “Ask Jackson for anything you need! Ha, it’s the only thing he’s good for, anywho!”

In the ensuing silence, all eyes gravitated once more to Jackson.

“Now can you all leave? Now that you’re gotten your fill of humiliating me.”

“Jackson,” Periwinkle said softly, “you don’t have to work here.”

“She’s right, you’ve already worked so many jobs, I already saw you this afternoon working in a cafe,” Hiccup chimed in. Jackson looked away promptly, fighting against the flutter in his chest. This was the man who had taken over his father’s position as the CEO and single-handedly won the world’s attention with his latest inventions. This man is also, currently, his boyfriend and the love of his life. Jackson didn’t want to be a burden and ask Hiccup for some money to help him pay bills that he could probably do so himself. He wanted to be able to help his own family proudly. “You should be going to an ivory league university at the very least. And don’t try and tell me you can’t afford it - I’ve seen your grades. You could win a scholarship easily.”

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t have the time,” he said, voice unenthusiastic and heavy with fatigue. This was a topic he’d discussed with himself before, mostly in the dark of the night, when he stumbled home to his waiting mom in the living room. Waiting with a tired smile and a cup of hot chocolate, informing that his little sister had waited past her bedtime and is sleeping upstairs. His exhaustion was pressing and he had work in mere hours. When Jackson felt like he was more tiredness than person.

It was Astrid that leant forward. “You don’t have to spend so much time in my uncle’s vet helping the animals on top of being in the day care, caring for the kids. We’re more than willing to help set out some sort of roster so you don’t have to be in there 24/7-”

“What?” Jackson said. “Are you crazy? I’m not there 24/7. No one could be. I don’t have time because I work three jobs on top of looking after my family.”

There was silence along the table. Snotlout’s eyebrows rose. “Why the hell would you-?”

“Because I’m not a billionaire, and I have my own rent and my mom’s mortgage and her medical bills. Car repairs, electricity, food - it all adds up.”

Jackson straightened. The cuffs of his jeans ended above his ankles, and the hem of his over-the-thumb sleeves were fraying, but his stance was proud. He’d struggled, had to work himself into an exhausted state, to keep a roof above their heads. Sure, sometimes that meant working until he couldn’t see straight, or use his entire paycheque to pay bills and have to resort to living on buttered bread and too many glasses of water for the rest of the week…

But, Jackson was proud of his hard work. He doesn’t have to be a member of an elite, globally renown group of people to be proud of the life he’s built up for himself.

Snotlout opened his mouth to reply, but Heather kicked him under the table. The man yelped, shooting the woman a betrayed look, as Astrid smoothly cut in, “We know, you do what you have to survive. That’s admirable, Jackson.”

“You don’t have to do all this,” Periwinkle said, gesturing at the grimy restaurant, the grease stained apron tied around Jackson’s waist, the faded paper menus. “As our fellow co-worker and honorary member, you’d be able to spend your time doing something worthwhile.”

“We have health insurance, too,” Hiccup said. “And dental.”

Jackson laughed, the sound quiet, a little raw. “I’ve never had dental before.”

A startlingly familiar mischievous smile unfurled on Hiccup’s lips. “We could set your family up somewhere nice, too,” Hiccup planned. “Better health services and security, ooh, you’d move into the tower, I could build a new room for both of us right at the penthouse-”

“W-what?” Jackson stuttered, looking around confused. A bit thrown off.

The others all grinned and rolled their eyes.

“Geez, what a way to ask someone to marry you.” Snotlout huffed with a disappointed shake of his head.

Heather gave him a side-eye. “You asked me to marry you after I beat you at Mario Kart.”

Snotlout nodded, “Valid. And you accepted.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek, “That I did.”

Astrid had to look away with a shudder. “I still can’t believe they’re together. Even if I called it.”

Jackson looked back at an approaching Hiccup, wide eyed and a little flustered. “Hiccup?”

Hiccup gently took Jackson’s hands which was trembling a little bit. He carressed it softly before looking determinedly at livid liquid amber that he had loved so much. “Jackson. I know this isn’t what you expected nor is it probably an appropriate place or timing…”

He sighed, looking away with a heavy blush staining his cheeks, “but I’ve been thinking about it.”

Once more, vivid green eyes meet golden amber eyes. “Ever since I first met you in college, when I was stressing out about my dad’s decision to train me into a CEO for his company and you came into our dorm room as a new roommate with a bright smile and didn’t hesitate to help me out, despite not knowing who I was. Giving me the strenght I needed to accept my new position, unknowingly standing beside me as someone who could bear the brunt; as my equal. Someone who had accepted me for all that I am. Someone who has stayed by my side in all the time that I was lost and unsure, you had been there for me. Ever present and ready to catch me if I ever fall. At some point, I realized… that I’ve fallen in love with you.” Hiccup lifted his left hand and carressed the side of Jackson’s face, catching the tears that are falling as he continued. “I fell in love with you and no one else.”

“So, will you, Jackson Overland, be my forever,” he lifted Jackson’s right hand and kissed it, staring straight at the watery liquid amber with a fond look, “and live the rest of your life with me?”

Jackson, understandably, looked overwhelmed yet his teary expression gave away his euphoric state of mind. “I-I-!” He began before he was cut off.

The kitchen door burst open, and Walter bustled in, a jug of water and ice cubes held in meaty hands. “Who’s hungry, ay?”, Jackson swivelled back at Walter, hands still clutched tightly in Hiccup’s grip.

Walter put the jug aside and busied himself, fiddling with the half melted candles and salt and pepper shakers sat in the middle of the long table. His sweat was beading at his temples, but his too large smile remained as he straightened cutlery at their elbows. Yet, none of them paid the manager any attention.

“Aw man, what timing!” Snotlout huffed angrily, wiping away stray tears. The others all nodded with barely restrained anger. Some wiping away stray tears and some are left with sniffles.

“Jackson, cups!” Walter snapped which the others bristle at.

But Jackson, hands still held tight in Hiccup’s grip, was too stunned to move or process anything. Mind spinning and making him dizzy. The day’s exhaustion starting to eat away his remaining energy and leaving him poofed. Hence, the barely controlled crying.

Walter looked up when his call wasn’t heeded. Seeing the image before him, he narrowed his eyes, undoubtedly thinking the worst of his waiter.

“What’s going on?” Walter demanded, squinting suspiciously. “Is my good-for-nothing waiter annoying you? Jackson, I swear to god-”

Again, they ignored him. Snotlout looked to Jackson, and said, “The tallest building. The biggest. I can lift Fishlegs, it’d be no problem to drag him up there and then just accidentally drop-”

“No, Snotlout,” Jackson said. Looking fairly exhausted yet his smile is wide. His chest feeling warm.

“Jackson?” Hiccup prompted.

“I-” Jackson glanced around at the expectant faces before looking back at intense green eyes. He swallowed, and looked at the floor, embarassed, his smile shy. “I’d like that actually.”

Astrid fully stood up. Walter stumbled back several paces in surprise. “Is that a yes?” asked the blond haired woman.

Jackson swallowed again before looking straight at Hiccup. “It’s a yes.”

A roaring cheer erupted from the group, as they jumped up, swarming around the two. Arms wrapped around him, hands reaching over to ruffle his hair, legs banging into his as Jackson was swallowed up by a nest of excited limbs.

“Guys, guys! Woah!” Jackson stumbled under his friends’ combined happiness, but he was laughing with them, head tipping back to wipe away his tears. “Hard to breathe under all this!”

“Welcome to the family, Jackson,” Snotlout said. He was leaning against Heather, wearing his own proud smirk.

“Finally,” Tuffnut corrected, arm thrown over Jackson’s shoulders. “Finally welcome to the family. Took Hiccup long enough to finally propose.”

“By the way, Stoick’s been waiting for you to finally call him ‘dad’ officially and legally.” Astrid shakes her head.

“He’s been waiting to embrace you into his family since you came into the tower after all of Hiccup’s gushing and love-struck state in his own house. When he was properly introduced to you, I swear, he has stars in his eyes.” Heather agreed.

They all chuckled at that, remembering how Stoick had been. All excited and happy that his son had finally brought someone home. It’s not a secret that Stoick had grown an attachment to the boy ever since he laid his eyes on him.

They were gathered around him in a loose circle, Jackson cocooned in their shared laughter, their boodies pressed against his. He felt breathless under the combined celebratory high. He felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Subsequent responsibility was important, and would always be a vital part of Jackson’s life, but he had reached a point where he was drowning under it. Life would always be a battle to swim upstream, Jackson knew, but if there was a way to make it a little easier, let people into his life, let them carry him a little further, then it wasn’t a crime to let them.

And Hiccup was willing to provide him with a lot of care and support, even if Jackson never wanted to burden him.

A cry interrupted them, “Pursue legal action?! Excuse me? You can’t do that-!”

Jackson came crashing down from his high. Right, his boss. He’d forgotten.

Hiccup and Periwinkle stood in front of the sweaty man, twin glares focused on him.

“For professional misconduct, tax evasion, and the unlawful treatment of your waitstaff, I think I can,” Periwinkle said. Her eyes were like ice.

Jackson wriggled out of his friends’ grip. Walter frowned when he saw him, gesturing at the two before him. “Jackson, tell them I’m a good boss. Tell them how good I am!”

Hiccup stood up and blocked Walter’s view of his beloved. “Leave him alone,” Hiccup growled. Jackson hadn’t heard him sound that angry outside of stare-downs with frustrating business people.

“He’s a good boss,” Jackson agreed. Hiccup’s mouth fell open, surprised, ready to rebuke the younger man, but Jackson just shook his head. “Alright, no, he’s not a good boss, but c’mon, Hiccup. Let’s just - go. Don’t you wanna discuss our wedding plans?”

Jackson was in the process of pulling Hiccup back towards their waiting friends, when Walter snarled, “Wedding plans…! You’re one of those freaks, aren’t you, Jackson? A gay marriage- oh, my god, did you trick Mr. Haddock? What did you do to seduce him- wave your pert ass around-”

Astrid, her eyes like ice, straightened her cream blazer and walked over to Walter. Immediately, she stomped on Walter’s foot with her heel.

Walter leapt back, howling. Heather, as quiet and deadly as she is, appeared right behind him and grabbed his two arms before flinging him over her shoulders with practiced ease.

Walter let out a wail before he was silenced by the two women’s piercing glares.

Hiccup leant against the lip of the long table, casually crossing his legs and surveying the reddening manager before him with a hard look. Like what his father taught him, he began.

“If you want to keep you job, Mr. Walter,” Hiccup said easily, handing out threats like tips, “keep your mouth shut. If you want to ever be employed in the country again, you’ll pretend that we never even stepped foot into this restaurant. If you don’t want all of your funds and possessions to be seized, you’ll forget you ever met a Jackson Overland.”

“You- You can’t just-” Walter spluttered.

“You’ll find that I can,” Hiccup said, “but I’m a fair man. Periwinkle.”

Periwinkle was already typing something into her Ipad. “How’s a quarter of a million, donated anonymously into his accounts?”

Walter’s eyes went wide. Hiccup met his gaze calmly, his eyes like steel, a reminisce to how Stoick dealt with uncooperative business people. “Remember exactly what I just said.”

“Jackson Overland?” Walter said quickly. “Who?”

HIccup snorted; the greed of men had ceased to surprise him. “Good man.”

“I still think we should’ve gone with that tall building,” Tuffnut said, ignoring Jackson’s pointed frown.

Hiccup walked towards them and pulled Jackson to him before intertwining their fingers together. He looked at Jackson tenderly,“Home?”

Jackson smiled softly before standing on his tip-toes to give Hiccup a kiss, “Home.”

#rotg #httyd #Hijack #friendship #i got inspirations from a fav fanfic of mine and totally just copy and pasted most parts cuz i am not a good writer lemme tell ya #but i edited and put my own little spins in it #so i hope u like it #heart of a dragon's soul #hoad's fics

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