#oh well. in the face of adversity. we stay silly !!

[outlying-hyppocrate]

so. guess who was right. about having appendicitis.

[hafanforever]

What is your top three favorite Frozen characters and why? 😊❄️💠💙

Glad someone has finally asked me!

Elsa - I have said before in an ask and in my essay “Heroine Addiction” that the main reason why Elsa is my favorite Frozen character is because I relate to her very well. We have the same personalities as intelligent, analytical, shy, realistic, reserved introverts, and we both have struggled with turmoil in our lives that has caused us to suffer from anxiety, depression, pessimism, and insecurity, sometimes to the point of giving up completely and feeling like hitting rock bottom. Although Meg and Belle are the other two heroines I feel I am like the most, I honestly cannot think of having seriously related to any other preexisting Disney characters before Elsa, so I have essentially found a kindred spirit in her. 😉😊❤️

Despite the turbulence she has endured from her traumatic childhood, through it all, Elsa is always portrayed as an extremely selfless, sacrificial, loving, benevolent person. In the beginning, she carries such a huge burden on her shoulders by having magical powers that no one can really help her master and making her unable to relate to other people. Yet Elsa continuously looks out for everyone else, be it her family, friends, the people in her kingdom, and even innocent strangers, by putting their needs and well-being before her own. I just love Elsa so much for being that way, and I will defend her to the end when people call her selfish and cold, and especially when they say she tried to murder the Duke’s bodyguards in cold blood!

Olaf - I love Olaf because of his excessive benevolence. Since he is the living embodiment of Anna and Elsa’s bond, Olaf embodies love, the ultimate and purest form of goodness. As a result, he has almost every kind of positive trait you can name: he is cheerful, loving, optimistic, gentle, kind, loyal, friendly, sweet, sympathetic, compassionate, and caring to anyone and everyone he meets. Despite his quirks and what flaws he does have, Olaf is essentially devoid of most typical negative traits humans possess. This may be because he has the mindset, including general innocence and naïveté, of a young child, since Elsa and Anna created him when they were children. Like I joked recently, Olaf is so benevolent that he doesn’t have a single bad or mean bone in his body. 😆

Among other things, Olaf is an incredibly funny character, and even his silly giggle never fails to make me laugh. 😉 However, in being the embodiment of the sisters’ love for one another, Olaf’s role in Frozen is far greater than that of the conventional sidekick or comic relief character. Sure, he is there to provide laughs sometimes (a clue to this is that his name phonetically sounds like “oh laugh”), but unlike most Disney sidekicks, he has a bigger purpose in the film than to simply make audiences laugh. Heck, don’t forget that Olaf came to Anna’s rescue by starting a fire before she could completely freeze to death after Hans had locked her in the library. He then comforted her and refused to leave her side, determined to help her find another true love act to save her (even though he knew doing so would make him melt). And finally, Olaf was the one who taught Anna what love really is.

Earlier, Olaf makes the comment, “I like to consider myself a love expert,” and while that initially seems like a joke or mere wisecrack on his part, he proves these words to be true. He correctly tells Anna that “Love is putting someone else’s needs before yours”, and he proves his love for her by staying by her side, even when he begins to melt, and simply says, “Some people are worth melting for.” These words help Anna understand that when you love someone so much, they are so important to you that they worth dying for. Ultimately, Olaf’s words and action are what motivate and inspire Anna to give her life to save Elsa when Hans attempts to murder her sister.

While some viewers and fans may find him annoying, I love Olaf and find him entirely endearing. I know I would love to have him as my best friend, and I would LOVE to give him a big warm hug! 😊❤️

Anna - As an introvert, I am so much like Elsa and almost nothing like Anna, the extrovert, so I think it makes it easier for me to side more with Elsa’s choices and actions over those of Anna, such as when Elsa forces Anna away after the latter stubbornly refuses to accept the former’s decision that they both cannot go to Ahtohallan. However, the main reason I love Anna is similar to why I love Cinderella: she has so much inner strength that allows her to never let the bad bring her down for long or forever. Whenever she faces adversity and negativity, including when she grows up feeling rejected by Elsa, Anna never gives up. She may be the younger sister, but she always looks out for Elsa and is very protective of her, even when they aren’t physically together. Anna’s inner strength allows her to remain kind, loving, loyal, faithful, selfless, optimistic, and hopeful throughout all hardships, and that is EXTREMELY difficult for many people to do when they face more bad things than good in life (like me 😔).

Anna’s optimistic nature makes her complement the realistic nature of both Kristoff and Elsa, and so she brings out the best in them, with Kristoff as her romantic partner and Elsa as her best friend. Since I am a lot like Elsa, and even quite a bit like Kristoff since he is also an introvert, I know an optimist like Anna would be the perfect match for me. 😉

I feel that Olaf would be the perfect best friend of all, but given that he shares a lot of personality traits with Anna, she qualifies as being a perfect best friend, too, especially for introverts like me, Elsa, and Kristoff. 😁😄😉

[aclosetfan]

Lunch Break Blues

The wind whipped Blossom's hair as she tried wrestling it into a top knot. It had been raining on and off all day, and no doubt it would start up again soon, but while the rain had momentarily ceased, she and her sisters took advantage of the rare sunlight pouring through the broken clouds. It was the first lunch in a long week that they took perched atop one of the skyscrapers far from any prying eyes. Usually, a weather report full of rain made Townsville dull and would drive Buttercup crazy, but this week's unprecedented downpour had done little to stop Townsville's villains. Blossom suspected it was because they were feeling a little stir crazy too.

She didn't know what was worse, staying home and doing nothing or flying around soaked to the bone each day. Her hair was a frizzy mess, and she was pretty sure a nasty cold was on the horizon. The rain was such a nuisance that Bubbles had begun to forgo her tennis shoes or steel-toed boots for her daisy-print rain boots. Buttercup had busted out her rain repellant windbreaker. And Blossom had personally opted for her ugly yellow polka-dotted raincoat and matching hat, which yes, she knew looked ridiculous, but she dressed practicably not for fashion. She didn't care who laughed (her sisters and a choice selection of villains); at least she was staying reasonably dry!

The skyscraper they were at was far too windy for her hat to stay on, so she had shoved it in her pocket and went to task on taming her hair. An awful frizzy mess. She pouted and sighed, dropping her hands from her mangled top knot. Generally, the wind did very little to bug her, having the capability to fly and all, but it kept spraying rain droplets and puddles into her face and her hand itched towards her rain cap once more.

A dejected sigh from her left pulled her attention away from her own problems. Glancing over at Bubbles, whose pigtails had gone limp, stabbed absentmindedly at her salad. Her sister took a sad, miserable bite and chewed slowly as she watched the next round of clouds blow in with watery eyes. Bubbles had seemed to be feeling blue (har har) for the last few days, and it wasn't because of the rain. What for though, Blossom didn't know. Bubbles hadn't decided to pour her heart out just yet. However, that didn't deter her from trying to pry the problem out of her sister. Blossom was a problem-solver after all—it was one of her core defining traits.

"Bubs?" She asked with a tilt of her head, "You okay?"

"Oh, Bloss," Bubbles sighed, putting her salad down in favor of ringing out the water from her pigtails, "I'm just feeling a lil crummy. Don't worry."

Blossom snorted, "It'd be easier changing the tide."

That tugged a small smile out of Bubbles.

"Is it the rain?" She asked, already knowing it was the wrong answer.

Bubbles sighed, "No, it's not the rain—it's just, well, it's kind of silly actually."

"I could go for a good joke about now that isn't about my raincoat," Blossom shrugged.

"It's an affront to fashionable society, Blossom," Bubbles sniffed, "You look like a drowned clown!"

"On the outside!" She huffed, "But I'm perfectly dry, thank you, unlike some people."

"I look cute, rain or shine. Jealousy isn't a good color on you." Bubbles blew a raspberry at her before going back to stabbing her salad.

Blossom rolled her eyes and muffled an annoyed groan, "So you're not going to tell us what's up?"

"You'll just tell me it's silly."

The response stung a little, but Blossom shook it off, "Come on, I promise I won't—" she held out her pinky, "—I swear!"

Bubbles regarded her hand for a moment with a thoughtful look before linking their pinkies together. Simultaneously, they lifted their hands and sealed the deal with quick kisses to their fists.

"So," Blossom tried again, "what's up?"

Bubbles sigh was loud and dramatic as she brought one leg up to wrap her arms around, resting a cheek on her knee.

"It's my art," her sister complained, "I wanna make something big, you know, like real profound, but all I ever draw is cute stuff!"

Blossom felt her eyebrows furrow, "But you love cute stuff?"

"Van Gogh didn't get famous for drawing fluffy bunnies, Blossom!" Bubbles whined, "Real artists have really thoughtful ideas! They mean things, and anytime I try to do the same thing, it comes out stupid!"

"Van Gogh drank paint and killed himself. So I don't think he's someone you should be comparing yourself to."

"But he was a genius!"

"He was sick." Blossom counterpointed, "And couldn't find the help he needed. I prefer you sane and alive. Everyone does. The world doesn't need another tortured artist."

Bubbles pouted, "Yeah, but they don't need another goofy doodlist either. I want to make stuff that means something to people."

"They do mean something." She smiled, nudging Bubbles' shoulder with her own, "Your drawings always make me smile. They're happy and fun, and even if they're sometimes silly, that doesn't make them any less valuable to me. That counts for something, right?"

Bubbles smile brightened, and she giggled, "That's really sweet, Bloss, thanks. I think I needed to hear that, but—" there was another dejected sigh, "—I dunno, I just feel so uninspired and bored, and I really want to make a statement. I know there's something great inside me—"

"Because there is."

That earned her another smile, "—yeah, but I can't get it out! It's like all my hand can do is silly cartoons!"

Blossom nodded, "Well, I'm no artist myself, but I'm guessing there's nothing better than practice."

Bubbles flopped back onto the wet concrete, and Blossom cringed in sympathy as she imagined the water soaking its way through Bubbles' shirt.

"Bubs don't lay on—"

"I need to be more introspective!" Bubbles interrupted, "More in tune with myself and nature and the world! I need more life experiences, ya know, so I have stuff I can really pull from when I draw."

Outside of Bubbles probably being the most "self in-tuned" person Blossom knew, it was "life experiences" that threw her the most.

"Bubbles, life experiences? You're a superhero. You face the most depraved of society every day; you met people at their lowest moments. You've faced adversity larger than most will ever dare encounter!"

"But none of that has affected me! I need to get sad! I need to get in touch with my blue period!" Bubbles waved her hands around in exasperation, "I need to be relatable!"

"You've faced the worst and have come out better because of it," She scowled, "and you don't want that? Do you want to be emotionally scarred? To be relatable?"

Bubbles groaned and covered her face with her hands. "I knew you wouldn't get it!" Then came a muffled whine, "This is why I didn't wanna tell you!"

Blossom tsked, "I certainly don't see how being a beacon of hope as opposed to a cesspool of depression and self-pity is worse."

"It's not like that!" Bubbles shot up, "I don't want to be dark and depressed, but that's like what all the great art is!"

"Great art is the art that makes you feel, Bubbles; it doesn't matter what emotion that is, you know that. And if your art makes people feel happy, then what's the big issue?"

Bubbles deflated, "I dunno. I just want to make something that'll make people remember. Centuries from now, I want it to inspire people! Go, oh, I want that! Whatever that is." Bubbles looked up back at the clouds, "And that means I've really got to come up with something good. Something meaningful, but I've got zero ideas."

Blossom considered what she was saying for a moment before nodding, "Okay, I think I understand what you're saying. It's like you're in an art block."

"Yeah," Bubbles nodded, "I'm on creative hold. Everything I make, I don't like."

"Well, this weekend, why don't we go to the art museum, look at the stuff you want to emulate, and try to get into the head of the artist, you know?"

Bubbles perked up, "That's a good idea! You'd really wanna come with me?"

"Of course. We'll drag Buttercup along too. You know she needs some sophisticating." Blossom murmured, shooting their other sister a sideways look.

With the hood of her windbreaker still partially up and wet dripping hair curling in every direction, Buttercup sat perched on the ledge of the building a few feet away, hunched over her sandwich. She chewed mechanically in what looked like deep pensive thought. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she seemed to study the cars far below. She had been mostly quiet this afternoon, happy to be outside but pissy about the rain, and had spent much of their lunch hour shooing away a group of hungry pigeons that seemed to follow her everywhere she went. The pigeons, however, seemed to be appeased at the moment with the few chunks of bread and potato chips Buttercup had relinquished to them.

Blossom expected Buttercup to snap at her for the comment, but it seemed she was so lost in her own little world, watching the cars whiz by, that she hadn't heard them talking.

Bubbles giggled, "Actually, Bloss, I was thinking I needed to be a bit more like Buttercup."

She gave Bubbles a look, jabbing a thumb towards their sister, "Buttercup?"

"Mm-hmm," Bubbles nodded.

"Our sister?" Blossom asked again for clarification, "Buttercup?"

"Ah, come on! Look at her!" Bubbles grabbed her by the cheeks and swiveled her head back towards Buttercup, "She's got the look down."

"What look?" Blossom asked, but because her cheeks were being squished, it came out like, "Wa'ok?" Bubbles understood her regardless.

"That dark, introspective look." Bubbles explained, "Ya know, mused hair, dark under-eyes, stained fingers. The look of a moody artist!"

Generally, Buttercup's hair was mused because she refused to brush it since it was "short for a reason, Blossom." Today, it was also because of the rain. Furthermore, Buttercup had dark under-eyes partly because she insisted on wearing dark eyeliner that smudged halfway down her face every day without fail, and also because she had stayed up until 3 a.m. last night playing video games. And finally, Buttercup's fingers were stained not because of any artistic endeavor but because she had stuck her whole hand into a vat of black and mysterious sludge this morning. She had done so because Blossom had explicitly told her not to stick her hand in the vat of black and mysterious sludge they had been investigating, which had been a mistake on Blossom's part. She knew her sister couldn't resist doing something after it had been brought to her attention, so why she had decided to tell Buttercup not to mess with the vat of sludge was beyond her.

And while Buttercup was often quote-unquote moody, it wasn't because she was broody or introspective. It was because she was either hungry or bored or sometimes both. Bubbles was actually the moody and overly sensitive one, but Blossom knew better than to say that out loud.

"She looks like she needs a bath." Blossom huffed, pulling her face from Bubbles grasp.

"Don't focus on that." Bubbles waved her off, "Look how deep in thought she is! Buttercup isn't much for talking, is she? I bet she's got a lot going on in that head of hers."

"Buttercup?" She asked, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion once again.

Bubbles rolled her eyes and gave her shoulder a playful wack, "Don't be mean! I'm serious. She's been sitting like that for half an hour now, looking, thinking—"Bubbles tapped her chin in thought, "—I wonder what she's thinking about. From the looks of it, it must be important."

Blossom looked back over at Buttercup, tracing her eyes over her sister's face once more to look for something she may have missed. Her look was pensive. And it was admittedly artsy even if it was on accident. She supposed that even if Buttercup tended to evade artistic endeavors in favor of more physical hobbies, she could still be a poet at heart.

Buttercup was done with her sandwich now and handed off the crumbs to the birds. She still seemed lost in thought. However, she had moved her attention away from the hustle and bustle of the city to the clouds above. She didn't smile, but when a beam of light broke through the clouds and landed on her face, the stress lines on her forehead disappeared, and contentment passed over her features. Blossom couldn't help smiling at the sight of it. It was nice to see her like that. Maybe she was thinking about something profound and meaningful. Bubbles was right. Buttercup wasn't one to share her every single thought unless she was pissed, annoyed, or pressed for an answer. When Buttercup was in a good mood, she simply vibed, enjoying the quality time.

Blossom hardly thought she was mysterious, though. Buttercup's body language was more than enough to determine her mood. If she liked a song, she'd bob her head to its beat. If she liked a certain food, she'd inhale it without breathing. But now that Bubbles had said it, what was Buttercup actually thinking about?

Suddenly, Blossom felt guilty for never asking.

"Hey, Butters?" She called out to their sister, snapping a few times to get her attention.

Buttercup blinked back into reality and turned to face them, "Mhm?"

"What are you thinking about?" She asked.

"What am I thinking about?" Buttercup tilted her head, giving them both a look, "Why?"

"Don't worry about it." Bubbles spoke up, "Just tell us, right now, what you're thinking about."

Buttercup shrugged, looked away, smacked her lips a few times, and looked back, "Lizards."

"Lizards?" Blossom heard herself echoing as every kind, and warm thought she had regarding Buttercup came to a crashing halt.

Buttercup shrugged again, picking at her teeth, before looking back up at the clouds, "They're cool as shit, dude."

Blossom blinked once and then twice before turning back to Bubbles, who looked a little bit dumbstruck. 

"Well, you're right when you're right, Bubbles. She's a real Van Gogh in the making," She snorted dryly.

"Ah, shut it," Bubbles huffed, crossing her arms.

"Wait," Buttercup spoke up over the wind, "why you dumbasses talking about vans?"

"Face it, Bubs," Blossom smiled, ignoring Buttercup, "you don't give yourself enough credit. If there's someone here proficient in artistic musings, it's not the pigeon whisperer. It's most definitely you."

Bubbles uncrossed her arms and sent her a warm smile, leaning her damp head on her shoulder, "Maybe you're right, Bloss, but could we still go to the art museum?"

"Yeah, duh." Blossom smiled, leaning her head on Bubbles, "You know I love museums."

"Hey!" Buttercup shouted, hands on her hips, "Seriously, which van are two laughing about, and where is it going!"

[kkeidawrites]

Pssts I got the stuff the content after this I think you’ll find to be quite lewd ready yourself👀

Adrian Tepes X Black!Reader

Notes: ok so this starts very silly and stupid mentions of poop not scat promise Adrain jus teases reader about anal super teasing kink

You ran into the study Adrian was in, and skipped through the doors.

“Adrian! I did it!”

“Oh really? All by yourself now?”

He answered slyly and put down his book. On the desk it was a tad cool nowadays and Adrian sat by the fire in the cozy library

“Don’t tease me! You don’t even know what I did! Anyway, I was looking at the doctor books.”

He snorts, repeating doctor books.

“I don’t poop anymore!”

He spat his tea coughing at the absurdity I’d just blurted.

“I- huh?? I’m pretty sure you need to shit, half sheep or not, I don’t know what you read but-“

He blabbered on increasingly concerned with my wellbeing.

I stopped him to explain I was gonna be just fine.

“Listen listen! Of course, I couldn’t really do something like this safely without magic! It’s a little hard to explain, but I radiate excess waste off in the form of my aura. Mines pink!”

He slowly calmed at my explanation his expression morphing from mild worry to amused disbelief.

“Well as long as there’s no adverse effects. And why would you do such a thing?”

“Cause pooping is gross!”

He was about to laugh before a sly smile grew on his face. He slowly rested his head on his hand and said

“Hmm well yes, perhaps. But have you ever heard of the saying don’t use it and you lose it.”

I felt a cold in my head at the implication.

“Th-that’s not gonna happen!!”

I blurted to an undeterred Adrain.

“Hahaha well you never know. If you happen to require my assistance in keeping your privates, I’d be happy to lend my ah tool.”

Jus as my head been cooled, it erupted in heat. The blood tickling and pricking my nose. I whispered “t-tool...!” As my heart jumped in my chest.

“Y-you saying this too!! Y-your joking!! Your just teasing me!”

As my mind couldn’t help but to fall into a deep gutter, Adrian was no help in the senerio playing out in my head.

“And since you won’t be defacteing anymore. I suppose that’s the only use for it.”

I opened my mouth to counter but he mock gasped.

“Have you done this just so I’d give you ana-“

“OH MY GOD STOP!! YOUR SO EMBARRASSING THATS N-NOT WA-HAT I-“

My sentence devolved into chocked whimpers and stammers. He couldn’t tease me like that! Not when I... not with the way I felt for him.

I tried scraping up my dignity with a pout before turning on my heel and stomping-

He’d appeared in front of me and swung me around in his embrace like a dance before he fell pulling me to the floor with me

“Now, now I can’t help but to tease you when you’re so shy about sex.”

I couldn’t say a complete word as he hit the mail on head.

“Your blood pumps so hard when I tease you, when I teleport to you, when I walk in the room.”

You were completely shocked and mortified.

“But you like that sort of thrill do you not?”

“I-I don’t like bbeing...”

I couldn’t even finish the lie.

“Well, if you don’t then...”

He began to slide his lean body off me and I swiftly caught the hem of his shirt. He looked down to my face giving off heat and you’re free hand covering the bottom half of your face.

Fuck you’re adorable. What was he gonna do with you?

“Wwait please s...stay...”

My eyes darted from him to the space beside him; back and forth.

“Stay, where?”

A pause. Every time I spoke I got quieter.

“...o...on top of m-me.”

“Hmmm, then will you answer my assumption about you?”

I peeked up at him through long eyelashes.

“I...I love you...”

He bit his lip trying to regain control over himself.

“You can’t escape with your love confession. Now you have to know that I love you too, but you’ll answer my question.”

I bit my own lip and took a shaky breath in preparation.

“Y-yea I ...I like... being teased.”

“By whom?”

My heart was racing as hot tears pricked the corner of my eyes.

“By, you.”

“Hahaha I’ll take your answer for now.”

I felt like he’d been smothering me with his aura, going to the trouble of slowly getting the truth from me. I let him into my chest and head hypnotizing me. Finally, I took a first full breath.

“You did so good for me, Dear.”

I shivered as he whispered lowly into my ear.

He wrapped his arms around me and sat up with me.

“Wh-what just happened...why was that so...”

He chuckled.

“Was it too intense? You aren’t the only one who can manipulate their aura. Of course, I suppose we use it for different reasons.”

I laughed breathlessly before gasping. That feeling came again, then left.

“Although, it does help...”

He placed his hand on my chest.

“That I love you...”

The heat had only partially subsided from my face. I fidgeted with my hands, my tail flicking back and forth as I sat in his lap.

“Th-that was nice...”

“Only nice?”

“....it was... really good...”

He smiled down at me. His eyes sparkled softly as he looked at something so precious. Geez if he kept looking at me like that, I was really gonna start crying.

“Alright then. We’ll take baby steps for now.”

He lifted me and walked from the study into the hall.

“Where are you...”

“To sleep.”

I flushed, oh crap! My heart jumped in my chest again.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you must be tired, in fact I’m exhausted. This power is a little new, but it’s not often I use it you know.”

I smiled swatting him for flexing on me. Adrian took me to a blissfully dim room. I loved the feeling of his body there embracing me like this. I felt a peace I couldn’t describe with words especially since Adrain was relaxed enough to sleep. With this, I felt like we could heal what was left of our tattered hearts.

¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥

@littlemori24! Now you know I love me a bit of nsfw here and there but this right here...just made me feel so much better than I was feeling earlier today. Thank you so much for the submission! Y’all really need to check out her tumblr she has so many great stories other than Castlevania that I’m sure you all will love. Show her some support by following her and checking out her stories!

[get-lost-in-fanfiction]

LOST - Another Story

Rating: M

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: I hope everyone enjoys the new character. I have big plans for her in terms of the overarching story of Lost. Also for the dialogue I’m following a transcript of the episodes so I can get it all right. Anyway, here’s Pilot Part 2!

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Pilot (Part 2)

I sit down, trying to ignore the mixed expression Sawyer is giving my right now. One would assume he is upset I know his true name, or he thinks I'm some spy. Then a horrid thought crosses my mind, what if they think I'm an Other? I realize they don't know about the Others now, but in the future, I'm not sure. I'm putting my trust in Sawyer to keep my secret and protect me, but knowing how he is in the first season it doesn't seem likely. But I know the kind of man he is meant to be. So with that in mind and with a sigh, I begin to tell Sawyer everything I know.

“My name is Amelia Kassman, I am 20 years old, now single, and I know the future, ” I pause there to take in Sawyer’s reaction but he seems too stunned to speak.

“I know the future because where I come from this world doesn't exist. This reality, or whatever this is, is from a TV show called Lost. This Island isn't actually real, and the show was filmed in Hawaii. I come from 2010, and the show has just finished it's 6th and final season. Weeks before this I had just watched the finale. I can assure you, it's just as weird for me too.”

I pause again, letting Sawyer soak up the information. I nervously tap my leg, knowing once the rain stops Jack, Kate, and Charlie will be on their way back. Sawyer opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly wanting to talk but unable to. As the rain suddenly stops, I suck in a breath. Fuck. I watch Sawyer as he stands up and walks out of his tent.

I stay a little longer in Sawyer’s tent, listening intently for the sound of a fight to break out over the handcuffs Walt finds in the jungle. Once I do, I rush out of the tent and over to where Sayid and Sawyer are fist-fighting.

“Hey guys. Come on, man. Hey.” I hear Michael say as I jog up to the scene.

“Hey. Break it up. Break it up! Come on! That's it! It's over! That's it!” Jack shouts, running in a few moments after I arrive.

“Son of a bitch!” Sawyer spits at Sayid.

“I'm sick of this redneck!” Sayid calls.

Sawyer gets up close to Sayid, “You want some more of me, boy?” He taunts.

“Tell everyone what you told me! Tell them that I crashed the plane! Go on! Tell them I made the plane crash!”

“The shoe fits, buddy!”

“What is going on?” Jack shouts over the commotion.

Sayid shouts something in Arabic angrily at Sawyer.

“What's going on?” Jack commands again louder.

Michael hands the handcuffs to Jack before speaking up, “Look, my kid found these in the jungle.”

I roll my eyes when Sawyer decides to butt in, “And this guy was sitting in the back row of business class, the whole flight, never got up. Hands folded underneath the blanket.”

“Oh-” Sayid gasps softly.

“And for some reason,” Sawyer continues, “just pointin' this out - the guy sittin' next to him didn't make it.”

“Thank you so much for observing my behavior.” Sayid spits back at Sawyer.

“You don't think I saw them pull you out of line before we boarded?”

I watch as Sayid tries to get to Sawyer again to hit him.

“Come on, bring it!” Sawyer exclaims.

Kate steps up and yells loudly, “STOP!” As Sayid backs off.

Kate continues after the situation is visibly diffused, “We found the transceiver, but it's not working. Can anybody help?”

“Yes. I might be able to.” Sayid claims calmly.

Sawyer throws his hands up, “Oh great. Perfect! Let's trust this guy!” He shouts again.

At this, Hurley steps in, “Hey! We're all this together, man. Let's treat each other with a little respect.”

“Shut up, Lardo.” Sawyer shoots back. I wince, watching this scene in person is a lot worse than on TV.

“Hey! Give it a break.” Jack says exasperatedly.

“Whatever you say, doc. You're the hero.” Sawyer says and Jack shoots me an odd look. For a beat, I don't understand why, but suddenly it comes back to me. I also called Jack ‘Doc.’ Terrific.

I stay on the beach, trying to convince myself to go on the hike with everyone. I know it won't be easy, and I know that the climbing scene was faked. I'm not very strong, but I've got enough upper body strength to fight so why can't I climb? I was hiking before the crash, anyway, so it could be plausible for me to go. I drop my face in my hands and sigh loudly before pushing off the sand. I walk myself over to the gathering group of Kate, Sayid, Shannon, and Boone.

“Shut up, and stop trying to be charming.” I hear Shannon say angrily to Boone. She then turns to Kate and Sayid, “I'm coming with you.”

I see Kate looking visibly uncomfortable, “I don't... know if that's such a good idea.” She says slowly.

Shannon scoffs “What are you? Two years older than me? Please.” I walk quickly up beside Charlie as Shannon whips around to see us, “You two are going, aren't you?”

“Yeah, are you?” Charlie says.

“Yup.”

“Yeah, I'm definitely going.” Charlie says as I shudder slightly.

“I’d like to come too if you don't mind?” I ask Kate politely.

“Look, everybody can come. But we're leaving now.” Kate says, annoyed. I'm glad I like this early season version of her or else I’d be annoyed too.

Charlie then speaks up to Shannon, “You couldn't tell from that, but she's actually really nice.”

I turn my head and see Sawyer smoking while reading his letter. He looks up at me and we lock eyes for a moment before glancing beside me to see the others walking off. I look away and try to suppress the butterflies. I don't like men who smoke, but Sawyer makes it look sexy. Thankfully he runs out of cigarettes soon.

I tighten the laces of my boots as Kate turns to me. “You have a backpack?” She asks.

“What?” I say in reply, as I mentally smack myself.

“I said do you have a backpack, you should carry some water.”

“Yeah I have a backpack, I was hiking in Australia before the crash. Do you want me to get it?” I try and keep my tone even and kind as I talk to Kate.

“Yeah, go do that.” I worry she’ll leave me behind so I run as quickly as I can to my tent to get my backpack. Once I do and fill it with some water bottles I rush back to the group.

“I'm ready,” I call.

“Great then, let's head out, ” Kate says. I give a quiet sigh in return, this is going to be a long hike.

We are well into the jungle, and I start to worry that Sawyer won't be joining us. I won't lie when I say that he is one of the reasons I even came on this hike. Not that he is the only reason, though, I also came because I wanted a gun. Despite my adversity towards them, I have the strange need for one. Knowing what lies ahead I feel like I can become a trustworthy gunman. The quick crunching of another pair of feet shook me out of my thoughts.

“You decided to join us.” Kate says unamused.

“I'm a complex guy, sweetheart,” Sawyer calls back and turns his head to me to give a little wink. I try hard to keep my cheeks from turning bright red.

“I didn't know you were comin’ on this little excursion blue eyes,” Sawyer flirts, is he flirting? I can't tell, and part of me doesn't want to look into it too much. I know having a crush on Sawyer won't end well for me, there are too many competitors. I don't want to mess up the timeline just because I have a silly crush.

“Yeah, dimples, I decided to come. Better than sitting on the beach staring at the ocean all day,” I see Sawyer’s face turn a little when I use his own nickname game against him. Maybe I could have a bit of fun with it.

“Touche,” is all he can say.

We get to the base of a cliff and I realize this is the moment I've been dreading. Kate looks to Sawyer, Shannon looks to Boone, Charlie looks around and I look up at the top of the cliff. Sawyer starts to climb up first, followed by Kate and Sayid not far behind. Charlie is a little way behind them and I decide to follow him, not wanting to be behind the slow pokes of Shannon and Boone. We struggle up the side of the cliff, grabbing branches and roots that stick out and trying our best to find footing. Charlie occasionally offers me his hand to help pull me up and I am grateful to take it, also opting to help him as well when I can. My hands, back, and forehead are sweating from nerves and exertion. Sawyer reaches the top of the cliff first and helps lift Kate up along with himself. Sawyer and Kate then help Sayid and Charlie, too. Somehow, Shannon and Boone got ahead of me, and Shannon is too proud to get the help from anyone but Boone, so he is the one to pull himself up and help her. I realize I’m the last one when I see Sawyer’s smiling face looking down at me.

“Need some help there, blue eyes?” He says with a bit of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah actually, I do,” I puff back, not realizing how much I’m struggling.

So Sawyer reaches his hand down and I hoist myself up to grab it while still clinging to some roots. He wraps his large hand around my smaller one then grabs hold of my forearm with his other hand. He pulls me up as I use my other arm to lift myself up. I roll over the edge of the cliff and Sawyer lets go of my arm. Everyone stares at me for a moment and I feel my cheeks heat up in embarrassment. I quickly scramble to my feet and brush myself off.

“Well let’s go,” I say embarrassed and while avoiding eye contact with Sawyer.

We get to a fairly flat place in the jungle with tall grass and lots of tree cover. Cicadas are chirping loudly as I walk beside Sawyer. I swing my backpack around and pull out a water bottle, take a swig, offer it to Sawyer who waves it away, and then screw the cap back on. I stow the water away as I remember that during the mountain my favorite theme was playing. I laugh a little to myself and Sawyer glances at me quickly, I put my fingers up to my mouth and smile shyly in his direction.

We walk a bit more before Sawyer throws his hands up and speaks, “Okay! Wide open space! You should check the radio, see if we're good.”

“We're not going to have any reception here.” Sayid says as he continues to walk.

“Just try it.” Sawyer exclaims.

“I don't want to waste the batteries.”

“I'm not asking you to keep it on all day!”

“We're still blocked by the mountain.”

“Just check the damn radio!” Sawyer huffs.

“If I just check! We might not have any juice left when we get to-” Suddenly a loud roar interrupts Sayid and everyone whips around to the movement. We hear puffs and everyone looks around to find the source of the noise and the crunching of the grass and leaves around us.

“My god.” Shannon squeaks, I glance at her.

“What the hell's that?” Boone asks, I want to speak up, but I have a plan quickly forming in my mind.

“Something's coming.” Kate says quietly, and by the look in her eyes I can tell she thinks it's the Smoke Monster. The beast starts running at us, huffing.

“It's coming towards us, I think.” Charlie says nervously.

Kate rushes towards us, “Come on, let's move,” she says hurriedly. Everyone begins to run off but Sawyer and I. He looks down at me worriedly, an expression I didn’t think I would see.

“I shouldn't have come. Aah!” Shannon screams.

Sayid pulls Charlie along and they all start running, “Go! Go!” he shouts. Sawyer tries to push me away to run but I stay put, ready to strike.

I hear Kate yell, “Sawyer!” and Sayid’s exclamation of “Let him go!”

I quickly reach for Sawyer’s gun and shoot at the bear, knowing where it is. It bursts out of the jungle, Sawyer stumbling back a bit, as I quickly put a bullet through its chest. The bear drops and I look up at Sawyer, the smoking gun still in my hand.

“Blue eyes..?” Sawyer starts, but Shannon cuts him off.

“That's... that's a big bear,” She says, looking fretfully at the animal.

“You think that's what killed the pilot?” Kate glances at Charlie nervously.

“No. No, that's a tiny, teeny version compared to that,” Charlie says, holding up his fingers for comparison.

Kate looks at it for a moment, “Guys, this isn't just a... bear. That's a polar bear,” she says.

Boone decides to speak up, “That can't be a polar bear.”

“It’s a polar bear,” Kate, Sayid, and I say in unison as Sawyer gives me a look, the gun still in my hand.

“Yeah, but... Polar bears don't usually live in the jungle,” Shannon says.

“Spot on,” Charlie replied cheekily.

Sayid then speaks up, “No, polar bears don't live near this far south.”

“This one does,” Boone quips.

“Did. It did,” Sawyer says, misbelief in his eyes.

Kate then turns to me, “Where did that come from?”

Before I can speak Sawyer butts in, “Probably Bear Village. How the hell do I know?”

Kate scoffs, “Not the bear. The gun.”

I look down at the gun in my hand, flick the safety, and look back up at Kate, “I took it from Sawyer.”

“And where did Sawyer get it from?”

“I got it off one of the bodies,” Sawyer replies.

“One of the bodies,” Sayid repeats.

“Yeah, one of the bodies.”

“People don't carry guns on planes..” Shannon states.

“They do if they're a US Marshal, sweet cheeks-“ Sawyer starts, but I cut him off.

“There was one on the plane,” I state, hoping to dissolve the situation.

“How do you know that?” Kate says to the both of us, slightly panicked.

“I saw a guy lying there with an ankle holster, so I took the gun. I thought it might come in handy. Guess what? Blue-eyes here just shot a bear!” Sawyer states happily, gesturing to me when he mentions the polar bear.

“I have a name you know,” I say, a bit annoyed.

“Well nicknames are my specialty, peaches,” Sawyer says smoothly.

Kate interrupts us before I can reply, “So why do you think he's a Marshal?”

“Because he had a clip-on badge,” Sawyer holds up a badge, ”I took that too. Thought it was cool.”

“I know who you are,” Sayid begins, “You're the prisoner.”

“I'm the what?” Sawyer says incredulously.

“You found a gun on a US Marshal. Yes, I believe you did. You knew where it was, because you were the one he was bringing back to the States,” Sayid glances at me before he continues back to Sawyer, “Those handcuffs were on you. That's how you knew there was a gun.”

“Piss off,” Sawyer spits.

“That's who you are, you son of a bitch!” Sayid starts to get angry.

“Be as suspicious of me as I am of you,” Sawyer states coolly.

“But you are the prisoner.”

“Fine! I'm the criminal. You're the terrorist. We can all play a part,” Sawyer turns to me, “Who do you want to be blue-eyes?”

Kate suddenly reaches towards me and wrestles the gun out of my hand, I’m glad I put on the safety. Once Kate has the gun she points it at Sawyer, looking at me guilty. I know that look, she thinks I’m just a child. I’m not a child, but, compared to the rest of the survivors I am.

“Does anybody know how to use a gun?” Kate says.

“I think you just pull the trigger,” Charlie quips.

“Don't use the gun.” Sayid states.

“I want to take it apart,” Kate says calmly.

“Oh,” Charlie says softly.

Sayid takes a deep breath and says, “There's a button on the grip. Push that, it will eject the magazine,” Kate follows Sayid's instructions and ejects the magazine, “There's still a round in the chamber. Hold the grip, pull the top part of the gun.”

Kate does what Sayid says quickly, and almost too expertly. If I didn’t know her I would be suspicious. She then gives the magazine to Sayid and the gun to Sawyer.

Sawyer grabs Kate’s arm as she gives him the gun back “I know your type,” he says quietly.

“I'm not so sure,” she says back.

“Yeah. I've been with girls like you.”

“No girl's exactly like me,” Kate says coldly, but with a slight glance at me.

Kate then walks off and Sayid speaks up, “We should keep moving.”

We walk a bit more, to an open hilly area. I close my eyes and face the ocean, breathing in the air. Despite being hot and humid, I can’t help but marvel at the beauty of the Island. Even though I know back home it was just Hawaii, this is no Oahu. Sayid then gets the transceiver out and I steel myself for Sawyer, again.

“Oh! Now's a good time to check the radio! Not before.. but now!” He says angrily.

“We're up higher,” Sayid says calmly.

“Yes, we are!”

Suddenly Sayid gets excited, “Bar. Hey! We've got a bar! Mayday! Mayday!” But all that comes out is feedback.

“What is that?” Kate asks.

“Feedback,” Sayid answers.

“Feedback from what? What would do that?”

“I don't know.”

“I'll tell you what would do that,” Sawyer begins angrily, “This guy not fixing the radio. This thing doesn't even work!”

“No. No, no, no, no, it's not broken. We can't transmit because something else is already transmitting,” Sayid explains.

“Transmitting from where?” Charlie asks.

“What?” Shannon adds nervously.

“Somewhere close. The signal's strong,” Sayid says, and I remember the radio tower. I wish I could somehow get away and find it, even though I know what happens when we do a few months down the line.

“Somewhere close? You mean on the Island? That's great!” Charlie claims excitedly.

“Maybe it's other survivors,” Boone adds.

“From our plane? How would they even—“ Shannon begins, bur Sawyer cuts her off.

“What kind of transmission is it?” He asks.

“Could be a sat phone, maybe a radio signal…” Sayid says as he trails off.

“Can we listen to it?” Kate asks nervously.

“Let me get the frequency first. Hold on,” Sayid says.

“There's no transmission,” Sawyer dismisses.

“Sawyer,” I say quietly, touching his arm a bit. He looks down at me and shuts up.

Sayid finally gets transmission to play and Charlie starts to get excited. “The rescue party. It has to be,” Rousseau’s message is heard clearly, “It's French! The French are coming! I've never been so happy to hear the French!” Charlie bounces up and down as he speaks.

“I never took French. What does she say?” Kate asks.

“D-Does anybody speak French?” Sayid says hurriedly.

“She does,” Boone says before I can, and I realize that might have been a bad thing to say.

Shannon then suddenly gets defensive towards Boone, “No, I don't. What?”

“What the hell are you talking about? You spent a year in Paris!”

“Drinking, not studying!”

Suddenly the transmission ends and a male voice speaks from the radio, “Iteration 7294531.”

“Okay. What's that?” Charlie asks, looking hopeful. Sayid, not so much.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…” Sayid says quickly.

“‘No, no, no’ what?” Kate asks hurriedly.

“What ‘no’?” Shannon also asks.

“The-the batteries are dying!” Sayid shouts.

“How much time do we have?” Kate asks.

“Not much.”

Boone turns to Shannon again, “I've heard you speak French! Just listen to this! Listen to it!”

“I can't!” Shannon cries.

Sawyer huffs, “You speak French or not? Because that would be nice.”

The radio speaks again “Iteration 17294532.”

“That voice is weird. What is that?” Charlie inputs, but no one answers his question. I look sympathetically at him.

“Come on. Come on, Shannon!” Boone urges.

“Come on!” Kate adds.

Even Sayid, who is doing mental math manges to say, “Come on!”

The transmission begins to play again, and Shannon looks nervously at it, “Il est dehors….”

“It's... it's repeating,” she says.

“She's right,” Sayid adds.

Boone looks at Sayid, “What?”

“It's a loop,” Sayid begins, "’Iteration’—it's repeating the same message. It's a counter. The next number will end... ‘533’.”

Just as Sayid says, the radio blares, “Iteration 17294533.”

“Does anyone know what the hell he's talking about?” Sawyer says angrily.

“Sawyer please,” I add, but he doesn’t hear me.

“It's a running count of the number of times the message has repeated. It's roughly thirty seconds long, so... how long…” Sayid says as once again he tried to figure it out in his head.

“Don't forget to carry the one, chief,” Sawyer adds.

The radio begins again after, “Iteration 17294534.”

Shannon looks at the radio and starts to translate, “She's saying .. ‘Please’. She's saying, ‘Please help me. Please, come get me.’”

“Or she's not! You don't even speak French!” Sawyer shouts.

“Let her listen!” Kate yells back.

“Shut up, man!” Boone adds.

“Guys, the battery. The battery.” Charlie says nervously.

Once again the radio says, “Iteration 17294535.”

Shannon puts the radio up to her ear and says, “I'm alone now. Uhm... On the Island alone. Please, someone come. The others, they're... they're dead. I-it killed them. I-it killed them all.”

“That was good,” Boone reassured her.

“Sixteen years,” Sayid finally says.

“What?” Sawyer asks.

“Sixteen years. And five months. That's the count.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Boone asks.

“The iterations. It's a distress call,” Sayid starts, “A plea for help. A mayday. If the count is right... It's been playing over... and over... for sixteen years.”

“Someone else? Was stranded here?” Boone says worriedly.

“Maybe they came for them,” Kate speculates.

“If someone came, why is it still playing?” Sawyer adds.

“Agreed, you’d think then it wouldn’t matter if they’re rescued,” I say, but not really adding much to the conversation. It’s weird seeing them all talk like this, knowing who it is. They all still have hope they’ll be rescued.

“Guys,” Charlie says, “Where are we?”

LOST

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in updates!

[urcrybby24]

Adrian Tepes x Black!Reader

Notes: ok so this starts very silly and stupid mentions of poop not scat promise Adrain jus teases reader about anal super teasing kink

You ran into the study Adrian was in, and skipped through the doors.

“Adrian! I did it!”

“Oh really? All by yourself now?”

He answered slyly and put down his book. On the desk it was a tad cool nowadays and Adrian sat by the fire in the cozy library

“Don’t tease me! You don’t even know what I did! Anyway, I was looking at the doctor books.”

He snorts, repeating doctor books.

“I don’t poop anymore!”

He spat his tea coughing at the absurdity I’d just blurted.

“I- huh?? I’m pretty sure you need to shit, half sheep or not, I don’t know what you read but-“

He blabbered on increasingly concerned with my wellbeing.

I stopped him to explain I was gonna be just fine.

“Listen listen! Of course, I couldn’t really do something like this safely without magic! It’s a little hard to explain, but I radiate excess waste off in the form of my aura. Mines pink!”

He slowly calmed at my explanation his expression morphing from mild worry to amused disbelief.

“Well as long as there’s no adverse effects. And why would you do such a thing?”

“Cause pooping is gross!”

He was about to laugh before a sly smile grew on his face. He slowly rested his head on his hand and said

“Hmm well yes, perhaps. But have you ever heard of the saying don’t use it and you lose it.”

I felt a cold in my head at the implication.

“Th-that’s not gonna happen!!”

I blurted to an undeterred Adrain.

“Hahaha well you never know. If you happen to require my assistance in keeping your privates, I’d be happy to lend my ah tool.”

Jus as my head been cooled, it erupted in heat. The blood tickling and pricking my nose. I whispered “t-tool...!” As my heart jumped in my chest.

“Y-you saying this too!! Y-your joking!! Your just teasing me!”

As my mind couldn’t help but to fall into a deep gutter, Adrian was no help in the senerio playing out in my head.

“And since you won’t be defacteing anymore. I suppose that’s the only use for it.”

I opened my mouth to counter but he mock gasped.

“Have you done this just so I’d give you ana-“

“OH MY GOD STOP!! YOUR SO EMBARRASSING THATS N-NOT WA-HAT I-“

My sentence devolved into chocked whimpers and stammers. He couldn’t tease me like that! Not when I... not with the way I felt for him.

I tried scraping up my dignity with a pout before turning on my heel and stomping-

He’d appeared in front of me and swung me around in his embrace like a dance before he fell pulling me to the floor with me

“Now, now I can’t help but to tease you when you’re so shy about sex.”

I couldn’t say a complete word as he hit the mail on head.

“Your blood pumps so hard when I tease you, when I teleport to you, when I walk in the room.”

You were completely shocked and mortified.

“But you like that sort of thrill do you not?”

“I-I don’t like bbeing...”

I couldn’t even finish the lie.

“Well, if you don’t then...”

He began to slide his lean body off me and I swiftly caught the hem of his shirt. He looked down to my face giving off heat and you’re free hand covering the bottom half of your face.

Fuck you’re adorable. What was he gonna do with you?

“Wwait please s...stay...”

My eyes darted from him to the space beside him; back and forth.

“Stay, where?”

A pause. Every time I spoke I got quieter.

“...o...on top of m-me.”

“Hmmm, then will you answer my assumption about you?”

I peeked up at him through long eyelashes.

“I...I love you...”

He bit his lip trying to regain control over himself.

“You can’t escape with your love confession. Now you have to know that I love you too, but you’ll answer my question.”

I bit my own lip and took a shaky breath in preparation.

“Y-yea I ...I like... being teased.”

“By whom?”

My heart was racing as hot tears pricked the corner of my eyes.

“By, you.”

“Hahaha I’ll take your answer for now.”

I felt like he’d been smothering me with his aura, going to the trouble of slowly getting the truth from me. I let him into my chest and head hypnotizing me. Finally, I took a first full breath.

“You did so good for me, Dear.”

I shivered as he whispered lowly into my ear.

He wrapped his arms around me and sat up with me.

“Wh-what just happened...why was that so...”

He chuckled.

“Was it too intense? You aren’t the only one who can manipulate their aura. Of course, I suppose we use it for different reasons.”

I laughed breathlessly before gasping. That feeling came again, then left.

“Although, it does help...”

He placed his hand on my chest.

“That I love you...”

The heat had only partially subsided from my face. I fidgeted with my hands, my tail flicking back and forth as I sat in his lap.

“Th-that was nice...”

“Only nice?”

“....it was... really good...”

He smiled down at me. His eyes sparkled softly as he looked at something so precious. Geez if he kept looking at me like that, I was really gonna start crying.

“Alright then. We’ll take baby steps for now.”

He lifted me and walked from the study into the hall.

“Where are you...”

“To sleep.”

I flushed, oh crap! My heart jumped in my chest again.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you must be tired, in fact I’m exhausted. This power is a little new, but it’s not often I use it you know.”

I smiled swatting him for flexing on me. Adrian took me to a blissfully dim room. I loved the feeling of his body there embracing me like this. I felt a peace I couldn’t describe with words especially since Adrain was relaxed enough to sleep. With this, I felt like we could heal what was left of our tattered hearts.

[cherry-sofa-729]

Molt

Another fic! This one mentions sex and describes spiders and spiders moulting (also I spell moulting with a U I’m Canadian get over it)

———————

Moulting. The bane of Virgil’s existence.

He rolled over and checked his phone calendar and groaned. He wasn’t supposed to to moult for another two weeks! He didn’t wanna be in pre for two weeks!

But he knew what was happening, and he couldn’t ignore it. He already wanted to make a web mat. And now he knew why his appetite was insatiable the last few days, he had been building up his food reserves.

His mind flashed to him eating uncooked rice at 2 am like little crunchy boys. Yeah. Building up food reserves.

Would there be enough space in his burrow for a web mat? Probably, right? And he could web up the entrance so no one disturbed him…

That sounded super good right about now. But so did not moving at all.

Being half human half tarantula, he often had to battle his animal instincts with his human sensibility. For example…

Virgil flopped over and ran a hand over his stomach, trying to gauge if he was hungry. He wasn’t, but his human half was telling him it was breakfast time.

“Knock knock Virgie! It’s Patton and it’s almost noon so, time to get up.”

He rolled back onto his stomach, spider legs flexing and twitching to roll off the blanket and pick him up. With the legs crawling along his feel didn’t even touch the floor.

He grabbed a pair of skinny jeans and his usual hoodie, deciding to skip an undershirt that day. He pulled off his thin undershirt and sweatpants and slipped on his hoodie. He was glad all his clothes had holes for his legs to get through, and he was a master of getting them on.

Then he went to pull on his skinny jeans.

“God dammit.” He mumbled, trying to force them up over his hips and more importantly, his ass.

Why did has abdomen, or in human terms, his ass, have to swell up so much?!

It wasn’t enough to be noticeable, unless you regularly stared at his ass, in which case, creepy, but it was enough to make his skinny jeans impossible to get on.

He threw the skinny jeans to the side, balling his fists before heading to the mirror.

He knew it was bad to judge his appearance on his pre moult form, but he couldn’t help himself.

After staring at his slightly chubby stomach for far too long, he twisted around, trying to see his ass. He frowned. He was so fat…

He rolled his shoulders, his moult didn’t feel too bad right now, but it was certainly tight.

He rubbed his face, tired of the thoughts running through his brain and the anxiety of facing his friends like this.

But he found a pair of loose sweatpants that reminded him of when he used to moult with the dark sides. Days of lounging in his burrow, ignoring Janus’ and Remus’ well meaning attempts to care for him. At least Jay understood, as he had to shed his scales. But Virgil’s didn’t itch like Jan’s did, rather felt crusty and hard. But that was later.

“Virgil? Cmon kiddo you must be hungry! And you don’t wanna miss the video game tournament Roman’s set up.”

“I’ll be out in a minute Pat.” Virgil said.

“You said that last time. That was an hour ago, kiddo.”

Really? God, Virgil lost track of time. If only he wasn’t so spacey like this.

“Sorry, Pat. I’m just… a little unfocused today.”

“Oh! Are you alright, Virgil?”

“Yeah yeah. Just… spacey. I’ll be down… right now.” He opened the door and tried to smile at the freckled face below him.

Patton gave him a big grin that only faltered slightly as he looked at him. “Eyes out today, huh?”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t bother to hide his eight eyes today, he knew Patton didn’t love them, but still.

“And no skinny jeans! You must be tired today.” The more Patton talked the more Virgil wanted to be left alone. He wanted to curl in a little ball in his burrow and not move.

“Cmon! I’ve got lunch for you.”

The two went downstairs and Virgil grabbed the sandwich sitting on the table. Logan was eating a salad beside him and reading a book at the same time. However, when Virgil sat to eat, he put the book down and smiled.

“Virgil. Good afternoon. You had quite an extended rest.”

“I was mostly staring at my ceiling.” He mumbled, trying not to gag at the smell of food. He pulled a bit of bread off the end of his sandwich and even that was a lot.

Logan’s brow furrowed as he watched Virgil pick at his food. “Are you adequate, Virgil?”

“Huh?” Virgil shook himself awake. “Sorry, Lo. I’m fine.” He tried to take a bite of sandwich only to stop midway, leaving a bite mark in the bread.

Because right then his moult started acting up.

The slight tickle, the sudden overwhelming awareness of the hard crust on his back, Virgil was filled with the urge to slam his back into the chair to shatter the moult.

He compromised with a hard shutter, going on for several seconds. While he was shaking wildly, he threw his moult into the chair repeatedly, trying to right it somehow.

He didn’t register Logan snapping in his face for a moment. He rose from his trance with a final shiver. “Huh?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you have just told me a falsehood. I’ve done extensive research into tarantulas and your current behaviour lines up with a period of time called-“

Virgil slapped a hand over Logan’s mouth. “Shut up!” He spat, looking around the room to see if Patton heard anything. “Don’t say it so loud.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Virgil, there is no reason to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not…” he slumped into his chair as the logical side moved both their lunches farther away from them. His hand went low to trace small circles over his silk glands.

“Are you okay?”

“I wanna make a web.�� He blurted, half asleep again. He stayed very still, staring at nothing as he rubbed his silk glands very slowly.

Logan noticed his fingers start to press in and grabbed his wrist.

Virgil hissed, trying to get away.

“Not here, alright? You can make a web in your room.”

He leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry. My brain is so scattered right now.”

“It’s perfectly alright.” Logan stood up and filled a glass of water for Virgil, getting the purple silly straw he knew he liked. “How about we tell the others and then they’ll leave you alone for however long your pre-moult lasts.” He put the glass in front of him.

Virgil grabbed it and began to drink. “It’s gonna be two weeks.” He spoke around the straw in his mouth.

“Oh? You have a schedule. May I see it?”

“No.”

“Alright.” Logan adjusted his glasses. “Are you ready to speak with the others?”

“Yeah, I’m just a little, well, anxious-“ Logan reached out to pat his shoulder.

Virgil saw the hand coming towards him and flung himself off the chair in a panic. “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Logan looked momentarily shocked before smiling softly at Virgil’s terrified expression. “Ah yes. You will be easily triggered and sensitive. Of course. My apologies, I should not have reached out to you. Now, I believe the best course of action is to inform Patton and your boyfriend.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Are you worried how they will take it?”

“A bit. I know they won’t freak out, but they might… bother me.”

“Remember that whatever happens, I support you.”

“Thanks Lo.” Virgil smiled weakly.

“And I’ll try my best to make sure Patton and Roman leave you alone during this vulnerable period.”

“Roman won’t let me out of his sight if he thinks I’m sick.”

“That may be true, but I’ll do my best. He also won’t leave you alone with your larger-than-usual posterior.”

“Hey!” Virgil snapped, a hand flying to his ass.

“What? I am impartial. I am simply stating a fact.” He said with a smirky grin.

Virgil couldn’t help but blush, but he shrugged it off trying to remain cool. ”Ehh. That might be a stress relief.”

“I thought you were touch adverse during this period.”

“Well yeah, but Roman eating me out isn’t exactly a lot of touch if I don’t want it to be.”

Logan pulled a face, and Virgil burst into laughter.

They gathered in the living room after Logan called a family announcement. Roman and Patton looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

Virgil gulped. He didn’t like the staring. It made his heart pound and his palms sweat.

“I’m, well, I’m moulting.” Curiosity changed to looks of confusion. “Um… I have to get rid of my exoskeleton? The coating on my legs. So, over the next two weeks I’ll be kinda holed up in my room? And I need you guys not to bother me. Don’t even knock, okay? Not even for meals, I don’t eat anything.”

Patton’s jaw dropped. “You don’t eat anything? At all?” As the mind palace resident chef and dad, he hated the idea of skipping a meal.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. That sucks!”

“So you wanna just go into your little cave and… what? Sleep?”

“Disassociate.”

“For two weeks?”

“Yeah. And I’d like to start now.”

Then Roman asked a very interesting question.

“Can we watch?”

It was lucky that Virgil was spacey during this, because otherwise he’d be freaking out.

He scuttled to his closet on thin spider legs, pulling out his extra blankets and pillows for his burrow. There were already some down there, but the more the merrier when it came to pillows and blankets in his opinion.

Patton, Roman and Logan watched his every move.

He set the blankets on the floor as he shoved his bed to the other side of the wall with a loud clang.

Underneath the bed was a hole, that led to the tunnel that led to his burrow.

He couldn’t stop the smile lighting up his face. He grabbed the blankets and descended into the cave.

Virgil’s burrow wasn’t big enough to stand up in, but wide enough to fully lie down and stretch out his spider legs so they wouldn’t get sore. The dirt walls were coated with soft webbing, dirt floor covered in squishy blankets and pillows. A room off of the main room was a completely modern and normal bathroom.

Hey, mind palace has no rules.

He added the ones he brought to the pile, flicking on the orange pumpkin-shaped fairy lights that strung around the room.

As the room filled with soft orange light, Virgil counted his water bottles and made sure his laptop was plugged into the extension cord.

He crawled upstairs and caught sight of his audience, still staring at the hole under his bed.

He waved them forward. “Come. Last change before I seal the entrance.”

A huge part of him roared in anger at letting others into his burrow, his private space. But he knew they were just looking.

“Slide on your butt.” He said as his legs carried him down nimbly and swiftly.

There was hardly enough space for the four of them and Virgil liked it that way. They were forced to stay at the door, peer in enough to see, but not enough to touch.

“Oh wow, Virgil. It’s so cozy!” Patton squealed, careful not to touch the webbing on the walls.

Roman came a little further into the room, reaching out to take his boyfriend’s hand. He pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“Please let me stay with you, my beloved. I won’t stay if you don’t want, but I’d love to help you with anything you need.”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed, but it would be nice to have him here. If they didn’t touch too much.

“Okay. You can stay.”

Roman clapped his hands and Virgil plugged his ears. “Roman. Sensitive.”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”

“Go up and get your sword. Patton and Logan, leave.”

They did as he asked, and about halfway up the tunnel Virgil called to Roman again.

“Get snacks for yourself.”

Virgil waited for Roman to get back before webbing up the entrance.

“Oof!” Roman said, smiling as he flopped onto the cushions, throwing a stack of snacks and his sword beside him.

Virgil smiled at him, at his adorable prince. “You wanna watch something cool?” He asked, going about midway up the tunnel.

“Sure.”

Virgil focused, shaking a little before gritting his teeth and letting out a soft whine. Roman flushed from his ears down to his collarbone. And then he watched.

The silk flowed from Virgil’s fingertips, he ran a path from one side to the other, and back. Over and over. Like he was painting. Back and forth, back and forth. Letting out gentle whines to show just how good it felt for him to let out some silk.

The entrance got sealed with fluffy cobwebs. Then, they were layered on thick. Coat after coat of webbing would stop anything from entering his burrow.

Roman watched with awe.

Virgil stopped, out of breath. “That… was good. Always feels good, but that… was good.”

He came back and collapsed onto a pile of pillows. Legs stretching out as far as they could go.

“How are you, my sweet spider?”

“Tired.” Virgil mumbled.

“Nap, my dear. Cuddles?”

He stiffened and shook his head. “No.”

Roman shrugged. “Alright. I’ve got your headphones and laptop to keep me occupied. You sleep.”

Virgil smiled into the soft pillows as he slowly lost consciousness.

Over the next week and a half, Roman left the burrow, slashing through the webs with his sword, but always ended up back quickly.

They watched shows, movies, played video games, and Virgil slept. They made love a couple times, and Virgil disassociated.

Sometimes, when Virgil really needed to be alone he would lay on his back, legs up and eyes closed, and any touch or talk would result in a hiss. Roman left after this usually.

Roman was relaxing after making love once, completely naked and enjoying the sweet sight of Virgil’s perky bubble butt as he searched for his clothes.

“Hey baby, you’ve got a new birthmark.”

Virgil barely paid attention except for a slight hum.

“It’s kinda big and like all over your ass.” He traced the dark brown mark in the air with his finger.

“Oh yeah. It’s like, a temporary spider thing. Their abdomen gets darker in colour before a moult.”

“It also gets bigger right? And firmer?”

“Huh? Uh…” Virgil paused and tired to think of a lie that worked.

“Don’t think I couldn’t tell babe. You’ve got a Kim Kardashian ass right now and I’m loving it.”

“You’ve still got sex on the brain. You better not be getting excited because you’re dealing with it yourself.”

“C’mon. Come cuddle.”

Virgil sighed. “Okay.” He fell down on the cushions, rolled over and hugged Roman tight around his middle. His spider legs inclosed them both in a cage, keeping the world out and them together. “Only for a bit though.”

Roman let out a tired exhale, settling himself in with his arms around Virgil.

This was nice. He thought. It was nice that Virgil trusted him enough to have him here while he’s so vulnerable.

Virgil shifted, settling in, and a sharp pungent scent reached his nose. He scrunched up his face and leaned in to find the source of the smell.

Oh. His boyfriend smelt like a high school boy’s gym room. “Ew. You smell like B.O.”

“Fuck off.”

“Have you brushed you teeth or had a shower in the last few days? Or even changed your clothes?” Roman asked, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“Not really.” He hummed, rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the tight, hard feeling of his skin. Roman absentmindedly played with his hair.

“Your hair is real greasy babe.” Roman remarked, wrinkling his nose.

Virgil let out a growl. “I’m not taking a shower. Not until I’m done moulting.” He said, deciding to end the conversation there.

“Can I at least wash your hair.” He didn’t answer, staring off into space. “Virgil? Virgil?”

“Sorry!” He shook his head, snapping himself out of his hazy daydream. “Spaced out again. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. But come on. You leaning up against the bathtub as I wash all the stress from your greasy, dirty hair?”

“Hmm. Maybe it would be nice.”

“It will be great! It’s what you need. A little break.” Roman really just wanted to get the tired, dirty funk off of him.

“Maybe it would be nice to have a full bath.” Maybe he could even fall asleep in the bath, he mused.

“Wonderful. It’s been a week since you started pre moult, you deserve it. And honestly, you reek so bad it’s reminding me of Remus.”

“Hey! That’s mean!” He pouted.

“I’ll run the bath for you my dear.”

Virgil sleepily got up and started stripping, even though he just put clothes on. If anyone should have clothes on it should be Roman, he thought, he’s not the one being bathed.

He let out a big yawn. God, this really zapped all his energy. Hadn’t he just taken a nap after they had a roll in the hay? And he didn’t even top, Jesus. If he had topped he might be passed out by now.

He stumbled into the weirdly human bathroom, straightening up to his full height. He yawned again and gazed at the bubble-filled tub Roman had prepared.

“Not yet, sleepy spider. Teeth first.”

Virgil froze at the thought of toothpaste. He hated, hated the smell of mint. It burned his nostrils and made him seethe with anger.

Roman chuckled and flipped open the toothpaste cap.

The scent permeated the room, or at least to Virgil it did. Explain! His mind screamed, but all he did was back away and let out a feral hiss, plugging his nose. He hated that smell.

“Oh right! Spiders don’t like peppermint. Or mint in general, I guess. I’m sorry my darling. Here. We have a tube of kiddy toothpaste. It’s bubblegum flavoured!”

Virgil hesitantly crept forward as Roman prepared his toothbrush.

“Brush your fangs, love.”

As Virgil scrubbed at his massive fangs and teeth, Roman admired the thick and crusty skin coating his back, stomach and legs. His ribs were showing after not eating for a week and a half, but he didn’t seem any worse for wear.

Roman helped Virgil into the bath, kneeling at his side as he settled himself.

Virgil sighed deeply and closed his eyes, the warmth of the bath seeping into his bones and establishing a home under his skin. He could hear Roman running something through the water beside him and he was startled slightly by the feeling of water running over his hair.

He opened his eyes to see Roman filling up a mug—one that he had clearly just summoned —with the bath water, before pouring it carefully over the back of Virgil’s head. Roman pushed his hand through his wet hair before cupping his cheek and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Virgil only had a moment to grumble about the touch before Roman whispered, “Shut your eyes, love. Let me worry about everything for now, alright?”

Virgil didn’t really think he could, not when everything was so painfully tense and every noise, smell, or movement gave him great stress. He did as Roman asked, however. It was hard to give up control—especially when he was as stressed as he was—but if there was one person Virgil trusted to take care of him, it was Roman.

The bath passed in a haze of warmth, soap suds, fingers scratching at his scalp and a washcloth running over his skin. Occasionally Roman would murmur something under his breath, but Virgil was too lost in complete exhaustion to really process any of it.

“Come on out, love. You’re all clean. I didn’t bother your moult too much, right?”

Virgil rolled his shoulders and shook his head, it felt fine.

“You can sleep now. Do you want clothes on?”

“Pants, no shirt.”

After Roman got him a pair of comfortable sweatpants, he changed and laid down on the pillows on his back again.

“Roman.” He mumbled, Roman’s ears perking up.

He didn’t wanna say he was sick of Roman’s company, or found him annoying, but he just wanted to be left alone. For a while.

Like for the rest of his moult.

Roman understood perfectly though, more than fine to leave his love to his own devices.

“And… can you like, clear out your shit? Please?”

“But won’t you be hungry after you’re done?”

“I’ll ask you to bring it down again. I just… I need to fully isolate for the next few days, until it’s over.”

“Alright, my storm cloud. I love you. G’night.”

And with a kiss on the forehead, Roman left.

The next four days were spent in lazy half-awake moments between dozing, or staring at the ceiling barely focusing. He no longer felt the need to do anything at all.

Except web. He made himself the softest, prettiest, most perfect web mat ever. Like a hammock of his own silk, it was the perfect bed.

He was lounging on his back when suddenly it hit him. He could get it off now. Might as well get it over with.

He made sure the entrance was sealed before flopping on his back.

His heart pounded as the hard skin down his stomach began to crack. His breathing came fast.

He pushed. And pushed. He arched his back up in an impossibly high curve. The skin, like a vest around his torso, broke at the arm holes, and it suddenly felt much looser.

A little more, Virgil, he told himself. He wiggled, spider legs squeezing in and shaking hard to free themselves of the moult.

“Ah!” He couldn’t stop the noise breaking through his clenched teeth. “Ah!”

His muscles burned as he clenched, trying to squeeze himself through a space much smaller than himself.

Fifteen agonizing minutes, fifteen minutes of shaking and tensing as his heart hammered in his chest, stressed and scared and trying.

Then he flipped, like popping the cap off a coke bottle, onto his stomach.

His tender, brand new stomach.

He scuttled away and up onto the wall of the burrow, looking at the moulted skin with disgust and anxiety.

His breathing relaxed as he realized he was done, finished for another six months.

He slowly, scared out of his mind at practically nothing, moved back down and set himself down on feather-soft pillows, letting his body rest.

He woke up the next morning and texted Roman.

You can come

You CANT touch me

Also I’m naked

Roman was down in a second. He was very quiet. Very gentle as he came down with a bag of barbecue flavoured crickets.

Yes, crickets.

“I know your stomach is probably really weak and you shouldn’t be having junk food but you love these things, and they feed the spider in you, so.” He shrugged and opened the package.

Virgil’s mouth started salivating. It had been two weeks without any food and his stomach was growling. He wanted to pour the entire bag down his throat but he knew that would be messy and probably painful. So he held out his hand.

“You want me to pour you some?”

He nodded, drooling.

“Alright.” He poured a handful of crickets into Virgil’s hand and watched as the spider popped them into his mouth one at a time.

“You look so pretty baby.” He remarked, eyes heavy lidded as he looked at Virgil. The new skin was extremely pale and looked as tender and soft as an overripe peach. He was slim and weak like a precious flower, Roman never wanted to protect anyone more than Virgil right now.

“No touches.” Virgil’s voice was horse. “I bruise way too easily.”

“How long with no touches, my love?” The soft plush skin was simply irresistible.

“A week.”

“Nooooo… a week with no cuddles? How will I survive?”

“Hey! I’m the one who needs to be extra careful I don’t hurt myself!”

“How sensitive are you, my love?” Roman said, wanting nothing more than to snuggle Virgil into infinity.

“Enough that clothes rub really uncomfortably. Wait! You’re ridiculously fancy all the time!”

“Yes.”

“Could you make me something silk? Something that won’t irritate my skin?”

“How about I line your hoodie with silk inside?”

“Pants too?”

“Sure. There. Get dressed, baby.”

“Oh that feels really nice. Thanks.”

“Let’s go get some real food in you, love.”

Roman looped a hand around Virgil’s waist and the spider leaned his head on his shoulder.

They two climbed out of the burrow, and Virgil was very, very glad he didn’t have to deal with that for another six months.

[great-jenna-bake-off]

Season 3 Episode 7: Jam Doughnuts

Over the course of this challenge, it so rarely happens that I’m presented with a technical challenge bake that I’ve actually heard of, let alone one I’ve eaten on multiple occasions. So I felt pretty confident going into this week’s bake of Paul Hollywood’s jam doughnuts (although I suppose I’d sound pretty silly ordering a JAM doughnut in an American bakery instead of a JELLY one). Still, this bake presented a few challenges. First, doughnuts are made with a yeasted dough, and I still don’t have a ton of experience baking with yeast, although I’ve picked up quite a bit over the course of this blog. Second, these doughnuts would need to be fried, and I’ve never personally deep-fried anything. But armed with Wilson’s Dutch oven, I felt pretty confident that I would be able to figure it out and not burn myself too horrifically with boiling oil.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/jam_doughnuts_90953

I love a recipe that starts off by dumping all the ingredients into one bowl, so I felt we were off to a good start here.

A big ol’ doughnut batter soup.

I used my hands to mix all the ingredients together until they formed a dough, which turned out to be incredibly sticky.

Got my dad to help with photography on this one.

Next, I added some more water and kneaded the dough in the bowl, at the end of which the dough was still extremely sticky.

Unfortunately I left my Kitchenaid stand mixer complete with dough kneading hook at my apartment and had to do the hard work with my own brute strength.

But my kneading adventure wasn’t over yet: I then had to knead the dough for 10 full minutes on a floured surface until it finally stopped sticking to my hands and formed an autonomous ball.

Kneading a wet dough like this is actually extremely soothing. I highly recommend.

Now it was time for the big proof. I put my little dough ball in a bowl and went on my merry way, hopeful that it would double in size after an hour.

Before…

And oh boy, double in size it did. This was where the recipe may have started to go off the rails a bit. When I returned to my dough an hour later, it was HUGE.

I have created a monster.

I figured that lots of volume was better than no volume, but still, I’ve heard the words “over-proved” through around enough on the show to know that Paul Hollywood does not approve. However, I decided a light airy doughnut was better than a dense one with no rise to the dough at all, and soldiered on. I divided my dough into ten pieces, even breaking out my scale to try to get my dough balls as even as possible. 

Ten relatively even little doughnuts-to-be.

I then stuck my doughnuts under a towel and once again went on my merry way for an hour. But then, I returned to this…

This picture doesn’t really do justice to how huge these doughnuts were, but they were intimidatingly large.

I felt slightly like the Ghostbusters Stay Puft Man had invaded my kitchen.

Adorable, but EVIL.

I’m not sure why my yeast was so active during this bake, but it may have been because it was an unusually hot weekend here in LA, and my kitchen was pretty warm, which is conducive to yeast activity. (Do I sound like I know what I’m talking about yet?) Regardless, I had now devoted over two hours of my life to these doughnuts, and I was determined to see this thing through the end. So I whipped out my candy thermometer, dumped a ton of oil in the Dutch oven, and started heating.

Looks pretty professional!

At first, the temperature on the thermometer rose steadily, but around 300 degrees, I couldn’t help but notice that the heating seemed to have stopped. Why couldn’t I get my oil hotter than 300 degrees, I wondered? Well, when I pulled the thermometer out of the oil to investigate, I discovered this…

A crack in the thermometer just below the 300 degree mark.

So my thermometer was busted, and there was no way to tell how much higher than 300 degrees my oil had gotten. But in the spirit of the competition, I decided to make do with what I had. It was time to fry. As I attempted to separate my giant dough blobs and drop them into the oil, I understood why overproofing dough is problematic: My dough collapsed on itself the moment I tried to move it. Still, maybe it would re-puff back in the oil? I had no choice but to try.

They did in fact regain some of their volume in the fryer, thankfully.

As you can see from this picture, my doughnuts were quite brown, and that happened well before the 5 minutes on each side time limit suggested by Paul’s recipe. This leads me to believe that my oil was in fact much hotter than 350 degrees. In the hopes of not burning my doughnuts, I pulled this batch out quickly, after about 3 minutes. I then rolled them in sugar, which I hoped might hide the most egregious sins of my haphazard frying process.

I’ve seen rounder doughnuts…

For my second batch, I pulled them out of the fryer the moment they turned a perfect golden brown. I was feeling pretty good about myself until a thought arose in my head – what if these doughnuts are perfect on the outside, but undercooked on the inside? I cut one open, and sure enough, it was COMPLETELY RAW. I’m talking dough oozing out all over the counter. I neglected to take a photo because I was immediately overwhelmed with panic – this batch of doughnuts was already covered in sugar and resting from the fryer. How was I going to fix this? I decided to throw them back into the (now slightly cooler) fryer for a second fry, in the hopes that at the very least they wouldn’t be completely raw. I then pulled the mangled doughnuts back out and re-rolled them in sugar, only able to hope and pray that they would be somewhat edible.

Doughnut DISASTER.

Trying to put that particular crisis behind me, I moved on to the filling. I put some strawberry jam in a piping bag, which at least looked somewhat professional.

Ready for a jam transfusion. 

But my woes were far from over. What is the logical point from which to fill a doughnut – the top, the bottom, or the side? If you answered “The side, obviously, why would you even consider any other options?” you are a smarter person than I. In my semi-frantic state, I decided to cut small holes in the BOTTOM of my doughnuts through which to pipe in jam, completely forgetting that gravity exists and would cause a significant portion of the jam to fall right back out again.

This was SO. DUMB. 

By some miracle, some of the jam managed to stay inside the doughnuts, and I finally had something somewhat worthy of presenting to my judges. But first, would any of the bakers fare as poorly as I did for this challenge?

John clearly feels about the same way I do about this challenge. 

The face of pure excitement. 

 Ryan declares himself to be a doughnut expert – in that he eats a lot of doughnuts. 

 Good one, Ryan. 

 James, meanwhile, actually IS a doughnut expert. Apparently, he makes doughnuts all the time. 

That makes one of us, James. 

Most of the bakers are surprised by how sticky the dough is, as I was.

SLIME.

The bakers meticulously measure out their dough using a scale.

This looks far more methodical than my dough-portioning step… 

Then the doughnuts go into the proving drawer for their final proof. 

Hope they don’t stick together! 

And finally, it’s time for the “oily plunge”, as Cathryn calls it.

“Oh my great giddy aunt,” she says as she drops her doughnuts into the fryer.

Notoriously technical challenge-adverse Sarah Jane’s doughnuts are actually looking pretty good.

Look at that golden brown!

Ryan, however, is having issues. His doughnuts seem to have deflated slightly and are no longer looking beautifully spherical. 

These look kind of familiar…

Finally, it’s time to fill the doughnuts with jam, which all the bakers do from the side, because they are not idiots like me.

That jam syringe does look very handy though. 

However, even with the trick of piping the jam in through the side, most of the bakers find their doughnuts hemorrhaging jam. Guess I wasn’t so dumb after all!

The producers really went wild with a plethora of jam oozing shots like this one.

When asked to describe her progress this technical challenge, Cathryn goes with “doughnut doom,” which makes me feel slightly better about my own performance.

Been there, girl.

When the time comes for judging, Paul is far from impressed by Ryan’s doughnuts. He utters the word I am most afraid of during this challenge: “overproved.”

My fears have come to pass.

And yet, Ryan and his overproved doughnuts fare better than Sarah-Jane’s, which looked deliciously golden-brown but are in fact completely raw inside.

This is about what my second batch of doughnuts looked like before I put them back in the fryer. 

In the end, resident doughnut expert James takes home the gold, preserving his reputation for frying excellence.

These look like they could be sold at Dunkin’ Donuts. 

But now, it was time to see how much of a doughnut disaster had occurred in my own kitchen. First, let’s take a look at Paul’s batch:

Sheer perfection, as Mary would say.

And now, the moment of truth…

Not quite picture perfect. 

Okay, so my doughnut isn’t quite a perfect circle, and it’s definitely a few shades darker than a perfectly toasty golden brown. Still, it looks… better than expected? Edible? Not like a complete abomination? But the real test would be feeding them to my esteemed judges. 

***

Matt’s Review: This is one sticky pastry. Personally, I’m into it. I’d always prefer ooey-gooey syrup to hardened frosting, and this delivered in spades. I will say, there wasn’t as much nuance to the flavor, and it tasted pretty much the same throughout. But having said that… I went to take a quick nibble before taking the donut upstairs to dig in and ended up just standing in the middle of my kitchen stuffing my face like a monster. My roommate saw the whole thing. I’m not proud. Overall, I’d say this one wasn’t my favorite of the bunch. It didn’t have a perfect texture and the flavor wasn’t next level. But if you put another one in front of me right now I’d down it in about thirty seconds. There WAS a soggy bottom. I think I'm contractually obligated to comment. 

Wilson’s Review: Outside is brown, with a nice glaze. Nice and crisp, but color makes me think it’s a bit overdone? Could be the donuts were in the fryer for a smidge too long. Cutting it open, crumb appears a bit compressed. Not as airy as one would hope. Texture and taste are good, but there seems to be a slight problem with the fill - It’s not evenly distributed, which changes the whole experience. Overall, has potential, but you really need to watch that fryer.

*** 

So in the interest of full disclosure, I will say that the doughnuts I gave the judges came from my first batch, which was fried through the center the first time and were not subjected to a second dunk in the oil. I’m not really sure what the second frying did to the texture of my other batch, but they weren’t raw anymore, and I fed them to my parents and my friend Amanda who seemed to find them somewhat pleasant to eat. So I’ll consider that a good save on my part. This was not my most successful challenge to date – in fact, I’d say it was one of my worst bakes yet. However, given all the difficulties I encountered on this bake, from rapid-proofing dough to a broken thermometer to my own jam-filling stupidity, I’m pleased that I ended up with anything at all to serve, and that it vaguely resembled a jam doughnut. I guess I’ll have to just try again until I end up with a doughnut that is Paul Hollywood-worthy, but at least I’ll be somewhat confident that I can eat the rejects in the meantime.

[nobodyfamousposts]

What If - Adrien Rejection in Felix Culpa

Making this its separate post as well for those who don’t want to have to scroll to the cut to see it.

Continuation of this.

(Eyes salt shaker…)

(Drops a full shaker of salt into the mix)

She slapped him.

Marinette had actually—

“It’s been said that everyone has their limits of how much they can take.” Came a voice, and Adrien turned to see Felix staring down at him with what had to be the coldest he’d ever seen him. “I never thought out of everyone it would be you to push Dupain-Cheng to hers.“

“I didn’t!” He insisted. “I just…I was just trying to keep the peace.”

“No, you were trying to maintain complacency. There is a difference. Your assurances of being in her corner ring hollow from the other side of the room.” He closed his eyes and released a breath. “But that’s hardly far from the norm for you.”

Adrien’s growled in frustration. Of course Felix would jump on him, but he wasn’t in the wrong here! “She was being cruel. There was no reason to try to out Lila when she wasn’t hurting anyone!”

The older male sighed.

“I know I’ve called you an idiot before, but that was by no means an invitation to prove me right.”

That actually got his attention. He looked up at the other in confusion. “Felix?”

But the other blond simply walked past him without even glancing his way.

“Do us all a favor, Agreste. If you aren’t going to honor your word, then kindly say nothing.”

With that, Felix was gone, leaving the confused and ignorant child behind.

He had someone more important to see to.

When he found her, she was seated on a park bench, sobbing and unaware of her surroundings. It made for a sorrowful image, and though Felix struggled with emotional interaction, he wanted to intervene.

And so he approached, slowly and cautiously. Not like she was a scared rabbit who would flee at the first sign of danger, but so she could have the time to regain her bearings and be aware of his approach.

“Felix? What are you…” She paused, cutting herself off as she realized. “Oh. You saw, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I was the only one, fortunately.” He had made well sure of that, as his very presence seemed to be enough to deter most people from trying to linger. And he was glad he had, as the last thing anyone needed was for someone to be around and potentially overhear the commotion.

Marinette nodded in thanks, but didn’t speak.

Something in him ached as her tears continued to fall.

“I apologize.” He stated, making her look up at him in surprise. “I want to help you, but I’m not the most…proficient with comfort or emotional support.”

She wiped away a tear. “Are you going to call me a bully?”

“No.”

She gave a small bitter smile. “Then you’re already doing a better job than Adrien.”

It was a joke, he was sure. But it wasn’t funny. And neither of them felt up to laughing.

“May I sit with you?”

She nodded, and he settled next to her. Enough distance to offer her space, but close enough that she could lean on him for comfort if she so chose.

The two simply sat in silence for a few minutes. He didn’t bother asking if she was okay—that was a stupid question, as clearly she wasn’t. And he wasn’t going to force her to talk just to start up a conversation.

This…Marinette needed to regain some control. He needed to let her speak at her own time. So he simply sat and waited.

A silent comfort.

Until finally…

“It’s just…this isn’t how I was expecting it to go.”

He tilted his head, curiously.

“I knew he might not feel the same. I mean, he’d been calling me his ‘good friend’ since forever. But…for THAT? Just…does he even see what’s going on?”

“He does seem to have a propensity to blindness.” Felix remarked, dryly.

She chuckled at that. That may have been some sign of progress.

“It’s just…what was I supposed to do? Sit there and do nothing? While she insulted me? Insulted my—my family? And everyone just let her. HE even did…”

Felix still regretted not being present for that particular altercation. By the time he arrived, Adrien was trying to play peacemaker, but only seemed to be playing more into Lila’s hands the further things went. He managed to help bring it to an end, but not before Marinette was left feeling deeply hurt and Lila had another pity party that the class attempted to cater to.

And still that little fool did nothing.

He grimaced and looked at his hands, noting the way his fists were clenched.

“I should have stayed out of it like you have. I should have just let it go. Let Lila lie and manipulate everyone. At least then…” She shook her head. “I was so stupid.”

He frowned at that. His reasons for his responses were his own. But while he had thought her actions foolish, that didn’t make her wrong.

“I stayed out of it because I have little attachment to those involved.” He told her. “I’m not close to anyone else in that class, so I can’t say it is of any interest to me if they decide to be particularly stupid.”

She frowned and looked down. He wasn’t having it though.

“Marinette,” He said, using her name for once and causing her to glance up at him in surprise. “You spoke up because these are your friends and their wellbeing matters to you. Don’t belittle yourself for caring about others.”

She stared. Feeling he had her attention, he continued.

“I stay silent because I don’t believe it’s my responsibility to attempt to save people from their own stupidity. If they are so desperate to allow themselves to be fooled, then it isn’t worth my time or energy to attempt to stop them.”

He looked to her.

“But since I’ve met you, you’ve always been someone who would act if you knew something was wrong. You have a sense of righteousness that is…admirable, for all that it may be troublesome at times. You stand up for others. It isn’t wrong to stand up for yourself as well.”

She shook at that, giving another sob even as she finally start to smile more genuinely.

“I’m not…good…with this sort of thing.” Felix admitted. “I don’t know the right thing to say or the best way to offer comfort. But I can listen.”

Marinette bit her lip and looked away, uncertain.

“Feelings—especially strong ones—need to be acknowledged. I can let you vent. Give you a chance to process them safely.”

If nothing else, he could do that.

Fortunately, Marinette seemed to agree. And soon enough, the entire encounter was spilling from her lips. He had been there for part of it, at least. But this gave her a chance to put everything out there for herself, in her own words.

A chance to speak in a way she may not be able to otherwise.

And the more he heard, the more he felt that a simple slap was less than Adrien Agreste had deserved

“He kept saying we were in this together. But we weren’t. It was just me. On my own. Because ‘it’s not like she’s hurting anyone’, right? Like—like she wasn’t still being hurtful. Like she wasn’t hurting me.”

He nodded, all too aware of the depths of Lila’s attacks. Especially with the way the others were trailing after her, following her every word. What would it take before they would start echoing her statements about Marinette and her family? How many times would they hear it before they would let it cloud the truth and allow such good things to be spoiled?

“And for him to keep saying he’s on my side only to turn around and defend her? Like SHE is the victim? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to believe his claims that he’s with me when he’s standing at her side with everyone else.”

Out of everything, that had been one of the things he disliked about the other model. How he would try to enforce his silly notion of “peace” between unfriendly parties in a horribly one-sided manner. How often, he wondered, had Agreste lectured a victim while ignoring or even condoning the behavior of their offender? There was little doubt at this point that Marinette had been on the receiving end of that judgmental attitude more than once.

Agreste was an enabler. Pure and simple.

“I could accept it if he just didn’t feel the same for me. But for it to be BECAUSE of her? Because trying to stop her from hurting others is somehow worse than what she’s been doing? That’s just…too much.”

He nodded in agreement. That was what infuriated Felix the most about the situation. He could not begrudge Agreste his feelings, even if he felt his obvious obsession with Ladybug was foolish and pointless. But Agreste had used the situation as a sort of springboard to force his view on Marinette, and completely disregarded her feelings in the process.

“And what does it say when he knows full well what she’s doing but is admonishing me like I’m the bad guy?” She laughed bitterly before looking up at Felix, eyes teary like she was about to cry once more. “Did you know he called me the bully?”

He was aware. He had been there for that unfortunate part.

She shuddered and hugged herself. “He…he even grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. Just to get a promise that would protect HER. He knows what she’s doing. He knows how I feel. Does he just not care?”

Felix reached out and placed an arm around her, drawing her to him in something akin to a hug.

“He said he was supporting me, but all he cared about was defending her. He called me the bully when I’m the one she’s been hurting.”

“You tried to tell him.”

“I did! I pointed out how it was unfair!” She said, voice raised in anger. “But no! He’s only worried about Lila being akumatized if she feels bad. Doesn’t he even care about how all this is making me feel?”

“If it’s any consolation,” Felix said, “I believe it may be due to his trust of your strength of will and capability to not be akumatized.”

She chuckled a little at that, but still bitterly. “Just because I CAN fend off an akuma doesn’t mean I should have to.”

“No.” He agreed. “You shouldn’t.”

She hiccuped.

“It’s not fair.”

“Unreasonable expectations often are. While it speaks well of you that he sees you as someone who can act better in the face of adversity, it rings hollow when he seems more inclined to force you to meet standards he doesn’t require from anyone else.”

She sniffled at that, leaning into him and speaking hollowly. “Because if it’s just me, it’s not like it matters, right?”

He stayed silent. He knew the answer already.

“I’ve liked Adrien. Like-liked him for a really long time.” She wilted. “But if Adrien is going to do that…say he’s there with me only to turn on me while excusing what she does…then he’s just as much of a liar as she is. He isn’t…he’s not the good person I thought he was.”

Felix hummed for a moment, thoughtfully.

“Agreste had every right to reject you.” He finally said, making her look up at him in surprise. “His feelings are his own and he cannot force them. But the way he attempted to use those feelings against you…that was wrong.”

Felix stared her in the eyes.

“HE was wrong.”

She felt her vision go blurry again and she blinked quickly in an attempt to try to stop the tears from forming.

“He twisted his rejection to make it about you—how you were lacking, and how you needed to change to be agreeable to him. He tried to use his rejection of you to push his own agenda. He tried to pressure your compliance with something that was hurting you—first through his feelings and then through force. That…what he tried to do was emotionally manipulate you. His judgement of you. His calling you a bully when it is clearly the other way around…”

Marinette gaped.

“That is what a bully does. That is what he is.”

“He’s not—”

“Even if he’s not a bully, he is still at best an enabler. He wishes to keep the status quo so much that he would try to force you to hold to it regardless of its effects on you or anyone else for that matter. That…” He shook his head, unable to find any other way to say it. “That isn’t healthy. That is horribly unhealthy and I think…for all that it may hurt you to hear it, I think you’re better off for this.”

Her breath hitched at that.

“I’ve seen the way you’ve been around him. How much you’ve done just to try to talk to him. How much it takes out of you. And…what concerns me is how time and time again, you only seem more miserable for doing so. This is something that time and again only seems to hurt you. And it is something that time and again, he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.”

She wanted to argue. Really, she did.

But how could she argue that? After everything that had just happened. She reached a hand to her arm—wincing at the lingering pain that reminded her of how Adrien had grabbed it in his previous attempt to force his way. Felix took her hand in his own, much to her surprise, before he then released it and instead rested his hand gently on the slowly fading marks.

“If his priority has been Lila all this time, then it’s safe to assume that she will remain his bigger concern regardless.”

She winced.

“And if he is going to prioritize the well being of someone who would willfully harm others over someone more deserving…” Over you,went unsaid, “then you are healthier without him.”

She let loose the tears she had been trying to hold back and sobbed.

“But I’m not happier.”

He hesitated, but finally gave in to the impulse and hugged her fully. She leaned into him fully, accepting the comfort.

“Not yet.” He admitted, solemn and apologietic, but somehow, it sounded like a promise.

“Not yet.”

But soon…

He stayed there and let her cry it out for what felt like hours, but he didn’t begrudge her. And when her tears finally slowed and her breathing calmed, only then did he ease his hold. But he didn’t release her—not fully. Instead, he remained a stable support at her side as he led her home and to the comfort of those who loved her.

Neither noticed the silent intruder who was the only witness to their discussion. He did nothing but watch and listen, helpless to act in the growing evidence of his own guilt.

[welllpthisishappening]

By City-Wide Decree

It's a crush.

And in any other situation, that would be it. He'd be able to keep going about his day in normal pining fashion. But nothing about this is normal. Because in the last few minutes Bellamy's complained about shredded cheese and Clarke's making jokes about Bleecker Street and apparently there's some city-wide rule about car services now.

Or: the last thing Bellamy Blake expected during a national health pandemic was being forced to kiss his neighbor.

----

Rating: Teen Word Count: Just over 5.6K AN: Hey there, internet. It was really only a matter of time until I wrote some kind of nonsense here. But I do want to say that this story does include COVID-19 stuff, so if that is not for you, I totally get it. That being said, this admittedly very silly nonsense, is very much just that and hopefully it offers a bit of a distraction for a few minutes. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam

----

He almost drops the box of macaroni in his hand. 

The edge stabs his palm, a weird pain that's really more like the general sense of Bellamy’s frustration because just a few seconds ago he witnessed two grown adults glaring at each other over the final few rolls of toilet paper in aisle five. And there aren’t really that many other people in this grocery store, which he supposes is a good thing. Everyone taking social distancing seriously and staying home and he’s got every intention of doing the same, but first he’s got to deal with this. 

“Pre-shredded cheese,” he mumbles under his breath, glancing at the box. He’s bent the edge. He hopes he doesn’t break the box. There weren’t many left in that aisle, either. Just the one thing of shells Bellamy had been able to grab and four boxes of whole wheat linguine, which, really, almost offends him more than the idea of pre-shredded cheese. 

In a variety of flavors. 

And adjectives. 

“Cheese should not have adjectives attached to it,” Bellamy continues, and apparently he’s reached the crazy portion of his day. 

That also seems to be the standard for most of the world, though. He’d been very close to breaking up the toilet paper fight. So maybe he’s just catching up to everyone else. He needs to go home. He needs to—

“Pick a goddamn cheese,” he says. Whatever sound he makes at his own private conversation isn’t so much a sigh, but rather another round of frustration and possible resignation and taco-flavored cheese can’t be that bad. 

Right? Maybe. 

He can’t imagine what kind of preservatives are used in taco-flavored cheese. Like..are there even spices involved? There should be spices. When all of this is over he’s going to write a strongly worded letter to the Kraft family. 

Bellamy sighs again, drawing more than a few looks and a glare or too, and he’s going to give himself a headache if he keeps rolling his eyes at their current rate. He lunges forward, careful to account for the box of macaroni and the small thing of buttermilk that’s honestly starting to make his fingers go numb and—

An arm moves next to his. 

She’s also a little off-balance — a backpack that’s close to bursting and something that might actually be paint streaked across her left cheek, but Bellamy can barely register that when she’s already starting to stumble back, a package of margarine clutched in her hand. 

“Oh,” Clarke breathes, eyes going wide and what looks like the first hints of a smile tugging at the ends of her mouth. “Hey, Bell.”

His stomach flies into his throat. 

As per usual. 

That might be the most normal part of his day so far. 

To say that he’s been harboring a pretty monumental crush on Clarke Griffin since she moved into the apartment across the hall from Bellamy would be—

Accurate. 

It would be accurate, honestly.

In almost painful fashion. 

Six months ago, she showed up with a handful of boxes and paint on her jeans, and a smile that seemed to reverberate through him. In a way where that doesn’t sound insane. Maybe he wasn’t catching up to everyone else. Maybe he was just sprinting past them. Towards crazy. 

The kind of crazy that also means he’s stupid into his neighbor. 

She’d said hi first that day too. So he offered to help her carry some boxes and she’d promised she’d be ok, but he was stubborn and a little overwhelmed by the very specific color of her eyes and she really did have a lot of stuff and they’d ordered from the Thai place up the street after. 

And if that's not the basis for a pretty solid friendship, then Bellamy isn’t sure what is. 

Only that’s really all it is. Because, well—Bellamy isn’t sure. Octavia would say he’s being an idiot and to some extent that’s true, but he and Clarke are pretty good friends now and sometimes she curls up on the corner of his couch when she’s stressed about the arts budget of the high school she works at in the Bowery or he kicks on her door when he’s got some new pages he thinks she might like to read and it’s—

Good. 

Normal. 

In a world that is very quickly spiraling out of control. 

He hopes those people didn’t actually start yelling over toilet paper. He’s not sure his brain would be able to cope with that. 

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asks, taking another step back and he hadn’t noticed she’s got another bag of art supplies in her left hand. 

“Glaring at cheese.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Glaring at cheese,” Bellamy repeats. He nods towards the minimal selection, Clarke’s eyes widening at his admittedly petty reaction to the cheese issue. It should not be an issue. “I—well, I’m running low on some food and I—” He grits his teeth, suddenly hopeful that he’ll be able to melt into the supermarket floor. 

That’s probably not hygienic. 

“Is it super top secret, then?” Bellamy clicks his tongue. “No, it’s—ok, do you promise not to laugh?” “Absolutely not.” “You look like you staged a battle getting here.” “Nah,” she objects, but there’s a slight blush creeping across her cheeks and it’s probably wrong to feel some kind of victory at that. Just, like—with everything else going on. Flirting should probably be a low priority at this point. 

“Then…” “Why are you angry at the cheese?” “Mostly the selection of cheese,” Bellamy admits. “Because I’m supposed to use a very specific kind, so—” “—For what?” “My mom’s mac and cheese recipe.” She gapes at him. Which is not the reaction he was hoping for, really. He’s not sure what would be better, but he had been pretty partial to the blush and he’s positive this is somehow the paint streak’s fault. 

Clarke has a habit of getting paint everywhere. 

There’s still a stain on his floor from three weeks ago. 

“Did you think I was going to laugh at you making your mom’s mac and cheese recipe during an international health pandemic?” Clarke cries. It draws another round of curious stares and one set of incredibly narrow eyes from a woman with a cropped haircut and a cart practically overflowing with paper products. 

Clarke sneers. “I might actually fight someone for bulk-buying things. God, people are—” “—The worst?” “Is that why you’d thought I’d laugh at you being adorable?”

Bellamy forgets all about his stomach and its current location in his throat. He’s far more preoccupied with the matter of his exploding heart. Which is not nearly as painful an experience as he would have assumed. 

His smile threatens to take up most of his face, muscles unaccustomed to the movement when everything else seems to be going to shit. He hopes standing this long in the dairy aisle doesn’t adversely affect the buttermilk. 

That’s a key part of the recipe too. 

“Adorable, huh?” “Oh shut up,” Clarke grumbles, kicking her foot out of habit. She’s still a few feet away from him. That probably shouldn’t be disappointing either. In any situation, honestly. “Seriously, are you out here being weird about cheese because—” “—A quick detour out of adorable.” “Only because you keep interrupting me.”

He smiles wider. “When I was a kid, my mom used to make this mac and cheese for every major event. Birthdays, holidays, great grade on a test.” “Because you were a nerd?” “Look who’s interrupting the flow of the story.” “You should consider speeding up your approach” Clarke laughs. “The lady with forty-thousand paper napkins might come back and start pelting you with them for taking so long.” “You think she bought those paper napkins for reasons not related to eating food?” “God.” His shoulders shake a little when he chuckles — another threat to the pasta and his grip on any of the groceries he’s trying very hard to buy. “Moral of the story? I’m stressed out, people continue to be the worst, I saw a bunch of people, including actual grown adults, sitting out in Washington Square like nothing is wrong, so in an attempt to combat the general horribleness of the world I am going to make my mom’s mac and cheese recipe. Only apparently a lot of other people have had the same thought—” “—About your mom’s mac and cheese recipe?” 

“Bring the paper napkin lady back here so I can throw stuff at you.” Clarke grins, and the overall brightness of her eyes is probably just a byproduct of the lighting in the dairy aisle of Gristedes. Or so Bellamy will tell himself for the next forty-eight hours. 

“Taco cheese does not scream mac and cheese,” he continues. “But I’m also not willing to stage some sort of quest for the appropriate kind of cheddar. Or blocks of cheese.”

“It can’t be shredded cheese?” “Eh. I’m willing to make some sacrifices at this point.” “Wow,” Clarke drawls. “How gallant of you. And you wanted to make it yourself, then? No thoughts of take-out from Murray’s.”

“Don’t insult me like that.” “You have issues with a place that actually has cheese in its name?” “Murray’s Cheese Bar is an overpriced tourist trap that does not need my business to stay in business. I’m sure they’re perfectly fine.” “Murray himself?” “Or whatever corporate chain that place is owned and operated by. Plus, have you ever had their cheese plate? Like—just, it was gross. We got, maybe, half a dozen crackers.”

Clarke presses her lips together, but her laugh still manages to find its way into the six-feet of mandated space between her and Bellamy. “Did Octavia order the cheese plate at Murray’s once?” “And a bottle of chianti.” “Fancy.” “Gross,” Bellamy amends. “I can’t stand red wine.” “Why didn’t I know that you hated Murray’s so much? Do you feel that way about—” “—Most of the places on Bleecker?” Bellamy finishes, ignoring Clarke’s wide-eyed stare at yet another interruption. They have got to get out of this store. The processed air is obviously going to his head. Or, whatever. 

Maybe just the state of his heart. “Down with the establishment, huh?” Clarke quips. She absolutely, positively does not rock towards him. Bellamy is sure. 

He hums, and maybe his issue really lies in the overall state of his heart. Explosions cannot be healthy. In a biological sense. “Why are you here, then? I’m assuming it’s not just to share the very high opinions you’ve got about the restaurants on Bleecker.” “Ok, that is not what I said at all. I’m not advocating we start doing some kind of Bleecker restaurant crawl when this is all over, even if that one Gelato place on the corner is good.” “Tourist trap.” “Is the oxygen thinner on that high horse you’re riding?” Bellamy scrunches his nose when he makes a vaguely ridiculous noise in the back of his throat, part agreement, part unspoken suggestion to keep talking. “Whatever,” Clarke grumbles. “I am here because I needed butter to make cookies. But there’s only this garbage.” 

She brandishes the margarine, arm flung out in front of her and Bellamy refuses to be held accountable for whatever noise he makes at that. Just as ridiculous as the last one. With even more flirting involved. 

“I walked down here,” Clarke adds. “There are no other stores open and—” “—Walked from where?” Bellamy asks sharply. He doesn’t mean for the words to come out quite like that, but he’s also not entirely sure what feeling is shooting down either one of his arms. 

He’s very glad Octavia isn’t here. 

She’d make fun of him. 

More so than usual. 

“Relax,” Clarke mutters, jerking the bag at her side. “I needed stuff for class, but most of my supplies are still at school and it’s not like I can get into school any time soon, so I went up to Marmorino. Nyko agreed to open for, like, twenty minutes so I could get some new brushes and—” She shrugs, all nonchalance. Like walking twenty blocks to the art supply store in the middle of that previously discussed pandemic so she can keep teaching kids how to paint isn't equal parts absurd and wonderful.  “What are you going to paint?” Bellamy asks. “We’re doing life studies. Figured it’d be a good way to get parents involved too. You know, kids paint their mom or their dad or...whatever. Like I said, I just needed a brushes. And butter.”

“Those go hand in hand, huh? You know I have butter.”

Clarke blinks. And her grip on the bag noticeably loosens. “What?” “Butter,” he repeats. “That’s how this all started. I kept opening my fridge and the butter was sitting there, like it was taunting me and—”

“—Can the butter form coherent sentences?” “I’m offering you butter, princess. And mac and cheese. If you want it.”

Another blink. 

That’s...Bellamy doesn’t want to consider what that is. Because this is not the first time he’s done this. Or vice versa. Far from it. They both live alone and they’re friends and it’s not that far across the hall, after all. 

There’s just not usually an international health pandemic involved. 

“Yeah?” Clarke asks softly, like she’s waiting to shout surprise. Or throw paper napkins at them for standing in the dairy aisle for so long. 

Bellamy nods. “Yeah. That’s how humanity survives, right? We pool resources and seek out companionship in times of difficulty.” “Something like that, I’m sure.” “Ok, so you leave the gross margarine here and I’ll deal with the taco cheese.” “I have cheddar in my fridge.” Maybe this is a dream. Maybe the after-effects of his exploding heart have left Bellamy hallucinating in the middle of Gristedes. Maybe he got food poisoning from the cheese plate at Murray’s when Octavia visited three weeks ago and he’s only just now discovering it.

Clarke smiles. 

“If you want it,” she adds. “I—well, I’d had big plans for grilled cheese quarantines, but there was only block cheese at that point and I haven’t even opened it. Yours for the taking.” He nods slowly, trying to come to terms with all of this. It’s not flirting. No one flirts like this. They shouldn’t flirt like this. 

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “That’d be great. A, uh—COVID team, huh?” Idiot. 

Idiot. 

He’s sure Octavia knows about this. Somehow. A sixth sense that alerts his younger sister to his overwhelming idiocy and she’d been annoyed that he hadn’t invited Clarke to Murray’s with them. 

“Something like that,” Clarke says again. “Ok, then let me pay for a car back home. I don’t know if my shoulders can cope with this backpack and—do not offer to carry this backpack for me,” she adds as soon as Bellamy opens his mouth, “I’ll get the paper napkin lady back here, I swear to God.” “She’d probably call a manager on you.”

Clarke scoffs, but her smile hasn’t changed and Bellamy spends most of the next twenty-four minutes standing in the checkout line thinking only about that. Until Clarke tells the guy in front of them to “stop being a dick” to the cashier when he starts complaining about the lack of bread in aisle two. 

The guy doesn’t say anything else after that. 

And the cashier definitely mumbles “thanks” when Bellamy puts his slightly bent box of pasta on the conveyor belt. 

They don’t spend long waiting for the car — and Bellamy can’t imagine business is exactly booming, which is part of the reason he agreed to this and the rest is entirely selfish and possibly a little stalker’ish and he just likes spending time with Clarke. No matter the world’s collective health situation. 

“You two together?” the driver asks, hardly opening the window and it’s not easy to understand what he’s saying.  

Bellamy furrows his brows. “Excuse me?” He swings open the door, sliding across the backset and moving his feet so Clarke’s backpack can fit comfortably between them. And he’s not one to pass judgement, particularly not now, but the whole thing looks a bit like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. There are sheets of plastic wrap stretched between the front seats, the driver wearing gloves and casting impatient glances in his rearview mirror. 

Bellamy glances at Clarke’s phone — the driver’s name is Bryan. 

“C’mon man,” Bryan presses. “I need an answer.” “I don’t—” Bellamy starts, shaking his head and that dream theory is starting to make more and more sense. “What are you talking about?”

“The rules.” “Ok, that doesn’t clear it up. Can we just go?” “Nope. I need you to tell me. I don’t want my license revoked.” “What the hell are you talking about?” Clarke lets out a soft gasp, eyes going impossibly wide. “Shit. Are you kidding me?” “What part of nope are you guys having a difficult time wrapping your heads around?” Bryan asks. “Listen, I can’t break the law, ok? I—we’re living in crazy times and—” “—Seriously what are you talking about?” Bellamy snaps. 

Bryan takes a deep breath, shoulders moving with the effort, and Clarke hasn’t looked Bellamy’s direction in what feels like an eternity. He can’t rationalize the chill that slinks down his spine, a growing dread that threatens to tug him through the backseat or take up residence in between his ribs and he’s got to stop making so many sweeping biological assessments. 

There are no facts to back any of this up. 

And yet he can’t quite understand the look on Clarke’s face either, teeth digging into her lower lip while she refuses to meet his gaze. “Guys,” Bryan groans. “In or out, yes or not, just—prove it.” Bellamy opens his mouth again, ready to demand answers if need be, but Clarke is already talking and the words don’t process immediately — mandate from the mayor and I totally forgot and only real couples. 

She grits her teeth when she finally looks up, a pained expression that almost makes Bellamy shiver. It’s unnaturally warm in the city that afternoon. “Did you not see the press conference?” she mutters. He shakes his head. “I, uh—I totally forgot about it, but ride-share services are still cool and essential, they just...if you share, you have to be a couple.” “Real couple too,” Bryan adds. “That’s what the mayor said.” Clarke squeezes one eye shut. “He did, yeah.”

Bellamy has no idea what’s happening. That’s not hyperbole. He genuinely cannot keep up with the conversation or the events of the last few hours and he’s certain this is now somehow the fault of the paper napkin lady and those toilet paper people and— “So,” Bryan continues, “either prove it or lose it?” “Lose what, exactly?” Bellamy rasps. He doesn’t take his eyes off Clarke, can see just how tight her jaw has gone and the exact moment her tongue flashes between her lips and maybe it would just be better for everyone if he grabbed her backpack and sprinted the fifteen blocks back to their apartment. 

Apartment building. 

They don’t live in the same apartment. 

Seriously, screw the toilet paper people. 

“My services,” Bryan answers. “Seriously. I’m not getting fucked over by this. So prove you're a real couple or start walking.” “And how would you like us to do that, exactly?” “Kiss her.” It is several different miracles that Bellamy does not rip down Bryan’s plastic wrap wall right then and there. He considers it, fingers flexing and head at a sudden angle while he glares at the rearview mirror. But something keeps him from actually reacting and it might be Clarke’s soft ok a few inches away. 

They are no longer the appropriate six feet apart. 

“Wait, what?” Bellamy asks, only marginally disappointed when his voice manages to crack over both words. 

Clarke’s smile doesn’t waver, but it shifts slightly — a little cautious and a little nervous and, maybe, a little hopeful. She leans forward, ignoring the goddamn backpack and how straight Bellamy’s spine has gone, breathing quickly like he did run those fifteen blocks. “Just a kiss, right?” she mutters. “Couples kiss. That’s—” “—Real couples,” Bryan amends. Bellamy might strangle Bryan before they get out of this car. 

“Right, right, right. And that’s—it’s not a big deal.” Bellamy’s never going to blink again. 

“I don’t know how else to double check,” Bryan admits. 

Clarke hums, still moving and Bellamy doesn’t flinch when her hand lands on his bent knee. So, points or whatever. Her tongue flashes once more, a soft huff of air that barely reaches his cheek when she’s close enough and this can’t possibly be sanitary. 

God, he does not want to be thinking about that now. 

Bellamy doesn’t remember bending his neck, but it appears to have happened anyway, curls threatening to fall in his eyes. That’s not right. The top of Clarke’s backpack digs into his chest, what feels like an actual paint brush pushing against the side and he’s going to say something. He is. He’s going to promise that he can walk and he’ll carry the backpack and just meet her at home, but none of the words seem all that interested in coming out of his mouth and his lips pop softly when they part, another bit of movement and a direct violation of social distancing and—

His eyes flutter shut when Clarke kisses him. 

With Bryan watching intently. 

And it’s not...well, it’s not quite the way Bellamy had always imagined when he’d let himself imagine this. Far more often than he should. It’s stilted and awkward, weird angles and bumped noses. It’s chins jostling for position and that fucking backpack, both of them far too aware of the two bags of groceries at their feet. 

Bellamy does his best not to actually sigh — even more frustration, that does not belong in a situation like this, but then his eyes open and the tip of Clarke’s tongue finds his lips and everything kind of spirals after that. 

His hand flies up, curling into her hair and pulling her closer, a crunch that is absolutely the box of shells, but the shells can go fuck off for all Bellamy cares. He opens his mouth, lets his head tilt slightly until they find a rhythm that’s a bit like driving at seventy miles an hour on an open highway. That’d be impossible anywhere in New York. 

Even under quarantine. 

And yet. Bellamy feels like he’s rushing towards something, everything and anything and a variety of words that should be far more overwhelming than they are. He nips at Clarke’s lower lip, lets his nose drag along her cheek until he’s practically tracing that streak of paint and the sound that draws will be branded on every inch of him for the foreseeable future. They only break apart to catch their breath, the rhythm going almost desperate when Clarke’s nails scratch at the back of Bellamy’s neck and—

Bryan coughs. 

He might not tip Bryan. 

No, he’ll definitely tip Bryan. It’s a fucking pandemic. 

Bellamy’s not a total dick. 

Just…

“So, uh, cool,” Bryan says, already pulling out onto the street. “Thanks for the, uh—for the demonstration, then.” Clarke jerks back. 

And Bellamy feels like he’s been thrown in the East River. Specifically. Because that river is notoriously grosser than the Hudson. 

He’s gross. 

He twists, trying to put as much space between them as possible when they’re still in Bryan’s silver Toyota Camry. And he doesn’t actually count the minutes that it takes to get back to their building, but it’s awfully close because it seems to take a lifetime and happen far too soon, Clarke mumbling her thanks and hoping Bryan doesn’t have to drive too much in the future and Bellamy doesn’t want to think about the state of that box of shells. 

It feels far too literal. 

And they don’t rush up the stairs, both Bellamy and Clarke taking even steps as they do their mutual and collective best to stare at their shoes. But then he’s tugging his keys out of his back pocket and the air feels like it’s crackling around him, enough tension to power the island of Manhattan — especially when Clarke follows him inside his apartment.

“So, uh—” she starts, a click of her jaw when she notices the look on Bellamy’s face. 

His eyes have started to water, they’re so wide, standing in the middle of his exceptionally tiny living room. “Clarke, I—” “—Oh shit, I forgot the butter.” “Clarke.” “No, no, I should go get the butter, right? Yeah. That’s—shit, I didn’t even think. I...sorry, sorry, it’s—” She shakes her head brusquely, like she’s trying to shake away the awkwardness and Bellamy wishes there weren’t any awkwardness. He wishes he’d asked her out before the world started falling apart. 

He’s back in her space in a few more steps, fingers finding her flailing hands. She’s biting her lip again. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” “No?” “Absolutely not,” Bellamy promises. “I might, though. I just—I didn’t realize what was going on and then—” “I’m going to go get the butter,” Clarke announces, sounding almost disappointed at the idea. She pulls her hands back, a quick hiss of pain when she manages to elbow herself in the side in the process, all but running out of his apartment. Her backpack is still on his couch. 

Bellamy doesn’t move. He’s not sure he can, honestly. His legs feel like they’ve locked themselves in place, waiting with those same wide eyes for something he’s not sure he can have because it can’t possibly happen like this and Octavia is probably hysterical on the other side of the country. 

And he’s still not counting seconds or minutes, when he finally manages to get his feet to cooperate. So he can wash his hands. Like a responsible adult. Not one who hoards paper products. 

The footsteps that return to his still-open door a little slower than usual. 

“You didn’t close your door,” Clarke points out. She kicks back, a tremulous smile and Bellamy can’t believe this is going to happen while she’s holding butter. And at least two pounds of flour. He’s not sure what’s going to happen, exactly. “Did you even turn your oven on?” He shakes his head. “No.” “Real fond of that word all of a sudden, aren’t you?”

Bellamy doesn’t think he imagines the edge in her voice, narrowing his eyes slightly like that will help him pick up on certain conversational cues. It doesn’t — especially when Clarke breezes by him, marching into her kitchen like it’s hers or could be hers and that’s probably when he decides. What he wants to happen. “Do you want to make the cookies or the mac and cheese first?” she asks, and that question sounds more determined than any Bellamy’s heard before. Some of the tension in his shoulders disappears.

“Hey, will you talk to me?” 

“About something other than our cooking order?” “Yeah,” Bellamy nods. “Definitely about something other than our cooking order.” “I’m really hungry, though.”

His laugh has a certain strangled quality to it, but that may be a product of his heart, recently reformed and re-exploded. As soon as Bellamy realized what kissing Clarke was like. “I’m not going to let you starve,” Bellamy says. “Just—c’mon, look at me at least.”

She doesn’t. She pushes up on her toes instead, stabbing at the buttons on his oven. Bellamy sighs, doing his best not to start proclaiming things, giving voice to the sentiment that’s been bouncing around his soul for the better part of the last six months, and the flour that’s sitting on his minimal counter space is half open. 

The top’s rolling up, a haphazard curl to the paper, which only makes it easier to reach his hand inside without Clarke noticing. 

And immediately flick his fingers in Clarke’s direction. 

Her eyes flash, mouth dropping open, but Bellamy just grins, another flick that leaves flour clinging to Clarke’s cheek and the ends of her hair and she’d never washed that paint streak off. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands. 

“Got you to look at me.” “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Am I laughing?”

Clarke groans, trying to shake the flour off. All it does is ensure her hair shifts and the smell of her shampoo takes over most of the air in his kitchen. “You’re an idiot,” she sneers, “that’s what you are. I’m trying to feed us and—” “—You’re really very concerned about that. We’ve got to reorganize this conversation.”

Bellamy needs to get more flour before he can go for the third flick, but that proves to be his undoing. Clarke moves before he can, reflexes that he’d like to have a very serious discussion about eventually and she doesn’t flick. She slams her hand into his chest, a perfectly formed print in the middle of his shirt, twisting the fabric under her like that will make sure the mark stays there. 

Things are starting to feel a little literal again. 

At least he hopes so. 

So, it’s only reasonable and passably romantic to retaliate in kind — letting his flour-covered fingers flutter over Clarke’s hair and one of them gasps, but it’s difficult to figure out when they’re as close as they are, her hands dragging across his side and dangerously close to the top of his jeans and Bellamy’s definitely the one who groans when Clarke works her way under the hem of his shirt. 

Clarke beams. Bright and honest and her eyes are blue enough that Bellamy briefly considers getting lost in them for those minutes he’s still refusing to count, but then—

“God, I can’t believe I had to use some stupid marshall law bullshit to kiss you,” he mutters. 

“Is marshall law the right term there?” “No, not at all.”

She lets out a shaky laugh, hand staying exactly where it is. “I didn’t think so. And I—this was not some elaborate ruse, just for the record.” “Were you looking for elaborate ruses to make out with me?” “We’ve got to work on your vocabulary. Make out doesn’t seem right either.” “A work in progress.” “For the words, or…” She gasps again. Presumably because Bellamy’s ducking his head and his arm has curled around her middle and it’s easier to kiss her when there isn’t a backpack between them. Bellamy’s hand flattens against the small of Clarke’s back, a curve there that is quite suddenly the only thing he’d like to talk about for the remainder of the day. 

And they’re just as good at this as they were in Bryan’s car, but there’s something inherently different about the second go-around. An ease to the angles and the now-familiar rhythm, like they’d simply been waiting for the chance or the opportunity and—

“Maybe make out was an acceptable description,” Clarke mumbles against Bellamy’s mouth. He grins, dropping down so he can kiss her jaw and the side of her neck, only a little pleased with the goosebumps he notices there. “Oh, don’t get smug,” Clarke adds, “that’s not a good look on you.” “That certainly sounds like you’ve got opinions on my looks, actually.”

She clicks her tongue, leaning back to get in his eye line. “Maybe a few.” “A few?” “Bell, c’mon, that’s—” “—I have a very big crush on you.” Clarke blinks. Opens her mouth only to close it. Smiles. Scoffs. Blinks again. And then she’s kissing him and it’s good and great and both of those things feel wrong during a pandemic, but Bellamy assumes there's something to be said for the human spirit. Or whatever. 

“Makes for a good story, though,” Clarke says, eyes gone a color Bellamy’s never seen before. “You know, if you’re looking for something to write about.” “You want me to write about us? I write history books.” “Is this not historic?” “Oh, now who’s fishing for compliments,” Bellamy chuckles. Clarke blushes. Again, or still. “I would have liked to kiss you under less dramatic circumstances, but, uh—it also wasn’t the worst first kiss I’ve ever had.” “High praise.” “We’re very good at kissing each other.” “Yeah, I figured we would be.” “Did you just?” Clarke hums. “I’m pretty sure my friends had some kind of pool going. Especially now. When I’d finally give in and just like...attack you with my mouth or something. I talk about you all the time. At school. To Raven. Strangers on the street.” “Strangers on the street?” “I mean, Bryan assumed we were a couple.” “That’s because the mayor required him too,” Bellamy argues. “But, uh—I get the opinionated peanut gallery. O was convinced we were secretly dating when she was here.” “Before or after the chianti?” “Well before.” “Oh,” Clarke says, like that’s somehow surprising or good. Bellamy hopes it’s good. He’d like some good at this point. “You should probably change shirts.” “That sounds like a suggestion to take my shirt off.” “Wow, weird.” Her laugh turns into something far closer to a giggle when he kisses behind her ear, a fact he’s already stored for future reference, but then they’re moving and there are discarded clothes and kicked off shoes and neither one of them bothers to get up when the oven finishes pre-heating. 

“I have a crush on you too,” Clarke says, head propped up on her hand. In Bellamy’s bed. They’re in Bellamy’s bed. 

Her backpack is still on his couch. “Good,” he grins. “You want to eat, or…” “God, I’d thought you’d never ask.” And they do make both things, Clarke announcing that this is the best mac and cheese I’ve ever had while Bellamy does an absolutely terrible job of stealing cookie batter on the sly. She moves her backpack eventually too — into the corner of his living room. It’s easier that way, something about pandemics and limiting movement and if one of her students notices the change of scenery during their live-streamed class two days later, none of them say anything. 

[finalcreacher]

Chapter Three - That Summer, And Many More

A/n -

Trigger Warnings :

Period Typical Language (homophobic slurs!!)

Previous Chapters: 

Chapter One, Chapter Two

Word Count: 1,346

1987, 13 years old - Summer

.

We were at my house, a few days after I told him. We hadn't been able to discuss any of it further. It was to Eddie's and grabbing our friends, and spending the whole night out together...to being grounded and having to do chores. My father didn't appreciate the thought of me having only male friends, he found it impractical, and he always insisted I make more girl friends. A girl would evermore be a good influence on me. I had my mother, though, I always thought- wouldn't that be enough? Would that be enough to please him? I suppose it never was, and by the time Beverly came around, he wished it was just the boys and me again. He was always hoping- hoping, hoping, hoping.

Richie stopped at the comic shop, briefly, before coming over. He picked up the latest Spider-Man. We enjoyed collecting them together, saving up from chore money, and coins on the ground. Whoever saved up enough first, would head down to the shop, and buy the next issue. That person would keep it for their collection- but we always read it together.

He has it open to the first spread and is sprawled long ways across my bed. I frown, "Rich! Get your shoes off, my mother's gonna throw a fit if she sees this."

He grunts and rolls off, sitting on the carpeted floors, untying his shoes. "What's it matter, anyway? You can wash them afterwards."

"We already had laundry day, and it could like, stain."

"And you care why?"

"Geez, just take off your shoes."

"Right on it, Captain." Richie leaves his shoes near the side of the bed. I turn around, giggling- the thought of being called captain has a kind, fuzzy feeling growing in my body. "Heard this one's really good."

"With a name like this? I hope so." I hold it up, and it reads, "The Hobgoblin Revealed!" I flop onto my bed in excitement. "Rich, c'mon." And he follows suit- albeit hesitantly.

I want to ask 'what's the matter,' cause something seems off with Richie. The way he holds himself next to me. But judging from the other day, I'd understand if he was uncomfortable.

"Hey," he whispers- and my heart nearly beats out of my chest. The way he pauses and thinks it over, I'm sure he changes his mind on what to say. "So, everyone wants to get together tomorrow..."

I sigh, "I'll ask. I think I'm still grounded- might be an epic plot to ruin summer."

"Damn, well, I think it's working." He laughs, and his face shines, even in the littlest of light.

"And why's that?"

"You're not there." He doesn't even have to think of it- I think he knows it before I even ask, I imagine I knew it.

"Rich," he hums in response, "In the barrens when you said you like me, what did you mean?"

He seems surprised at my question, but answers- thoughtfully. "I like you. I want to spend all my time with you, I want to do what the big kids do- I want to date you. "

"Me? That seems silly, you could pick anyone, and you pick me?"

His face twists to an unreadable expression, but it's dark and ugly.

"Why not? Your gorgeous."

"How about...hot."

He mockingly debates it in his head, "Yes, definitely."

"And handsome?"

"Sure- if that's what you want."

"More of how I feel."

"Hm, would you explain it for me?"

"It's like this feeling deep within me, and it's just the worst feeling. I'd rather physically be in pain than deal with this every day. But, something doesn't feel right, being a girl."

"So, it's not that you've had a dick all this time or?"

It's this that makes me slip, "what's with this obsession with my dick- are you sure you're not gay?"

Richie's light mood turns angry. His brows furrow, and he frowns, making a hideous expression.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Rich, really."

He hums in response, "Sure."

I sigh, "Look, I am sorry. It's just, you've had such adverse reactions to me even mentioning it! What if I was gay? I mean, I'm not, of course."

"Exactly, your not. There's nothing to worry about, silly." He chuckles, and tickles my sides, making me giggle. "Let's get to Spiderman, okay?"

"Y-yeah," I say, sitting up quickly to grab the comic off the bed before Richie could.

"Sounding kinda like Bill, something wrong?"

"Richie! That's so mean! I'm good, just surprised by your tickles- are you trying to start a fight?"

"Oh, challenging me now?"

"Maybe, I'd watch your back if I were you- just in case, y'know."

We fall back laughing, and I hold the issue between us, so we can both read.

.

"Hey, Rich, it's nearly six. You think your folks are expecting you?"

Richie lets out a low hum, "They can have one dinner without me, I haven't seen you all week."

Chuckling, I continue, "Partially your fault, though. You know I can't stay out that late."

"Do you want me to?" He sits up and turns away from me.

"What- no. Why would I?" That uncomfortable, awkward feeling that always left a heavyweight against my chest, slowly trickled into the room.

"Things have been pretty weird between us."

"Yeah, well, we're weird," I laugh nervously. "I know, that's on me. I have a loudmouth. If we keep avoiding this, though, things are just going to get worse."

"What's there to discuss?"

I sigh, "Well, for one, what are we?"

"Two, why are you so insistent?"

"And three, how do we talk without getting into a tiff about it?" Richie playfully snarls at that, and I try to hide a smile from appearing on my face.

"I think you know plenty of what I want us to be."

"I've never done that before, I need time to think about it?"

"Sure- just don't decline because you think I'm a fag."

"I-I don't think that."

"You're very insistent on it- why is that? If your not gay, then-"

"I may not be a dyke or a fag, but I'm sure not with today's standards. If you were up there with me," I sigh, trying to sort my scrambled thoughts and pick words that wouldn't upset him. "I don't know, Rich, maybe I wouldn't feel so alone, or I wouldn't feel so bad about this."

He doesn't respond, not right away, at least. He slips off the bed and searches the floor in search of his shoes. Richie guffawed, "That's selfish."

I know," I look away, "You can leave."

He frowns, sighing, "I'm sure it's not what you want."

I hum in return, I don't look back at him, and part of me(even knowing that Richie would never be so rude as to do this) thought he had already slipped out the door and was biking back to his house by now. And the me that still held onto the idea that he would never do that wanted to get up and hold him in the biggest hug. Instead, I ask in the quietest voice(perhaps just above a whisper) I could muster, without my voice cracking and showing to Richie that I was near crying, "Would you stay tonight?"

I don't receive a response, but I can feel my mattress shifting under someone's weight, and I can only assume it's him. I can feel him lie down next to me, and his soft breathing is confirmation enough for what he chooses. I run a hand along his arm, gently, and lock my pinky with his.

He curls his pinky around mine.

In his own way, this was the best way to answer and to go about all of the questions we brought up that night. We weren't ready to discuss issue two, not entirely, really. And I wasn't ready for a relationship, not quite(I think). But that night, with our pinkies held together, we didn't need answers, this was just enough. We were happy in those moments.

Tag List (Just ask me if you want to be added or removed!):

@cutie-memers

[iambicbrose]

Rise Above, Chapter Nine - a Sofia the First Fanfiction

Rating: Teen

Tags: eventual Cedric/Sofia, Slow Burn, Canon Rewrite, Aged-Up Character(s), Teenage Cedric, Teenage Sofia

Summary: All her life, Sofia grew up in the village. She had a few close friends, an aquaintance she dearly called a friend whom she saw rarely, and a mother who loved her deeply. Sofia's life then changed completely when her mother married the King, making her the new princess of Enchancia. Everyone she's met so far has either told her that she was going to be the best thing to ever happen for this kingdom, or that she should forget about the kingdom completely and return to the village where she belongs. Sofia won't let any of that get to her, though. Everyone has expectations of her, and she's going to rise above them all. She's sure of it.

Chapter Summary: Sofia’s mother is getting married. It’s really happening. She’s getting married to the King, and Sofia is going to be living at the castle with the rest of the royal family... The thought of it fills her with dread. But Cedric knows this is exactly what Sofia needs.

Read on AO3, or under the cut! (Pst! Due to tumblr bull, there aren’t italics here!"Maybe it's not too late to run. You can stay at my house?" Ruby suggested. "You might have to sleep under the bed, though."

"I can't- I can't run. You haven't seen how happy Mom is, but I can't do this."

"You don't- Maybe you don't have to go and live in the castle?" Jade bit her lip, looking nervous. "You're almost 18 in a year, right? You can- You can stay here. Take over your guys' shop."

"Do you think Mom would be disappointed?" Sofia looked to her two best friends in the whole world. They wouldn't lie to her about something this serious.

"She..." Ruby and Jade shared a look before Ruby took Sofia's hand. "I think she would be upset you didn't give it a chance, but, I mean, it's your mom. She'd understand."

"She really is happy with him. I've been seeing them together. I've never seen her as happy as she is now."

"That doesn't mean you don't deserve to be happy," Jade said quietly. "There has to be a way you can both be happy, right? She can go there and you can stay here. There. Simple!"

"Nothing feels simple anymore. Not to mention I think I got in a fight with Cedric over nothing." That still hurt, thinking about Cedric's disappointed look when she had left the workshop that day.

"You got into a fight with Cedric- Hold on. You got into a fight ?"

"Well, an argument."

"Over what? You never get into fights with anyone!"

Sofia shook her head. "It's nothing, it was just something silly Cedric said, I don't think he even meant it-"

"Did he try to force you into anything? Do I need to go beat him up? You know I will, Sofia!"

"No. Cedric just- He said that, instead of Princess Amber, maybe I should be Queen." Sofia shook her head, giving them a weak smile. "Crazy, right?" The two paused, sharing another look before Ruby grinned weakly back at her.

"Yeah. Crazy."

Sofia gave a shake of her head. "I don't understand how he could ever think that."

"I mean... You’re going to be a princess. And you would be better than Amber. It's kind of a not so crazy leap?"

"It is completely crazy!" Why couldn't anyone see that?!

"You'd be a way better Queen than Amber ever would be!"

"Ruby! Jade! I don't even know anything about being a princess!"

"You can learn! Jeez, Sofia, you know all the old stories better than any of us, if anyone could become a princess and then Queen then it would be you ."

"But I can't." Sofia shook her head. "I can't! I'm just barely able to help Mom with everything!"

"But, I mean, Sofia, this is your chance to help all of Enchancia . Didn't you always kind of want to do that?"

"Well, sure, but-"

"But this is your chance. Cedric was right. If you want, I mean, you could... You could be Queen, Sofia."

"But I don't want to!"

"Then what do you want to do? Sure you like making shoes, but that's not what you really love, is it?"

"I like being down here. With all of you. All my friends. I'm not supposed to be up there."

"Well, I mean, there were a lot of famous, nice, amazing princesses that came from villages, too, you know. Maybe you're just going to be another one of them?"

"I don't think so." Sofia hugged her friends close. "I can't believe how fast this all is happening. Mom is getting married tomorrow."

"We'll be right here for you no matter what you decide, Sofia," Ruby said quietly, hugging her back just as tightly along with Jade. "Even if you want to run away and live as a shoemaker in the middle of the woods making shoes for animals and swamp monsters."

"Thanks."

::

Right. Just a wedding, nothing to worry about. Sofia had been to weddings before! Maybe not royal weddings... Maybe not royal weddings with her mother who was marrying the king- Okay. She was fine. Sofia only smiled at her mother, handing her the bouquet of flowers. "You look amazing."

"Oh, Sofia, we both do," Miranda laughed, pulling Sofia into a hug while trying to spare the flowers. "I can't believe this is really happening."

"Neither can I." She hugged her mother back tightly. "You're so happy."

"I am, yes. I'm really happy, Sofia." Mrianda's hand soothed through her hair. "How about you?"

Sofia's smile widened. "I'm happy that you're so happy."

"That's not a direct answer," Miranda laughed, pulling back to squeeze Sofia's hands. "I know it's been so busy, but... You'll be alright, won't you? It's changing so quickly."

"Mom, of course I'll be okay. I'm not a little girl, anymore."

"Oh, Sofia. You'll always be my little girl."

"Shouldn't you get ready to get married?"

" We should be getting ready," Miranda laughed, twirling Sofia around and still keeping the flowers between their laced fingers. "Everything is going to be wonderful, Sofia." Though Sofia giggled along with her mother, she never agreed. Just smiling seemed to be enough for now and that was... That was fine. Miranda was happy. Her mother was happy. Sofia was more than okay with something like that. Hearing the music start, Sofia took a breath.

"It's time." She could do this. She could smile for at least the rest of the day. That part was easy. Besides, her mother was so happy right now!

"Oh, Sofia." Miranda squeezed her hand, smile wide and bright. "I'm so happy you're here with me."

"So am I." Sofia held her hand tightly. And, right. She went out before her mother. "I'll see you out there."

Putting on a smile, Sofia pushed the doors open, trying to look as happy and delighted as possible. She was becoming a princess today, after all. She should be happy. Everyone expected her to be happy. Everyone wanted her to be happy, so... So she would be happy for them.

When seeing Amber, Sofia made sure to give an extra bright smile. One should always smile in the face of adversity, which, at this point, wasAmber's face. "Isn't everything so gorgeous?"

"Beautiful," Amber hummed, snapping her fan open before hiding a sour look behind it.

"I think you look amazing," Sofia said quietly.

"I do look rather good," Amber smirked, glancing to Sofia. "I suppose you're passable enough, as well."

Sofia sighed. "If we're going to be part of the same family, we need to get along."

"No, we need to pretend to get along and you need to stay out of my way. Simple enough, I think."

"That doesn't sound like it'll make your dad very happy."

"What Daddy doesn't know won't hurt him." Sofia refused to let herself frown, only smiling as she made her way towards the altar, and stood in the place she'd practiced to stand. Seeing Cedric off to the side with his wand, Sofia's smile brightened. Cedric gave her a grin in return, tilting his head as if to ask her if she was okay. Sofia showed him her smile as best she could before she turned to watch the King begin to walk up the altar.

This was good- Great. This was great. The kingdom was getting a new Queen, her mother was happy, and everyone was just happy. It was wonderful. The least Sofia could do was smile.

After the vows were said, and the two kissed, Sofia hugged her mother tightly before they processed down the walkway, again. She hadn't ever thought her own mom would ever love someone this much, again.

Sure everything was changing, but her mom was happy again and King Roland was a nice person and a good king. He looked to genuinely want them to be a part of his family. Cedric even made beautiful floating lights, and blooming flowers all over, and it was anything a girl from the village could have ever asked for. Truly, it was... It was perfect. Everything she could have ever wanted. She wasn't sure what she was doing to do after all of this, but for now she could smile and hug her mother back as she whispered how everything was going to change.

As people began to greet Sofia, she began to curtsey, but stopped as they laughed. That was odd. "Oh, Princess Sofia, you don't need to do that for people like us anymore. You're- You're a princess , after all."

"Oh, well... It's still polite, isn't it?" The women all giggled as if she had said something particularly funny.

"We're the ones who should be curtseying, Princess Sofia." Right. Princess.

"No no, it's alright, you really don't have to." The girls all giggled again, giving a little half curtsey before promising to talk to Sofia later and moving on to greet the new Queen. Sofia was rather certain they hadn't heard a word she said. Looking over, Sofia brightened. "Jade. Ruby."

"Sofia!" The two didn't bother to curtsey, only launching at her in a hug. It was the best moment all day, so far. Sofia hugged them both back.

"Have you seen Mom? She's so happy."

"Yeah. She looks like she can't stop grinning."

"Ecstatic is putting it lightly."

"I think she really loves him." Sofia looked at her mother, unable to stop her smile.

"Then I guess we sort of have to approve," Jade sighed. "But if we hear one bad word then we'll storm the castle ourselves!"

"Don't worry so much," she laughed, holding their hands. "You both look great."

"Of course we do," Jade sniffed, Ruby bursting into giggles beside her.

"Not as great as you do, though, Sofia."

"Oh, I don't think I'm all that much."

"Sofia, come on you're beautiful. You look... Well, you look like a princess."

"Thanks, you guys."

"How are you doing?" Ruby asked quietly. "You know... With today."

"I'm doing great. Can you believe it? I'm a princess."

"I thought you didn't want to be a princess?" Jade asked, eyebrows raising.

"Well... Maybe you were right. Maybe this can be a good thing."

"Oh, Sofia, that's so great to hear!" Ruby spun her around in a tight hug, the two near losing their balance as Ruby laughed. "You're going to do so much good for the kingdom!" Or maybe they were wrong and this was all going to be terrible.

Sofia smiled and hugged Ruby tightly. "Hey, have you seen the food table, yet?"

"Food?" Jade perked up, looking around. "Where?" Sofia laughed.

"Go on. It's right over there." Although, Sofia could stand to spend a bit of time with her friends before they had to say goodbye. Besides, at least this way her smile felt just a little less fake.

"You see that too, don't you?" Cedric asked softly. He had been pushed into getting ready to do the big 'presenting the royal family' magic event, but he couldn't take his eyes off Sofia.

"Yes," Wormwood said on his shoulder. "I see. She's putting on a front." Sofia was smiling, yes, but whenever she thought she was alone or wasn't being looked at...

"She looks devastated." There was no smile in sight when she thought she was alone.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Me? What makes you think I can do anything about it?"

"I don't know. What makes you think she can be Queen?"

"Are you asking complicated questions just to be annoying?" Cedric huffed, batting a hand at Wormwood. "You know why she would make a good Queen."

"I also know why you can help her."

"Oh, please, do enlighten me. Why can I help her?"

"Because she trusts you, and cares for you, and you know this life better than any of her friends. You especially know of expectations others place upon you."

"That, Wormy, is fighting dirty," Cedric muttered, fiddling with his wand and waiting for his father's signal. "Don't distract me." Although, truthfully, Sofia was the one really distracting him.

"She's probably worrying over you and all your duties." Yes, see, things like that really were not helping at the moment when it came to concentrating.

"She should worry about herself."

"Yes," Wormwood said. "But she doesn't seem to do what she should."

"That, Wormwood, is probably the most truthful thing I've ever heard you say."

"So? What are you waiting for?"

"To not be surrounded by hundreds of people at an event neither of us want to be at, maybe?" Cedric shook his head sharply. "I'll see how she is when Da isn't keeping such a close watch on me."

"Here I thought you didn't have a care for what he thought." Just like that, Wormwood was flapping away- What was he doing? Why was he landing on Sofia's shoulder?

"Bloody bird," Cedric muttered, feeling a touch better when Sofia managed a smile, speaking softly to Wormwood and ruffling a few of his feathers. "Right. Big spell, smile, then escape." Looking up at the sky, Cedric pointed his wand and boldly shouted, " Prismatica! "

The gathered crow ooed and awed appropriately at the magical rainbow, Cedric suffering through Amber's surprise at his success and his father's glowing pride before he was able to slip away over to Sofia. "Cedric, that spell was so amazing. "

"I'm glad that you enjoyed it," Cedric smiled, the smile dropping after a moment. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing great. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're not smiling."

"What? Yes I am."

"Well, no, it's more..." Cedric struggled to find the right words for a moment before he sighed, giving her an even look. "You're smiling but you don't mean it."

"Cedric... Everyone is so happy for Mom. They're so happy for me. "

"That doesn't mean you have to ignore your feelings and pretend that everything is okay. Have you told your mum how you feel?"

"Of course not, Cedric. Do you know how disappointed she would be?"

"And how will she feel when she finds out you were never happy with all of this?" Oh, dear, maybe that was pushing a step too far. Sofia frowned at that, drawing away from Cedric.

"She's not going to find out."

"Sofia, she's- Well, she's your mum. She'll eventually figure out you're not happy." Cedric paused, giving a nervous smile. "Unless you think you could be happy here eventually?"

"I don't know. I really don't think so, Cedric."

"I know you have problems with Amber, but is that the only reason you don't like it here? Or is it more than that?"

Sofia glanced back to her friends from the village. "I'm not going to get to see them as much anymore. We grew up together. Ruby lived across the street from me."

"They can still come up here and visit you, and you can go visit them." If missed friends was all, then that was easy to fix. "No one is banning you from going down to the village whenever you want."

"Maybe, but I don't know anything about being a princess."

"You can learn, though," Cedric pointed out carefully. Quietly. "I have a feeling you're good at adapting."

"That makes one of us."

"Well, here's something that might help you make up your mind." Looking to where Amber stood watching them, Cedric lowered his voice. "If you leave, she wins."

"Cedric, I'm not a fighter. I really don't care if she wins." Feeling more than a bit hopeless, Cedric looked to Wormwood. They needed Sofia to want to do this or else Enchancia really might be doomed. "Thanks for trying to help, Cedric."

"Bring up the fact that if Amber becomes Queen, her precious little villagers might not be so safe anymore," Wormwood instructed, Cedric flicking his gaze back to Sofia.

"Sofia, I... I know this isn't your fight and that you didn't ask to deal with this, but you have a chance to stop Amber. If she becomes Queen then all she'll want to do is throw parties and have fun. Important situations will be ignored and knowing her, she'll probably raise the taxes."

"And what do-" Sofia took a deep breath. "We shouldn't be talking about this. Not here. Not now." She did have a point.

"Then at least stick around until we can talk about it?" If this was the only chance he would be getting, he wasn't about to waste it.

"I kind of have to. I live here, now."

"Right- Right. Of course you do." Cedric cleared his throat, ignoring Wormwood's look that he was an idiot. "Feel free to keep Wormy with you for awhile, if you want to."

"Is that alright with Wormy?"

"You dreadful boy," Wormwood muttered, ruffling his wings and settling down more. "I'll see to it that she keeps out of too much trouble."

"Perfectly fine."

"Thanks, Cedric."

"Anytime, Sofia."

[liverpops]

a couple replies under the cut!!

💝everyone... i luv u T_T i’m actually crying really ugly but i’m so happy bc it’s a wonderful happy crying💗 thank you for your support!!

i hope you’re all right!! hospital trips are never terribly fun. i’m casting the softest curaga from afar!!! rest well<3333

you could never be annoying, promise<3 it means a lot to me that you would take the time to write me just to tell me that, MY heart is blooming like a flower right now!!! HOLDS YOUR HANDS SO TIGHTLY FROM AFAR!! i’m glad if i’m even a bit of a comfort or presence when youre feeling blue. depressi episodes are never easy to get through, but i’m so proud of you for being such a wonderful sweet champion💓💗💗 thank YOU!! never change!!

oh anon, you could never be a bother. i wish i could be there for you in person to hold your hand or just sit by your side!! i’m sorry your day was so awful, but i’m really happy that a smile managed to find its way to you💝 you’re so strong!! let my selfish wish be that you smile again today, and even more in the coming days!! i’m here for you!!

FOR SOME REASON TUMBLR WAS GLITCHING OUT AND NOT LETTING ME REPLY PRIVATELY GRRRR so sorry abt answering here!! nyehehe I’M HAPPY THAT MY SILLY AU MANAGED TO YANK YOU IN >:) now.... we’re in this together!!!!!!! a lot of liverpepper has to do with things i crave or covet—not necessarily adopting at a young age for myself, but just.. the idea of family and warmth, and that sense of being loved and belonging and going through with decisions you make no matter the adversity, and i’m glad if leon deciding to become a parent the way he did is smth that rang nicely with you! you’re wonderful, thank you so much!! (real life or no, i’m rooting for you in all your plans and dreams! one day perhaps, hmm? ^o^)

OHHHHH THANK YOU SMMMMM ;___; thats such a wonderful compliment bc i just want to make soft warm things!!! 💘💗💘💗 ive been struggling a bit to settle on a consistent way of coloring and drawing (ive been switching between drawing on ipad and laptop and the results are currently.... KINDA MESSY 😖) so this really makes my day, thank you!! i’m happy to still be here💗

meds can be a bit difficult, huh? i definitely know the feeling. please don’t forget to take them on time and get your refills!! i’m glad though that your new meds dont make you feel as gross as your old ones did—it’s always a relief when something works a bit better. i’ll make sure to try and draw some more indulgent being-taken-care-of!Cloud for you during the year! i hope you have the warmest 2019 and that you receive nothing but love and fill your days with as many smiles as you can💗💗💗💗💗 RAISE YOUR HAND BC IM HIGH-FIVING YOU FROM AFAR!!!!!!!!! 

hello!! i want to point out that whenever ppl call me either by name or by a cute nickname like peps or anything like that, my heart just grows about 2894723x in size so....im here wheezing on the ground just from the start of your message!! i’m glad my silly things are even a bit of a cheerup for you, bc they cheer me up too! it isn’t easy when the feeling of loneliness surrounds you, huh T_T holds your hand tightly!!!!!! i’ll do my best to take care of myself, thank you for caring like that<3333 i’m looking forward to kh3 too!! check back w me after youve played it so we can cry together!!

@myadburks 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗 if i could paste 1 billion heart emojis for you i would, but tumblr would never let me unfortunately, so that’ll have to do! thank you so much for your love and support<333 YOURE the wonderful one for taking the time to be so sweet like this!!!!

@ anon: AAAAHHHHHH for a long time now??????? i cant wrap my head around that anytime anyone says it!! thank you so much!!!!! HAHA omg see i very very rarely go back to look at the old posts bc i dddddie at my old drawings, but it definitely does make for a pleasant time capsule of art progression HEHE. here’s hoping i improve even more with every drawing!!! CHEERS ILL DRINK TO YET ANOTHER YEAR OF SHENANIGANS!!! ty for staying on this train w me for so long, dear anon!!!💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

;_____;💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗anon...... youre making me melt.... tysm T__T sometimes i have awful annoying voices at the back of my mind telling me it’s ridiculous that all i ever contribute to fandom-wise is just my own sandbox and self-indulgent shenanigans, so it’s always nice to be reminded that it’s appreciated anyway💗 thank you, this means more to me than you could ever imagine.

ANON!!!!!!!!!!!! are you trying to make me explode?????????????? first off, thank you for all the years of support!!!!!!!!!!! I BLOW U A KISS........ I CRY!!!!! thank YOU for bringing the biggest smile to my face. YOURE the great one here!! <333333 thank you for appreciating all that i do, theres a lot of love in this universe and i hope it shows!!!! have a wonderful day, sweet anon!!!!!!

[terresdebrumestories]

Clark Kent, of Krypton - 4/4: Clark Kent

FANDOM: DC’s cinematic universe. RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 27 147 (Fic total: ~98k words) PAIRING(S): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne (main focus is on Clark, though). CHARACTER(S): Kal-El | Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Jor-El, Lara Lor-Van, Kara Zor-El, Zor-El, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Arthur Curry, Victor Stone, John Stewart, J’onn J’onn, plus a quick cameo by Lois Lane. GENRE: Alternate Universe (canon divergence), transition fic with romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): A great deal of anxiety and self loathing, especially in parts one and two. Some descriptions are heavily inspired by my experience of dysphoria-induced dissociation. SUMMARY: Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will ultimately lead him to becoming Clark Kent.

OTHER CHAPTERS: [I. Kal-El] [II. Shadow] [III. Superman] ALSO AVAILABLE: [On AO3] [On Dreamwidth]

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Thank you, still, to @stuvyx​ for the wonderful illustrations and to @susiecarter​ for the beta :D

Wonder Woman—“Call me Diana”—retrieves a long wrap-up dress from a bag hidden on a nearby building, tucks her hair into a tight bun, and takes Kal to a nearby shop for what she introduces as one of humanity’s best inventions and the shop advertises as ninety-nine different flavors of ice cream.

“I should probably warn you I haven’t had ice cream before,” Kal says as they sit down after Diana paid for their order. “I have no idea what it might do to my—I don’t know how well I’ll digest it.”

“Well,” Diana says with a smile, “we’ll just have to keep an eye out for unfortunate symptoms.”

Kal chuckles as Diana dives into her five-flavored mountain of ice cream with gusto, and for a moment they are entirely focused on their respective desserts. Kal can’t help but let out an exclamation of pleased surprise at the deliciousness of it, and laughs at himself when a few heads turn his way. Across from him, Diana is chuckling into her chocolate chip mint, and she winks when she sees Kal blush.

“Ice cream was one of the first things I discovered when I joined the world of men,” she says with a fond smile, eyes going just a little distant with the memory. “Everything was so...gray. The ice cream was delicious, though. Plain vanilla. I remember telling the vendor he should be very proud.”

Kal follows her in an amused chuckle, and tries the cherry and chocolate flavor he took such a long time to settle on. It might, possibly, be his favorite so far.

“I don’t think I can fault you for that reaction, you know. This is delicious...though, to be fair, I haven’t had food I really disliked, so far.”

He’s not overly fond of seafood, but that honestly has more to do with the fact that he can’t keep it down more than fifteen minutes than with the taste or texture of it. Fortunately ice cream doesn’t seem to be having any adverse side effects so far. Kal gives himself a second to appreciate that, before he caves in and says:

“Please don’t think I’m not enjoying this but...why did you bring me here?”

He can’t possibly imagine Diana as the sort of woman who would have more than a passing interest in someone like him after all. An eye-catching costume is not enough to erase who he is in the slightest.

“Can’t I simply check on a new colleague after his first mission?” Diana asks with a smile that leans too far to the cheeky side to be entirely innocent.

Kal resists the urge to rub at his neck, but only just. He is, after all, acutely aware of the vast gap between Diana and him—doesn’t know the exact shape of it, of course, but the very way Diana carries herself is more than enough evidence for him to go on. She must see something of his feelings on his face, too, because in an instant her grin softens into something a tad less teasing.

“If I’m to be fully honest,” she says in a conspirational tone, “I have to admit I’m also very curious about you.”

“About me?”

Kal catches himself before he points at his forehead—not the ideal gesture to blend in—but he couldn’t restrain himself from blinking even if he wanted to. What is there even to be curious ab—oh.

“Oh,” he says once the avalanche settles. “I—I don’t know how...ready I am. To talk about...home,” he finishes, rather lamely.

He’s been—it’s easier, these days, to talk about it with Martha, sharing tidbits of the world he grew up in whenever he discovers something new with her, comparing their faiths while observing Martha’s customs...but that’s different. That’s just—they have things in common. It’s easy to share with Martha because she shares so much of herself already: all Kal has to do is answer in kind, and make sure he’s as much of a support for her as she is for him. It would be another thing entirely, to answer Diana’s questions—to dig into his memories for something vaguely academic, to try and order his thoughts into something...coherent and understandable. It is a work he’ll have to start on, eventually. There will be others with questions about where he came from, what he did, why he came to Earth. Right now, though, even the thought of it is too much to stomach.

Diana, however, doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“That’s all right,” Diana says with the kind of indulgent chuckle adults tend to reserve for silly children. “Like I said, I’m actually more curious about you.”

“Me?” Kal blinks, wrong-footed despite himself. “What could you possibly want to know about me?”

Diana gives an elegant shrug, settling back in her seat with studied nonchalance, but Kal doesn’t miss the sharpness of her gaze, the thoughtful pursing of her lips as she looks him up and down. The once-over makes him blush from the scrutiny—although, he is quite relieved to note, there is no sexual undertone to the gesture—and he has to remind himself that fiddling with his napkin is actually a possibility now that no one’s there to reprimand him.

“Anything you’d like to tell me,” Diana says, eyes still alert. “Bruce is the most tightly controlled man I’ve ever met—I’d like to know what it takes to impress him so much.”

Kal all but chokes on his chilled water, spluttering when he spills a good quarter of his glass on his lap as a result. Batman, impressed? By him ? Either this is a cruel joke, or Diana has Kal confused with someone else—anyone else, really. Kal is so far—he wouldn’t even be able to impress the public version of Bruce Wayne, he’s sure of it, so for Diana to think he’s impressed Batman ? Rao, the thought would make him laugh if it didn’t come attached to the certainty of failure where he and Diana being friends is concerned.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Diana, “but I think there’s some kind of misunderstanding here. I’m not—he’s not—”

“Oh, I daresay he is,” Diana cuts in with a brilliant grin, “but you don’t have to believe me—and we don’t have to keep talking about him either, unless you’d like to?” She pauses just long enough for Kal to shake his head. “Well then. Tell me about you. What do you do?”

“I’m sorry?” Kal says, stumped by the turn of phrase.

“As a job, I mean,” Diana clarifies. “What kind of civilian identity did you build for yourself?”

“Oh,” Kal says, wincing a little while his hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck. “I, uh—I don’t really have...one...anymore?”

He sinks into the booth bench with every word, red leather creaking under him while Diana’s face grows increasingly tight with something that might—just might—be like righteous anger. Not that Kal is very eager to stay and find out—she won’t harm him, he’s pretty sure, but he’s never dealt well with being scolded, and he’s got a feeling that coming from someone as eminently admirable as Wonder Woman, it’d be even worse.

“Sorry?” he offers, stumbling through the word as his brain waddles through his abrupt shame for even a scrap of competence. “I just don’t—”

“Kal,” Diana interrupts. She’s firm but not stern, and Kal wonders what it is, then, that makes his stomach sink like a stone when she says his name. “You have to have one. Even a flimsy one will do, but you can’t—no one can wear the uniform all the time. No one. You’ll go crazy, if you don’t have anything but the cape.”

Kal nods in silence, and doesn’t have the heart to tell her he already knows what that feels like. He stirs the conversation away from that particular topic instead, exchanging stories of his first few days on Earth—without sharing Martha’s name—for Diana’s first adventures in what she calls “the world of man” over a hundred years ago, and laughing in horror when she tells him about her first contact with the other members of the League.

“You can’t be serious,” he tells Diana, and this time her snort of laughter has absolutely no mirth in it.

“Oh, I am. It’s a good thing I’ve had time to learn how to think before I speak—had I been fifty, maybe even forty years younger, Lex Luthor’s scheme might actually have worked.”

“Well,” Kal says, “I’m glad it didn’t happen to me...I don’t know that I’d have handled it as well as you did.”

“Luckily, we won’t have to find out.” Diana shrugs, her mood brightening again. “Luthor is in prison, his creature dead underground, and we are all very, very grateful for John’s perfect timing.”

Kal sighs in belated relief, glad that he didn’t have to discover an Earth where Batman and Wonder Woman had been at war—or worse, still were. He cannot imagine the state of things if Diana hadn’t forcibly manhandled Bruce into a long conversation about everyone’s goals and principles, and while it’s a pity the two of them—three, with the Green Lantern’s timely intervention—had to kill what sounds like a perfectly innocent Mlrn to protect Earth, at least the planet remains safe; that’s all that matters.

“That we are,” he agrees. Then his suit vibrates with a time alert, and Kal winces. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I promised my host I’d be back for dinner, so….”

“Oh,” Diana says, “yes, of course.”

She insists on paying, which is objectively a good thing despite his unease at owing anything—even something as small as that—to someone he barely knows. Kal doesn’t exactly have money to his name, not even cash. He promises Diana that he will pay for their next ice cream—the width of her smile enough to soothe a wave of panic when he realizes he didn’t even ask her if she wanted there to be a next one—and then sets off toward Kansas.

He and Martha share a small celebratory dinner, Kal blushing his way through the recounting of his story and making an embarrassingly enthusiastic sound when Martha gets her apple and rhubarb pie out of the oven. The dessert is more than worth it, in Kal’s opinion, and Martha's fond laughter doesn’t hurt at all, either. In fact, Kal even finds himself expressing his delight more than he usually would, just so he can hear her chuckle again—it works like a charm, and Kal keeps the game up until he thinks, unexpectedly, of his parents’ faces the last time he attempted to make them smile and the mirth slides right out of him.

“Oh, by the way!” Martha says, either not realizing what’s going on in Kal’s head or offering him an out from it. “Batman called while you were away—don’t look so shocked, dear, he’s had my number longer than you’ve had his. And it isn’t like he can phone your suit, now, can he?”

“Right,” Kal says, surprised at his own reaction, “of course. Did he leave a message?”

“Only that he wanted to talk to you,” Martha says. “You ought to call him—and figure out a way for him to call you. I’m too busy keeping this farm afloat to take on a job as your secretary.”

Kal promises not to make a habit of it, taking the dishes off the table as he goes, and speeds through the washing up before he goes into his room, sits on the open windowsill, and has the suit patch him through to Bruce’s phone.

“We need to procure a phone for you,” Bruce says in Ellon, in lieu of greeting.

He still speaks in the slow, slightly too-well-articulated way Ellon nobles do—a sharp contrast to Kal’s definitely Shadow-inspired grammar. But he’s taken to using more familiar forms again these days. He’s willing to meet Kal as an equal—perhaps a friend, even, someday—and the deliberate increase in grammatical proximity is enough to turn the fond eyeroll threatening to overtake Kal into a grin, a feeling like warm water in the bottom of his stomach.

“Hello, Bruce,” he says, bringing his knees up to his stomach as if to trap the soft heat there. “Martha and I were just talking about this, actually. We agree, really, it’s just—I don’t really have money and—”

“And you are talking to a literal billionaire,” Bruce retorts with clear exasperation, “and worrying about pennies.”

A beat passes, during which Kal’s mouth gapes open and then closes again all on its own. It isn’t—money is not...well, it is the problem, but—it’s not Martha’s money that’s the problem. Sure, Bruce has more of it than he could even think of spending for the rest of his life, but….well. It still leaves Kal uncomfortable to take money from him, is all. He hasn’t quite figured out why, yet, but the feeling is there. He barely has time to wonder how to explain all of that, though, before Bruce concludes:

“As I thought. I’ll send it over tomorrow.”

“All right,” Kal says, because there really isn’t anything else to say when all has been decided. “Martha said you wanted to talk?”

Silence, brief but all the sharper for it, until Bruce breathes in like he’s gearing up to dive—not that Kal is meant to hear it, probably—and says:

“There’s video footage of this morning.”

“Oh.”

Possibly not the most intelligent reaction Kal could have had—in fact, he should maybe have anticipated that. Still, getting caught on camera is—there’s a reason Shadow’s suit was programmed to deal with nearby recording equipment whenever he got out. To be filmed, to give anyone the occasion to study him, could have spelled his death back on Krypton. He isn’t as fragile now as he was then, that’s for sure, and the likelihood of anyone linking what that Daily Planet reporter has dubbed The Superman to Martha Kent is too low to be of concern just yet, but old habits die hard.

“I, uh—” Kal attempts when Bruce doesn’t seem interested in using any more words, “I thought that—um. It went...well. I mean, I suppose there’s room for improvement—”

“You don’t say.”

The words knock Kal right out of himself, into the small space that never quite ceased to exist between himself and Shadow, the brand new emptiness between Kal and the Superman. It’s—it’s a familiar space, but it was never particularly comfortable, and finding it here when he’d hoped to be rid of it forever leaves Kal almost breathless with the pain of it. He blinks, throat tighter than it should be, and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he should not—should not —be surprised when Bruce says:

“Don’t be sorry. Be better.”

“Look,” Kal tries, eyes drifting to the endless sky as if there could be some comfort there, “I’m sorry. I realize it wasn’t perfect—”

“You were thoroughly unprepared,” Batman cuts in, “and it showed. You had no idea what the fire would do to you, did you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“It could have made you explode, for all we know,” Batman continues, without acknowledging Kal’s words, the calm of his tone one more reason for Kal to wince. “You put your life in danger—”

“The suit is fireproof, actually,” he points out, barely restraining a roll of his eyes in time. “I’m not entirely stupid, you know. I’m not convinced by your explosion theory either.”

“My point is,” Batman replies through what sounds like painfully gritted teeth, “that you went into this without preparation, putting not only your life but also those civilians’ lives in danger, and—”

“And if I hadn’t done anything,” Kal interrupts, finally finding his voice when a flash of anger rises inside him, “they could have died anyway—I heard some of the firefighters talk, you know, and even if—”

“Kal—”

“You forget I wore Shadow’s suit long before I came up with the Superman’s!”

There is a short pause while Kal gets his breathing back under a semblance of control, too incensed to even think of being embarrassed by his own outbursts. He can feel the heat high in his cheeks, the burn of anger in his armpits, and it feels like he’s trying to cough up glass when he continues:

“I couldn’t have allowed myself to stand by and do nothing any more than you could have remained inactive back in El! Now, I may be—inexperienced, and sloppy, reckless and a simpleton and all those things you think I am, but I’m not—I’ll train more, if you want. I’ll do research and I’ll plan ahead better, but you can’t—don’t you ask me to stand by when I have the chance to really help people, because I won’t.”

The line remains silent for a long while after that, Kal’s mind swinging wildly between the wilting shreds of his anger and the absolute terror of thinking maybe this is it—maybe this is when both of Bruce decide they’ve had enough of the ridiculous stranded freak from El. Even with that, though, even thinking perhaps this is the last he’ll hear from the first true friend he’s ever had...Kal can’t make himself regret what he's said.

Oh, he’ll train all right. Bruce...he’s got a point—a sizable point, even, though just thinking it feels like pulling teeth at the moment—and more preparation would probably benefit everyone in the long run. Gods, does the thought chafe; not by itself, but because of the way it came about, and—the point is, Kal will train. He’ll...sulk about Bruce’s opinions for a few days, and maybe even grumble about it for a while but he—he will, if that’s what it takes. But he’ll still help in the meantime, prepared or no, and if Bruce has a problem with that—well, then they’ll have a real fight on their hands.

“Fine,” Batman says, with an explosive sigh that startles Kal badly enough that he almost cracks the phone receiver in his hand. “Fine. You keep helping. But I’m sending you some reading—and don’t think for a second I won’t be quizzing you on it.”

“Fine.”

There is the sound of flesh brushing against flesh on Bruce’s end of the receiver, and Kal pictures him rubbing the bridge of his nose—an impatient gesture he’s never seen Bruce indulge in outside of his Cave—before Bruce takes a deep breath and, in a voice that’s almost back to normal, asks, “What do you think of Diana?”

“I like her,” Kal says with a shrug, slipping into the new topic with no small amount of relief. “She’s nice.”

It isn’t simply that she was much more positive about Kal’s first performance as a helper than Batman—or Bruce, for that matter. It’s...well, she seemed to care, is all. She had pointers to offer, advice that, now Kal thinks of it, differed greatly from Batman’s in tone, but not so much in content, and she asked about Kal’s life outside of his new costume—didn’t quite tut at him about it, either, though Kal got the feeling she wanted to. And even then...somehow, he doesn’t think that would have been so terrible. Diana has—Gods, Kal would probably get in trouble with someone if he said it out loud, but there’s something old about her. Not just in the wealth of experience she seems to have, or in the yearning for long-gone happy times, but also in the...shamelessness of her. There were moments in that ice cream parlor when Diana reminded Kal of the elderly members of El’s court, who would laugh criticism of their oddities off and tell whoever the concerned party was that perhaps they’d live long enough to learn wrinkles came with a definite lessening of self-consciousness. Diana didn’t get the wrinkles, obviously, but there is an unrestrained part of her that makes it feel, just a little, like they’ve already settled on her soul.

Must be a stark contrast to Batman’s way of doing things, Kal muses. Of all the things to be said about the man, good and bad, ‘unrestrained’ doesn’t even come close to the list; quite the opposite. And it isn’t—it doesn’t make him a poor teacher, or mentor, or friend or—whatever it is he wants to be to Kal. He’s good at all these things—too good for Kal to follow, most of the time—it’s just. Sometimes, both Bruce and Batman are hard to keep up with, and now they’ve gone and finally found the button to press to get Kal angry enough to push back. It sounds like a recipe for disaster, really, and so Kal keeps this train of thought to himself, humming when Bruce tells him Diana would like to meet him again.

“In fact,” Bruce continues, like the words are being torn out of him, “they would all like to meet you.”

“...All?”

“The League.”

“The—oh.”

Martha, passing through the hall with a hefty bucket full of vegetables, pauses on the threshold and clears her throat, waiting long enough for Kal to meet her eyes—he must look more panicked than he meant to, judging by her light frown—and mouth ‘they want to meet me!’ in awestruck English. He has to clarify who he means, but then Martha breaks into a gigantic grin and pads toward him in socked feet to set a hand on his shoulder.

“Congratulations,” she mouths, and Kal is in the process of nodding when Bruce asks:

“Are you still there?”

“Oh—yes! Yes, I, uh—I’m here. And I’d be very honored to meet the Justice League .”

In front of him, Martha's grin grows even wider.

“Great. The Cave, next Friday. Three PM, New York time.”

“All right. What should I—”

A dull clicking sound. Kal pulls the receiver away from his ear and stares at it for a second, trying to slow-blink himself out of his stupor. To be invited to the League’s headquarters—of course, Kal was hoping to meet them. It’s just—he’d have thought he’d meet them individually first and then maybe, if things went well, be invited more officially later on. But no. It’s happening now.

There is a non-zero possibility that Kal will be sick at least once before the day comes.

Looking down reveals Martha still standing in front of him, close enough to hug—Kal half wants to, half fears overstepping some kind of boundary if he does—and still frowning at him. It isn’t the sort of frown that means disapproval, but it still makes Kal’s heart beat just a little faster. He swallows, ready to ask what’s going on and hopefully diffuse the situation, when Martha says, “Let’s go milk the cows, shall we? I’ll teach you how to do it by hand if you want.”

Nodding, Kal follows Martha to the door and, after slipping into a well-worn pair of boots, follows her to the barn. The Kent farm isn’t exactly a small one, but its main strength is crops, not dairy, and sixty head of cattle don’t call for a fully automated process, so the next two hours are spent letting eager cows into the milking stalls in batches of six, cleaning them up, hooking the milking machine to their udders, and waiting until they’re done to repeat the process with the next group. Both Kal and Martha remain silent during that time, focused on trying to deal with the cows’ insistence on trying to lick every inch of Kal’s face they can reach, even if it means they have to strain against the barriers holding them. By the end of it, though, they manage to get the animals back out in the field with minimal fuss—although Kal has to physically carry one of them out of the way—and are left with one unmilked cow standing in the stalls for Martha to demonstrate on.

“Wash your hands first,” Martha says as she pumps soap in her own palm, “then wash her up.”

She kicks a stool close to the cow while Kal complies with her instructions, careful not to get anything on his hands that would ruin the experience. He’s been here long enough to know the dangers of getting any germs into the milk, after all. He watches Martha get in position, wincing when she mutters imprecations directed against her lower back.

“Jon and I always used to talk about sinking a pit here,” she tells Kal over her shoulder, snorting along with him when he leans against the stall’s barrier and the cow gives him a big lick on the cheek. “Something to put the udders at arm level and reduce the backaches, but...well, he’s dead, and these things cost money.”

“I could do it,” Kal says, gently pulling the cow’s tongue away from his nose and letting it suck on his fingers instead. “I’d need to read up first, but between the speed and the muscles, I’m sure I could manage something.”

Shaking her head, Martha laughs and motions for Kal to pay attention before she bends down to the task, explaining how it works as she goes. Kal has to keep half of his attention on her and half on her patient, who, despite the terribly impractical configuration, is still trying to reach any piece of Kal’s exposed skin.

“I’d tell you to shed a sleeve and let her do her thing with your arm,” Martha says after a few minutes of that game, once she’s done with the first two udders, “but I’m afraid she’s already been more than spoiled enough for the day.”

Laughter bubbles out of Kal before he can even think of catching it, and he gives the cow’s ribs a fond pat while Martha gets up and pops her spine back into place.

“A smile, at last,” she says, stretching her arm. She’s smiling, too, just enough that Kal doesn’t blush too much as he looks down at the ground. “Now, are you going to tell me why you were wearing such a long face? I thought you wanted to meet the Justice League.”

“I do!” Kal says—promises, almost. “I do.”

It isn’t a lie. He’s been trying—he’s been wanting to make a real difference somewhere long before he came to Earth, and the Justice League does exactly that. Of course he’d want to meet them now he’s got what it takes to join. They help so many people already, the six of them, so helping them would be—but that’s the big question, isn’t it? Can Kal really help them? Sure, he’s strong, and he can see and hear a truly ridiculous amount of things nowadays; but if his time as Shadow has proven anything, it’s that material means are far from the only thing needed to be an efficient helper—let alone a hero.

Kal explains all of that while fumbling blindly with the cow’s udder, the way he has to almost press his cheeks into its flank to reach his goal a convenient excuse to avoid meeting Martha’s eyes. Not that he needs to, when he can still hear her snort, but it does make things...mildly less uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Martha says, sounding anything but. “Did you think Bruce told me nothing about you before you came here?”

A pause, while Kal gapes.

“That boy may be genetically compelled to make everything into a secret, but he knows when a little sharing is necessary. I know how you got that patch job.”

Kal’s hand flies to his side without thinking, the skin barely ever itching anymore now that the scar is fading. It was quite the sight when he first came to Martha’s farm, purple and raised, stippled in curving lines like worms trying to crawl into him—and then the sun happened, and now it’s on the verge of being indistinguishable from a rug burn. It...would be a lie, to say he’d thought Martha could know any more about it than what he’d told her—which is absolutely nothing—but then again it would also be a lie to say the revelation truly surprises him. Knowing Bruce, it was quite foolish of him to expect anything else.

“It isn’t the same,” he tells Martha, pushing his shoulders into a shrug. “It’s—”

“Well, you’re going to have to explain that one to me,” Martha retorts, leaning against the cow’s stall the same way Kal did earlier, “because from what I heard there wasn’t that much difference between that Shadow of yours and Batman.”

“Of course there was!” Kal protests, barely even noticing when he gets to his feet. “There was a huge difference!”

“Where?”

“Everywhere!” Kal exclaims, wincing when his outburst startles the cow and he has to rescue the milk bucket before it can spill over. “See? You know what he’s like, what he can do! I can’t even stand in a barn right!”

“Kal-El,” Martha scolds, and Kal doesn’t know what it is about the name that makes him want to shrink into himself, sink into the ground until he vanishes entirely.

“Please don’t call me that,” he manages through the knot in his throat.

With a blink, Martha pauses—just long enough to take Kal’s face in and nod. It’s a relief, really, because the absolute truth is that he has no idea what brought on the abrupt sensation of loneliness, inadequacy, the background noise of sheer misery that used to color every instant of his life on Krypton. Fear rushes forward at that thought, a bone-deep sort of horror at the idea that he could, somehow, be made to go back to the life he used to lead in El, even as he misses the place so much, and his heart rate doesn’t lower back to something reasonable until Martha says, “Don’t you think that means I’ll let you go on with this self-deprecating nonsense. Just because you mean it doesn’t mean it’s true, do you hear me?”

He does, the words piercing through his chest and crawling up his throat with a slow, agonizing heat that makes him close his hands into fists, clench his jaw. Blink, against the moisture of his eyes.

“So you’re not Batman; so what? No one else is, either! Even his kids—”

“He’s got children?”

Martha gasps, and actually slaps herself in the forehead with a low groan. Kal watches her face redden, her shoulders stiffening to a worrying degree until she sighs, releasing the pressure all at once.

“Two sons,” she explains with the sort of tone reserved for things one is unwilling to share. “One of them’s a police officer in one of Gotham’s neighboring cities. Blü-something. The other...he’s been in the Wayne mausoleum for a few years, now.”

Dead. Taken from his father before his time, leaving nothing but mementos behind—an empty room, Kal supposes. A few treasured objects and many more casually abandoned around the house on the fateful morning. A brother and a father, mourning together until Bruce got down to the cave and its damp air, its red lights...the echoing clang of feet on the spiraling...metal...staircase.

The suit in the glass case.

Oh, Rao—the suit.

There’s—Bruce must have buried all the proof. Destroyed it, maybe. Kara burned almost everything her mother had left her, except for a ring she’s never taken off since. Kal wouldn’t have—couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to—but they’re a different sort of person, Bruce and Kara. There’s no proof, but the theory makes sense, and Kal presses a hand against his mouth to make sure the words won’t spill out—to make sure he won’t take the conversation further than it should go.

Martha knows—must know, at least. If she’s known Bruce since before—she has to know. That doesn’t mean she is the one Kal should talk about this with.

“My point is,” Martha says after the long, heavy silence has settled around them, “that the fact that you can’t be Batman is no indication of a supposed lack of qualifications for this sort of job. Would you say Wonder Woman has no qualifications?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You want to help in the same way that they do, and you have the power to do it,” Martha cuts in, the firmness of her tone belied by the softness of the palm she settles over Kal’s cheek. “Those are the only qualifications you need. You can learn the rest with them.”

“I don’t know—”

“Son,” Martha cuts in again, and the word pushes a shiver down Kal’s spine, “you’ve learned the English language and the essentials of American culture in less than two months; you’ve learned to use hands that can lift a tractor to catch an egg without breaking it in less than that—of course you can learn what they need you to learn.”

“Martha,” Kal tries, mountain rocks in his throat and burning water in his eyes, but Martha’s grip on his cheek tightens, even as her other hand comes up to cup his face too.

“I don’t know who put it into your head that you’re not just as good as anyone else in this world—and better than some, believe you me—but they were wrong. I haven’t seen a single thing about you that wouldn’t make any parent proud. And—and I don’t know,” Martha says, voice catching on something wet just as Kal closes his eyes, feeling like he’s about to rip out of his own skin, “maybe your parents aren’t proud of you—some people are idiots like that. But I ’m proud of what you’ve accomplished before and since you came to Earth. I’m proud that I was there to help you through it, and I’m very proud to say I consider you family.”

The burn in Kal’s eyes spills over onto his cheeks, and he leans down until he can hide his face in Martha’s shoulder. With a great sigh, Martha reciprocates the gesture, looping her arms around him, and they remain locked into a teary hug for a long, long, long time.

Superman gains traction. Kal told Bruce he’d prepare and he meant it: he doesn’t wait for Bruce’s books to start reading up on the best ways to deal with a house fire, first aid techniques, and as many anatomy books as he can get his hands on. No world has ever waited for anyone to be done with their education to keep on turning, however, and in the following week Kal gets involved in a variety of car accidents, three forest fires, four hold-ups, and twenty-three cases of pets of various shapes and sizes stuck in increasingly unexpected places. He also helps many people with their groceries or everyday tasks, but that’s more being a good neighbor than anything else, so it doesn’t particularly count as, uh, ‘heroing’, as Martha jokingly puts it. On Thursday night, he even helps a doctor give birth to her own baby by the side of a dirt road in northern Vietnam—it consists mostly of doing what he’s told in labored English, but he does still come out of it with an undeniable sense of...poetry, almost.

Not that the actual affair was very glamorous—between the blood and gunk and other various bodily fluids, no one should be expected to look good while giving birth. But there is a sense of pride there, an awed accomplishment at the thought of having contributed, even just a little, in the making of a new life. He wonders, for a while, if that was what his parents felt when he was born—if they at least enjoyed that part of the whole ordeal, before they became entirely disenchanted with him. That is, of course, a question he’s unlikely to ever get an answer to—but even then the pride doesn’t leave him for the rest of the week.

On Friday, Kal wakes up with one of the worst cases of jitters he’s ever experienced, and he’s about to explode from it when Martha takes pity on him, drags him to the kitchen, and proceeds to teach him how to make apple crumble and gooey butter cake. He does have to leave eventually, though, and at one in the afternoon, local time, he walks through the door, runs out of Martha’s backyard until he’s at a comfortable distance, and jumps into the sky with as much force as he can manage.

He gets a little disoriented by the sonic boom at first—he’s never provoked one by jumping before—and figuring out how to fly on purpose proves tricky enough that Kal almost crashes down into a wheat field. He catches himself at the last second, though, rises until he’s just below the cloud cover, and heads toward Gotham.

He enters Bruce’s cave via a door installed under a lake, and touches down right next to the landing platform for Bruce's plane. There’s a motorbike there that Kal has never seen, parked next to a muddy blue four-by-four, but other than that, the cave remains as it was in Kal’s memories. He floats over the water in silence, popping up to get a closer look at the bats sleeping on the ceiling, and touches down again when he reaches the upper level of the cave.

Kal was right, before—this is a space that only pretends to be an armory. What weapons he can see haven’t been used in a while, and the suits on the back walls are all variations of Bruce’s Batman uniform—older versions, perhaps. And there, in the middle—Kal swallows. The build of the suit is slight, shorter than Batman’s. A younger person; he should have deduced that much from the get-go. A younger man. There are scratches in various spots on the red and green design, a bullet hole in the right shoulder...and the words in dulled yellow, mocking Batman—Bruce—every time he goes through that cave reminding him—Gods. No wonder the man tries so hard to make himself as engaging as a prison door.

Someone gasps to Kal’s left, and he turns to smile at the Flash—Barry—who is all but gaping at him through the glass. Kal exchanges a smile with Diana, too, who is standing by Bruce’s large office chair, and then he floats inside the room, multiple monitoring screens glowing as red as Krypton’s sun. Arthur and Cyborg have settled over a small console with a game of...checkers, and John the Green Lantern is apparently completing crosswords while sipping on a cup of tea. In his chair, Bruce—or, well, Batman, at the moment—doesn’t seem too pleased about the rest of the group’s nonchalance, but he must have decided it wasn’t important enough to point out, because he doesn’t protest when Barry zips from one end of the room to the other with a crackle and a strong gust of wind.

“Oh my Goooooooooood,” he says in a high-pitched voice, grin almost too big for his face. “You can fly!”

“I can fly too,” Cyborg points out, only for Barry to spin toward him.

“Are you ever going to fly me anywhere, Victor?”

“I’m not your personal jet, Barry.”

Barry makes a show of turning his nose up in the air before he turns back to Kal, “Victor is a bit of a killjoy sometimes,” he says in a stage whisper, “but I like him anyway, I don’t know why.”

“Lay off, Barry,” Victor protests—without heat, though he does duck his head to hide something that looks suspiciously like a smile.

“If you could all settle down.”

There is more than a hint of command in Batman’s voice and Kal, after a lifetime of conditioning, doesn’t even blink as he orders his suit back into civilian clothing and uses the excess material for a lightweight chair. (“Oh my god,” says Barry, and though he’s the only one who actually makes a sound about it, Kal still notices at least Arthur and John raising an eyebrow.)

“First item of business,” Batman announces, as soon as everyone is seated and mostly turned toward him, “everyone’s monthly—what, Barry?”

“I have new items I’d like to submit for consideration.”

“I’m sure we can all wait until after the meeting to ask about the pie,” John says, amusement lacing his tone, before anyone else has a chance to speak.

“Smells like apple crumble to me,” Diana says—Kal isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees her smirk, just a little, when Batman’s jaw twitches.

“Okay, well, about the crumble—”

“Later, Barry,” Victor says.

Kal sees him frown when Arthur catches his eyes with a ‘how do you deal with this’ sort of expression, but the topic does seem to be effectively dropped for the time being, which allows Flash to continue:

“Second proposed item: I’d like to officially challenge Superman here to a race. Employing the scientific method. For science.”

“Done,” Kal says before Bruce has time to speak, “if we can keep this meeting on track.”

Kal smiles at Batman, whose face immediately hardens into a scowl. Kal expected as much, but the sight still stings, and he has to bite down on a sigh. Clearly, they won’t be going back to being friends right away. He nods at Batman anyway, just a small tip of the head to confirm his support, and makes sure to keep his body language as professional as possible while Batman readjusts his notes. Good thing the physical attitudes communicating seriousness and attention are mostly the same in El and in the United States.

“Thank you, Superman,” Batman says like the words were stuck to his tooth and took it along for the ride when they exited his mouth. “First item of business: monthly reports.”

The groan that erupts from the table is at least as much attitudinal as it is audible, but Batman remains steadfastly undeterred, and Kal manages—though not without some trepidation—to keep his face mostly neutral. Reporting on anything, let alone anything of importance, is, after all, a first for him. He listens to everyone’s accounts of their months intently, sinking further into Superman’s solemn demeanor with every word that passes. By the time his turn comes, Kal’s nerves have left him entirely, and he’s able to give his own report without a hitch. Batman, of course, doesn’t exactly praise him, but he doesn’t ask too many follow-up questions or point out any flaws in Superman’s account, which definitely counts as a win.

Diana said, in the ice cream parlor, that the Justice League didn’t have an established hierarchy as such, and the truth of it is apparent in the comments of various degrees of utility made during reports, and the haphazard way they’ve all settled in Bruce’s space, without regard for who sits where except each of their preferences. There is, however, very clear leadership in place, and that’s why Superman is utterly unsurprised that no one even thinks of protesting once Batman suggests moving on to the second item.

“Which is the League’s headquarters.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to having more space,” Arthur says where he’s reclining against something that doesn’t look like it should be reclined on. “Hopefully somewhere a little less creepy.”

“You’ve got to admit the cave is a little...” John sweeps the space around them with his gaze, the satiny fabric of his uniform shimmering with the movement, before he purses his lips and concludes with: “Gloomy.”

“We’ve already agreed to change headquarters,” Batman says, causing a smirk to bloom on Diana’s face—there is mischief in her eyes when Superman catches her gaze, but she grows serious again as Batman continues. “The question now becomes where we want these headquarters to be.”

One of the screens behind Batman changes with a click, discarding what Superman thinks might have been old reports in favor of a set of blueprints and simulations. The projected building looks old-fashioned, from what Superman knows of Earth architecture, but also quite large and isolated from the rest of Gotham. Smaller windows and annotations hint at plans for private quarters, training facilities, and even something of a restaurant—who would have staffed it, Superman has no clue, but he knows Batman well enough by now to realize there are probably multiple possibilities built in the project.

“The original plan was to use the foundations of Wayne Manor to build the League’s headquarters for all of us, with room to grow—”

“Assuming anyone wants to join,” Arthur snorts, and while the others look at him with various levels of reproach, he clings to the provocation until Superman says:

“I’d like to.”

“That’s our third item,” Batman says, cutting the tangent off before it has a chance to get out of control. “The point is, we—that means you too, Aquaman—agreed it would be best for any headquarters of ours to leave room for several more additions. Building over Wayne Manor would allow for that, as well as future expansion, if needed. It does have a few downsides, however.”

“We’d be based on American soil,” Diana says, as if on cue. “That gives your government leverage against us, should they decide the Justice League needs to be leashed.”

“It’d make Gotham even more vulnerable,” Victor adds. “This city already has the highest concentration of megalomaniacs with weird gimmicks the world over—and that’s not poetic license. We settle in on Wayne property, the wrong kind of people are bound to hear about it someday, and then what? We got lucky with Steppenwolf, but I’m not too crazy about hoping the next guy will be that stupid.”

“Precisely,” Batman says with a terse nod. “Not to mention building headquarters on my private property makes the League legally and financially vulnerable should anything happen to me.”

“Enter: Superman.” John grins, winking in Superman’s direction. “Our good prince in primary-colored armor.”

Superman acknowledges the joke, but doesn’t respond to it one way or another, well aware that now is not the moment for it...and not entirely sure he finds it funny, besides. Behind Batman, the screen changes again to a picture of Kal’s ship, a staggering mass of dark greens on the black backdrop of space, sunlight barely reflecting off the material. It’s strange to see it from this angle. It’s inspired by wildlife, as are the vast majority of El’s—of Krypton’s—designs, and from what Superman has learned he suspects the Justice League members are also thinking of whales when they look at it. Still, from the outside—it never did feel that massive from the inside. Not even when he first stumbled upon it as a teen. Now, silhouetted against Earth’s golden sun, it has taken on an otherworldly sheen, a mysticism brimming with potential that makes Superman shiver.

“There are several points in favor of this project,” Batman begins. “First of all, it would address our concerns about the repercussions of the Justice League’s presence on geopolitical relationships—”

“Displace them, you mean?”

Superman is not the type of man to squirm under surprised gazes, but he does experience a very Kal-like shiver when the others turn to him. He does manage to keep his cool, though, and keep his voice in the lower register he picked for that persona as he explains:

“The ship is still well within Earth’s space territory, so that shouldn’t be a problem. But do you really think knowing the Justice League is hovering over them won’t catch the attention of some other governments? It doesn’t seem likely that China or North Korea will be very enthusiastic about this initiative.”

“He’s got a point,” Arthur says. “And that’s without even talking about other so-called local government.”

“Green Lantern archives corroborate J’onn’s story,” John interjects from his seat. “If there’s still life left on Mars, the Corps doesn’t know about it.”

“Regardless,” Batman says with a slight nod in John’s direction, “we’re going to have to start thinking about what to tell the press if and when they find out about the two literal aliens working with us. That’ll be a point for another meeting, however. Right now, we’re discussing our headquarters. Political problems aside—and I think we can all agree there will be plenty, regardless of where we settle down—that kind of vantage point would bring tremendous advantage to the League.”

“And how do we get people to and from your little watchtower?” Victor says, slapping Barry’s hand away from his pocket and what turns out to be a packet of sweets. “I might be able to go to space, assuming my circuits don’t freeze, but the rest of you are kind of stuck here.”

“I’m pretty sure J’onn mentioned something about teleportation,” John offers, pulling his phone out of Rao knows where, presumably to check on previous notes. “I could ask him about it during his next Settler’s appointment—it’s due next week, anyway. Speaking of,” he adds, turning to Kal, “you and I need to have a chat, and soon.”

Kal blushes. It doesn’t take as long as he’d feared to explain his situation to the League—they might never have moved from one planet to the other, but they’re all familiar with the concept of immigration, and since John Stewart is the only known Green Lantern of Earth, it’s obvious he’ll be the one to supervise Kal’s settlement project.

“You know,” John tells Barry when he asks about it, “keeping track of where he settles down, what name he uses in his day-to-day life. That sort of thing.”

Oh, Rao. The name thing. Kal had completely forgotten about that. And this isn’t like Superman, either—he can’t just toss it to the press and call it a day, if only because he has less than no desire for the press to know who he is out of costume...although of course, the whole thing would probably be much simpler if he had any idea what sort of name he’d like in the first place, but—

“That’s not the point,” Batman says. “What we’re here to discuss is—”

“It’s to know if we want the headquarters to be your house or this—what did Victor call it? The watchtower,” Arthur interrupts, voice booming with boredom loudly enough that the one glass wall of the room shakes with it. “Personally I’d rather sleep on a cactus than on your bed, so I’m in favor.”

“I mean, the idea of living in your manor’s cool and all,” Barry tells Batman with a slightly apologetic grimace, “but you can’t beat a space station. I’m in, too.”

“We’re not voting today,” Batman grits out—Superman hears the leather of his glove creak as his fist tightens on his lap. “We’re assessing—"

“I think you’ll have a better chance just sending a report over to the team,” Wonder Woman mutters while Barry tries to engage Victor in a debate over whether Superman’s ship has the potential to be as cool as the Enterprise.

“I’ll do that,” Batman replies, jaw still tight enough to chew glass. “In the meantime, our third item?”

“What is it?” John asks, clearly trying to maintain a minimum of professionalism while Superman attempts to stare Barry into behaving himself a little better.

“The Superman’s relationship with the Justice League.”

Superman really, really doesn’t blush—but the part of him that’s Kal does, and it takes him several seconds to get his face back under some semblance of control when both Barry and Diana pronounce themselves in favor of him joining. Arthur and Victor are mostly acting indifferent, and John says something about papers and regulations, but at least no one outright objects to the idea. No one, that is, until Batman says:

“You’re all assuming we’ll be offering him a position. We haven’t decided that yet.”

Superman stares, flabbergasted, while at least two of the other League members protest on his behalf. Someone says something about the advantages of having one more flying person on the team, but the rush of blood in Superman’s ears drowns the words out—and he’s fairly sure Batman is in the middle of a very, very rational explanation when he asks:

“Why?”

There must be more strain in his tone than he meant to leave there, because the assembly instantly falls silent, eyes turning to him with something that looks a lot like apprehension on his behalf hovering around the edges. Batman, if at all possible, straightens even further.

“You’re too green.”

“I’ve been in this sort of business for eight years,” Superman replies, and he’s entirely positive he doesn’t imagine the way Barry gasps at the rebuke.

“You don’t know anything about Earth—”

“You didn’t know anything about El when you decided to investigate the Melokariel Proposition,” Superman points out while Barry—or Flash, or both of him—makes a frighteningly high-pitched noise.

“I knew what I was doing,” Batman grits out, though it’s difficult to say whether the change in his voice is due to frustration or sheer disbelief that anyone—let alone Kal—would dare to dismiss two of his arguments in a row.

“Well, so do I,” Superman replies, turning toward Bruce as the world narrows down to their conversation. “You can quiz me if you’d like—I’ve spent the last week learning about first response efforts and human anatomy. I’ve learned Spanish—”

“In a week?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impo—” Batman grunts, quite obviously frustrated.

In the microsecond he takes to pinch at the bridge of his nose Superman hears Aquaman snort and recline further into his seat.

“Look, that’s not the point,” Batman says after a brief pause. “The point is, you’re rash, impulsive, and untrained—”

“You trained me yourself!”

“We have no idea how far your strength goes!” Batman counters, voice rising to match Superman’s volume. “You keep taking unnecessary risks—”

“We’ve talked about that robbery, Batman,” Superman all but groans, a small part of him proud that he didn’t resort to calling the man by his first name. “It was neither a risk—”

“They shot you in the face!” Batman shouts. “You could have died!”

“I accidentally wrecked a tractor by standing behind it!” Superman shouts back, rising to his feet as soon as Batman does, too incensed to worry about propriety, or strength, or anything that isn’t the sun-hot burn of irritation in his veins. “And even if it had really been a risk, which we both know it wasn’t—that man would have died! Putting myself in that bullet's path might have been many things, but it was not unnecessary!”

“No one would have blamed you for taking some time to assess the situation!”

“I would have!” Superman allows himself three harsh, heaving breaths, before he repeats: “I would have.”

The silence around him is absolute, as if even Bruce’s machines had felt the tension in the air and decided to make themselves even more discreet than they already were. Wonder Woman is looking at them in a way Superman can’t quantify as anything but skeptical, and the other four are mostly just gaping at the sight—but in all honesty, at this point both Superman and Kal are too incensed to care.

“Meeting adjourned,” Batman says at last, more tense than Kal has ever seen him. The rest of the League hesitates for just a second, until Batman barks: “Everyone out.”

Wonder Woman doesn’t look like she’s putting particular haste into leaving, but she’s the only one. Barry barely mumbles something about seeing the rest of them next time before leaving in a flash, Victor hot on his heels. John floats out with reasonably dignified haste, and Diana throws a Look at Bruce before she walks out of the room, the blue car’s engines roaring to life just as she reaches the threshold.

“That meant you, too,” Batman says, pushing Superman to snort, throat still tight with the fight.

“Yes, I gathered that. I just wanted to say—you’re the one who invited me here. If you didn’t want me around, you could just have said so.”

He should—it feels like he should be able to pursue the conversation in a calmer, more rational manner. Like he shouldn’t let the burn in his throat and in his cheeks get the better of him...but Batman doesn’t answer—Bruce doesn’t answer—and Kal deflates out of Superman’s persona, eyes burning as he turns on his heel and flies away like a coward.

He hides away in the settlement ship afterwards. The cold there is too intense for anyone on the team to bear—except maybe Diana but why would she come look for him here in the middle of the Arctic?—and even if it weren’t the security system won’t let them in until its commander, which is Superman, orders it to. It’s the perfect place to be left alone with his thoughts, to have time to think things through...and, Kal realizes, the perfect place to be miserable.

It doesn’t start out that way—the distance is a great idea at first, and the relative silence of the Arctic makes for a helpful dampener for the noises of the rest of the world. In time, Kal is sure, he’ll come to relish the opportunity for some quiet. Right now, though, on the heel of Batman’s not-so-subtle rejection, the mix of Federal and Ulian alphabets on the command consoles and walls turns from comforting to a painful reminder of Kal’s many, many inadequacies. In the end, he all but flees the ship and decides to run around the world for a while.

He goes from one country to another, plucking people out of disaster zones after natural catastrophes, hurricanes after floods after earthquakes, until his head buzzes with it. Eventually, though, the rush of purpose, the heady sense of accomplishment, fades away. There’s no room for Kal’s struggles when Superman is busy proving to the planet that he’s here to help and here to stay. There’s no room for Kal’s anger when Superman has to be mild, even-tempered, unthreatening in every possible way until everyone forgets he could blow them to bits with something as simple as a sneeze. To an extent, Superman’s calm demeanor, his self-assurance bleed into Kal enough that he can almost fool himself into thinking he’s over the whole thing until, three days in, he realizes Superman is on his way to turning just as rote and automatic as Shadow was, in his last few days.

The realization brings him up short—jerks him out of a feeling that’s as terrifying as it is familiar—and Kal has to spend a long time ranting about the whole ordeal to Martha before he’s calmed down enough to stop panicking. He’s destroyed a full tub of ice cream by then, something he tries to apologize for until Martha tells him not to sweat it.

“You know I’m happy to help, sweetheart,” she says with a shrug when Kal looks at her with intense puzzlement. “And besides, I’ve got to admit there’s something a little funny about someone with your build complaining about a stubborn coworker with his mouth full of French vanilla.”

Kal tries to resist glancing at Martha’s helping of black cherry ice cream, but she tuts at him with an exaggerated grin, clutching the carton closer to her chest before she warns:

“Don’t even think about it, young man. I have a spoon and I’ll smack you with it if I have to.”

Kal could steal the entire thing from her if he wanted to, of course. He could rob Martha blind and be out of reach within minutes, if he really put his mind to it. But the very thought makes him snort, and he concedes the point—and any claim on the black cherry—with raised hands and a rueful grin. The exchange does have the benefit of lightening his heart, though, and Kal’s next sigh is more contented than anything else as he lies back against the couch, careful not to press too hard against it. He’s not...it’d be a lie, to say that he’s forgotten all about Bruce’s attitude two days ago—or that he hasn’t noticed there’s been nothing but radio silence between them since—but it’s grown a little lighter all the same, and Kal is ready to appreciate that.

“It’s still bothering you, isn’t it?” Martha says, after a bit.

Kal groans and lets his head fall backward.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Martha, fully aware that he sounds more sulky than genuinely pained by his own attitude. “I just can’t get it out of my head—he was so—urgh. Sorry.”

“I’d tell you to stop apologizing,” Martha says, the hint of a chuckle in her voice, “but I doubt it’d do much good...What if I told you I’ve got the perfect distraction instead?”

Kal lifts his head back up at the words, looking at Martha with undisguised curiosity only to find her sporting a grin that wouldn’t be out of place on—what’s the phrase again? Oh, right. The canary that got the cat. No, wait—the cat that got the canary. That sounds more sensible. Either way, Martha looks a little proud of herself, like she’s about to pull the best prank the world has ever seen on Kal; and it’s only trust that she won’t do anything to hurt him that keeps him from making his excuses and retreating to his bedroom.

He obeys Martha’s gesture to follow her instead, tailing her outside and across the yard to the storehouse, inside, and then up an old wooden ladder to an empty hayloft. The walls of it are raw, bits of straw lying discarded on the floor among bird droppings and something that looks an awful lot like a dead mouse in the dim light of the evening. Kal follows the slant of the roof from a set of wide doors to the left-hand wall, and then down to a pile of brand-new cans of paint.

“I wanted to wait for a special occasion,” Martha says when Kal looks at her in incomprehension, “but I figure it’ll do the most good now.”

“Uh, Martha, I…I’m not sure I understand….”

Even in the fading light it’s easy for Kal to see how Martha’s face grows more serious, her smile just a little smaller, and yet...more important, somehow, at the same time.

“Look, I know this arrangement was supposed to be temporary,” she says after taking a deep breath in, “and I’ll understand completely if and when you want to move somewhere else, but I thought—I wanted to make it clear that I want you to have a place on this farm and in my life. Permanently.”

“What?” Kal asks, take aback. “But the hay—”

“Most of it is stored above the barn already,” Martha says with a dismissive shrug, “and a lot of the rest I just hand over to Mr. Abernathy because he helps with the harvest. I’ll figure something out for what’s left—or you can help me build a new shed, if you’d like. Either way...I figured this would be a better use of the space. If you’re interested, that is.”

Kal tries hard to keep the tears that well up in his eyes from falling onto Martha’s shoulder when he presses her into a shuddering hug. The fact that his own shoulder feels damp, however, means he doesn’t really mind too much when he fails.

Kal spends the next day in the hayloft, in between Superman’s interventions, one ear on the radio and Kryo’s alerts from the Ship as he scrubs the walls and floor squeaky clean, sanding them only slightly over human speed. He’s mostly done with the preparation work by dinnertime, and laughs himself silly as Martha recounts the work she and Jonathan had to put in on the farm after a particularly nasty storm.

“I’m very glad I was forced to sleep by an open oven door in my twenties rather than later in life, let me tell you,” she says, and Kal snorts at the mental image—a disheveled all-but-newlywed Jonathan with his clothes covered in paint and wood shavings, collapsing on the floor next to his exhausted veterinarian of a wife, huddled in front of a working oven in the last dregs of autumn.

The picture is as heartwarming as it could be distressing, the biting cold and fear of failing to finish the repairs before winter long since worn away from the memory—and Kal smiles at his hands, clutched around a mug on the table. Martha chuckles, too, emptying the last of her hot cocoa with a satisfied smile before she says:

“He’d have liked you as much as I do, you know. I’ve got absolutely no doubt about that.”

Kal looks down at his cup again, heat creeping up his neck and into his chest, sweeter than anything as it spreads into his limbs and makes him feel almost as invulnerable as he actually is. I’m proud to call you family, Martha said all those days back, and to hear—for her to think—Kal swallows. It isn’t—it won’t ever be the same as hearing this from his birth parents. To hear Jor-El or Lara Lor-Van say anything even close to that—he breathes in deep. Just the thought of it aches, the pain barely dulled by a lifetime of training; and not just because it’s impossible, either. There is too much pain there, too much unanswered need and longing for an about-face not to cut deeper than Kal cares to find out.

Martha’s words, her easy acceptance, the unconditional nature of her affection and of her care—of her love, even—won’t ever be the same as receiving such a sentiment from anyone in the El family, but it doesn’t hurt the way that would. It doesn’t—of course, it can’t exist without taking Kal’s entire history into account...but the pain there feels more like healing than an infection, a necessary step on the path of recovery. Kal sighs with it, one hand coming up to rest on his chest before he realizes it, and Martha frowns again.

“Are you all right?” she asks. “Should I not have—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Kal hurries to reassure her. “It’s just—there’s something I’d like to discuss with you, I think. In the future. I just—I need to give it a little more thought before I can really...share it, so to speak.”

“Oh,” Martha answers, clearly trying to rein her wariness in, “of course. I understand.”

“Thank you, Martha.”

It takes a bit of time before they can go back to the easygoing mood of their early evening, but Martha’s yellow kitchen—with its pale chairs and the chips in the wooden cupboards and the homemade pottery dishes drying on the rack next to the sink—has become such a place of freedom to Kal, of safety, that he doesn’t even realize he could fear failing to recover the mood until they’ve already done it.

Four days after his disastrous first encounter with the Justice League, Kal decides to swallow his pride and be the bigger caped crusader in this ridiculous feud with Bruce. Well, technically he did sort of come by that decision on day three, calling Bruce in the middle of sanding the hayloft’s loading doors. He didn’t really commit to it, however, and after a few calls had gone to voicemail—to his immense relief—he gave up and decided to wait more.

This time, though, he’s truly decided to make things right; so, after Bruce has ignored four more phone calls and Kal has moved Martha’s old but serviceable pull-out couch out of the living room—“I’ve been looking for an excuse to change it for ages, and Bruce saved me the money for a replacement tractor, so just take the damn thing off my hands, please"—and into his new spot on the farm, he turns the suit back into Superman’s costume and flies towards Gotham City.

He makes a pass over Blüdhaven on his way in. It isn’t, strictly speaking, on the way, but night is falling over there, and spending the past four days thinking about little else but Batman gave Kal more than enough time and reason to wonder about the mysterious son who exiled himself here. He doesn’t intrude—wouldn’t know how to introduce himself even if he wanted to—but he does take a look at the city. It doesn’t seem that different from Gotham, similar signs of poverty and political neglect marring the streets despite what Kal has seen described as tremendous efforts on many people’s parts to help the citizens make better lives for themselves. It seems almost too on-the-nose a project to take up for Batman’s son, but then who’s Kal to judge? He certainly can’t claim to have only picked easy projects in the past.

He leaves the city behind, eventually, promising himself to come back, and heads to Batman’s cave. It’s a relief not to have to dodge any alarms that he can detect, especially when the more paranoid part of his brain had become convinced he might be facing lethally dissuasive measures upon his return. It is a surprise, however, to fly and in and run into Wonder Woman as she all but stalks out of Batman’s main operations room with an impressive scowl on her face.

It melts away when she sees Superman standing there, though, and the force of her smile is almost enough to stun as she says:

“There you are! I’ve been trying to reach you, but you’re very good at being elusive, Superman.”

“I apologize,” Superman tells her with a bow of his head. “I’m afraid I got sort of...caught up. In various matters.”

“’Various’ wouldn’t be my first choice of word to describe Batman,” Wonder Woman says with a wink, “but I suppose to each their own.”

“I suppose so,” Superman concedes. Then, reluctant to leave the truth unacknowledged: “he made some good points, you know. Mostly good points, in fact. I guess I just sort of...overreacted, a little bit.”

“Well,” Wonder Woman says with a small smile and a shrug, “as long as you’ve made your peace with it.”

Superman has a feeling the Cave may sound like he did the very opposite of that in the next few minutes, but he nods anyway, unwilling to drag things out. Diana replaces Wonder Woman, then, grin tipping further into mischief, a spark of almost childish glee blinking to life in her eyes as she says:

“Once you’re done, the others and I would like to meet you again—properly, this time. If you don’t mind.”

“You mean—as civilians?”

Kal flinches when his hesitation makes Diana blink, but he doesn’t let it push him into pretending he’s not feeling slightly off-kilter, even if it means Diana’s smile is slow to come back.

“Yes,” she says, “as civilians. Would that be all right with you?”

“Oh...sure,” Superman says, the role pushing some of Kal’s hesitation out of his posture. “That’d be great. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Well, then, do let us know when you're done here and I’ll send you my location.”

Smiling again, Wonder Woman offers Superman a small rectangle of thick, embossed paper introducing her as “Diana Prince, head curator,” with the British Museum’s logo in the upper right corner. Two phone numbers line up at the bottom, and Diana taps the second one, which, Superman guesses, must be a mobile phone. Nothing he’s seen so far makes him think this could be a personal number, but it still feels nice to have this tiny piece of connection to her, one that doesn’t go through Batman, or Bruce. It isn’t much, of course, and it isn’t like Superman—let alone Kal—resents Bruce’s presence or anything of the sort. It’s just—it’s nice to feel like he’s putting down roots, is all.

“I will,” Superman says, and waves goodbye as Diana floats out of the cave and into the early afternoon sun.

Then, breathing in, he makes his way through the cave and up the stairs. He walks there, unwilling to risk upsetting Bruce by flying, and can’t help but pause in front of the glass case where the suit looms over the rest of the room. It’s almost menacing in its emptiness, the gloves gripped tight around a discarded weapon—but Kal remembers who used to wear this, now. Tries to imagine what it would have been like, for him to lose Kara. What it would have felt like, looking at the clothes she died in—for that is exactly what these are, the yellow words leave no doubt about that—and the mere thought of it burns at the corners of his eyes. Not just the familiar salt-sting of tears, but the other heat, too, the one that pressed at the backs of his eyes after the tractor, and a handful of time since, after his argument with Bruce.

Kal swallows it down, turns to the main den and its Krypton-like red light, and sighs as he knocks on the glass door.

“I ate one of them,” Bruce says, clearly distracted by something under his microscope, “so spare me the lecture, please.”

“I’m fairly sure Alfred prepares two sandwiches because one isn’t enough,” Kal retorts with what he hopes is a passable effort at keeping his voice even. Ish.

Besides, even slightly wilted, the sandwich on the forgotten tray looks delicious, and not saying something in favor of eating it would feel almost as bad as snubbing the food a second time. It might be a bias, but it isn’t one Kal cares to correct—and if Bruce’s expression is anything to go by, not one Bruce cares to dispute, either.

“What are you doing here?” he asks instead, sounding more wary than actually sullen.

“I...I wanted to talk to you about the, uh—the meeting. The other day.”

Scowling again, Bruce turns back to his microscope, shoulders tightening with a shift of muscles that's actually audible to Kal. Kal blinks himself back inside his body, the surprise of the sound all the more unwelcome for how rare these things have become, and he closes his eyes against the abrupt burn in them. He hasn’t found out what that sensation is leading up to, yet, and he’s got no desire to get on with that part of his evolution, let alone within a small enclosed space where all he wants to look at is Bruce.

“I’d think you made your stance very clear,” Bruce says, tone flirting with the edge of a mutter, as if he were trying to make himself sound more...professional than he really feels like being. It brings a smile to Kal’s mouth as he answers:

“I did. So did you. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m wondering whether maybe we didn’t get it all wrong anyway.”

“I don’t get things wrong,” Bruce protests, head coming up and away from the microscope, the white lenses of the cowl retracted to make observation possible.

Other than that and his general demeanor, Bruce is in full Batman regalia—almost ready for a meeting. Part of Kal wants to rise to the same level—keep the suit and the solid voice and the straight shoulders on—but the last time he did that turned out to be...well, he doesn’t want to use the word ‘disaster’, but doesn’t quite find himself able to come up with an adequate alternative. So, ignoring the instinctive urge to make himself bigger than he is and let Superman handle things for a while, he turns the suit back into jeans and a plaid shirt, a white t-shirt peeking through the open lapels. He keeps his posture natural, without straightening his spine but without slipping into the excessive slouch he’s been practicing either. Nothing but Kal, wrapped in all his shortcomings and surprisingly irritable temper.

“Maybe you don’t,” he tells Bruce, “but you don’t always see everything either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying,” Kal replies with a shrug, struggling to keep his arms uncrossed and shoving his hands in his pockets instead. “You didn’t realize I was Shadow until I took the helmet off.”

Bruce snorts at that, which, considering the exact circumstances of Shadow’s unmasking, Kal can understand, however begrudgingly. The point, however, was to remind Bruce of his own potential for failure, and that’s been accomplished, so Kal doesn’t dwell on it. What he says instead is:

“I don’t always see everything, either.”

What gave him away, Kal will probably never find out. Possibly nothing. He can’t have been the first to notice the memorial in the middle of the cave, although now that he thinks of it he might well be the first to have actually hinted at it out loud. Alfred, after all, has been in Bruce’s service since Bruce was a boy, and would have no need to ask about what happened, let alone figure out a way to let Bruce know he knew. None of that, of course, tempers the glare Bruce fixes him with, and so there’s nothing for it but breathe in deep, and hope for Bruce’s mercy when he says:

“I know what the suit means. Some of it.”

It’s remarkable, really, what super senses allow you to pick up on. The Kal that lived on Krypton would never have realized just how deeply tense Bruce grows at the words.

“Get out,” he growls, but this time Kal forces himself to stand his ground.

“No.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but no. We’ve been putting off this conversation long enough.”

“I haven’t been putting anything off,” Bruce replies, slipping around Kal to get to his computer and busy himself with...something, presumably. “There’s nothing to say here. You’re not ready to join the League—”

“Actually,” Kal says, raising his eyes to the ceiling in the vain hope that Rao will find and help him even here, “I think you’re the one who’s not ready.”

Bruce reacts, perhaps a little predictably, like Kal just stabbed him in the back and then insulted his House, which is to say that he whips around and stares at him with what, on Bruce, is practically a slack jaw. Sticking to English for this conversation was definitely a good idea, then, because this has to be the most intense display of emotion Kal has seen on Bruce’s face since the night they left Krypton and—and then Bruce slams him into the wall.

It isn’t painful, of course—nothing really is, these days—and it only worked because Kal wasn’t actually expecting it, but the sheer rage on Bruce’s face stops him from saying as much. He did come here to make things better, after all, and if that requires gritting his teeth through a number of uncomfortable moments, then so be it.

“What,” and Batman’s growl is rumbling out with no small amount of threat in it, “is that supposed to mean?”

“You heard me,” Kal repeats, forcing himself to keep his voice as level as possible without dipping into Superman’s register. “I think you’re not ready for me to join the Justice League.”

“How dare you—”

“I’m not like him.”

Batman—Bruce—stops again, gaping, hands still caught in the collar of Kal’s shirt as his mouth opens and closes on empty air. Kal doesn’t need to actually listen to his heartbeat to guess it’s probably going for a speed prize right about now, and so he continues instead, softening his voice:

“I don’t know what happened to him, exactly. Only that he was your son, and what the armor tells me.”

“Stop,” Bruce manages, voice as rough as broken glass.

“I’m sure he was as well-trained as it was possible to be—”

“Shut up—”

“I’m not human, Bruce.”

“Shut up— ”

“I can’t be killed.”

“ Shut up! ” Bruce shouts, pushing himself away from Kal with enough force to send himself stumbling into his super computer. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! You don’t know what—he was—don’t you dare—”

“Bruce,” Kal tries raising his hands in appeasement, and freezes when Bruce physically recoils from him. “I wasn’t—I’m not trying to insult him, and I know it hurts—”

“You know nothing about J—you know nothing about him,” Bruce spits, somewhere on the edge of a scream, the beating of his heart a painful sound at the back of Kal’s hearing. “You don’t even know what it’s like to have a family!”

The last word explodes into the shout Bruce was clearly struggling against, clattering against the walls of the room like a gunshot. It leaves the same sort of silence behind it, too shocking to even remember there is a world outside of stillness, and Kal almost—almost—fails to notice the soft padding of Alfred’s footsteps on the other side of the door, the sharpness of his inhale.

What he couldn’t miss, even if he wanted to, is the way Bruce tenses and then crumbles under all his armors, sagging down against his desk and then onto the floor, breathing harsh and heavy, the tremors in his hands so fine it takes Kal’s super senses to see them. Kal stands there for a second, ignoring Alfred entirely, until he finally gathers the courage to take the few steps that separate him from Bruce, kneel, and allow a hand to hover close to Bruce's knee.

“You’re right, I barely know what it’s like to have a family,” he says—the sound Bruce makes then is...Kal can’t tell if it’s a protest, or pain, or some mixture of the two, but the rawness of it makes him wince in sympathy. His chest aches. “I don’t—you know what my life was like. I’ve only ever had Kara, and things with her were...complicated.”

Not for lack of love so much as lack of understanding. Caring about someone in a way that doesn’t suit them sometimes leaves scars just as deep as not caring would; that much, Kal knows.

“I’m learning, though. I’ve got Martha now,” he says, unexpectedly delighted by how much he means it. “Martha...and you.”

This time, the sound that rises from Bruce’s throat is definitely wounded. Kal’s hand crosses the gap towards Bruce’s knee and squeezes it, perhaps a shade too far on the strength scale. Bruce doesn’t protest, though. Doesn’t react at all, really, except for the way his head bows further, his hands retreating towards his chest.

“I don’t know—I have no idea how you feel about him. But I do know how I felt at the thought of Martha getting hurt because of me.”

“That,” Bruce manages from the confines of his knees, “that’s not—I don’t—”

“All right,” Kal concedes readily, unwilling to let this scene go on longer than absolutely necessary, “you don’t. But just in case you did—I’m invulnerable, Bruce. I can send over the data from the suit and the settlement ship if you want. I don’t think even a bomb could hurt me now, and my muscles aren’t anywhere close to being done mutating.”

“I’m not—”

“Fine, you’re not,” Kal cuts in, unable to restrain his irritation in the face of Bruce’s shaken stubbornness. “Well, in that case, you’re going to have to get over yourself, Batman. I want to help people, and that’s what I’m going to do, with or without your blessing...and you won’t be able to say I’m too green forever.”

Kal hesitates, but he does give Bruce’s knee a last squeeze before he straightens up. He’s not quite sure Bruce really does tell him to get out, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take a genius, after all, to realize this conversation—inasmuch as it can be called that—has been more than hard on Bruce’s nerves, and Kal has no desire to add to that. Bruce’s answer will come when he’s ready for it. In the meantime, leaving him in peace so he can lick his wounds and sort himself out is the least Kal can do.

He leaves the room with an apologetic grimace for Alfred, who is going to have to deal with this particular mess through no fault of his own, and flies out of the Cave before his suit is even done rearranging into Superman’s uniform. From there, it’s only the work of a moment to pick his phone up and send a text to Diana:

Do you think we could push the get-together back until tomorrow?

He’s expecting to get a text back, and startles when the suit alerts him to a phone call instead.

“Diana?” he asks, slowing down as he picks up. “Is something wrong? Does tomorrow not work for you?”

“Tomorrow is fine,” Diana replies, dismissive. “I’m just concerned about the reasons behind the rain check.”

Kal files the new expression away for later use, holds onto a sigh, and says, “It’s just...I realized something. When I talked to Bruce. And now—there’s just something I need to do, and I can’t—I don’t want to postpone it.”

“Fine,” Diana replies, a thin layer of puzzlement still in her voice. “I’ll let everyone know, then.”

Superman hums into the receiver, glad to have this sorted out, and flies on toward Kansas.

Kal comes down a few minutes later, wincing when he botches the landing and takes a large chunk of gravel out of Martha’s driveway. He’ll have to refill the pothole as soon as he’s done, but right now the problem is simply not important enough to stop him, and after a quick check, he strides into the house, half determined and three-quarters terrified this is going to go terribly wrong. Martha is in the middle of a phone call when he enters the kitchen, washing tomatoes while she arranges the next meeting with her D&D group—she’s tried to take Kal with her a couple of times, but they didn’t have any sort of cover story ready, let alone a name to give people, so after a couple of missed sessions, Kal just insisted he’d survive one night alone per week. So Kal busies himself by getting two mugs out and reheating some coffee in the microwave.

Martha doesn’t realize he’s there until he actually starts the machine, and when she does she takes one look at Kal’s face and says, “Mary-Beth, I’m going to have to call you back, I’ve got a call I don’t want to miss coming in.”

Kal tries to wave her away, signal that he can wait, but in less than a minute Mary-Beth has made her goodbyes and Martha is setting the phone down, taking a seat in front of Kal at the kitchen table, and saying:

“All right, what’s wrong? How did it go with Bruce?”

“It...went,” Kal says with a grimace. “I said what I had to say and he—I knew it was going to be a painful conversation—well, a painful moment—but that. Um. It, uh—it went. Okay. Ish. I think.”

“Oh, Kal,” Martha says in a sympathetic tone, one hand coming up to rest on his wrist, “I’m sure Bruce will come around. I know he’s stubborn, but—”

“Oh, I’m stubborn too,” Kal says with a barely restrained snort. “One of the many things I've learned about myself here. I’m sure we’ll work this out somehow. It’s—that’s not what I came here to talk about.”

Martha straightens in her chair with a little surprised ‘oh’, undoubtedly puzzled by the sudden formality in Kal’s voice, but doesn’t say anything further. She gives Kal an encouraging nod instead, and he takes a deep, bracing breath before he says:

“This is something—I’ve been...coming to this for a while, I think. But it didn’t quite—I hadn’t really put my finger on it until today. See, Bruce and I, we talked about...about family—well, he shouted, but it’s not like I don’t—”

“Kal,” Martha interrupts with a squeeze on his wrist, “big breath, then slow down, please.”

“Oh. Um. Sorry.”

Chuckling at himself, a bit, Kal gives himself time to blink, take another couple of deep breaths, and try again:

“So. Bruce and I talked about family and I—it, uh. Got me thinking. See, I...I haven’t had any contact with my parents since I left Krypton. Haven’t had a proper conversation with them since—wow. Sorry, I, uh—wow.” Wiping at his eyes, Kal manages a chuckle at himself anyway, eyes carefully kept on the tablecloth. “Sorry, I didn’t—it’s touchier than I thought it would be.”

At least, he thinks while Martha quietly passes him a tissue, his voice is still stable for the moment. Mostly stable, at any rate.

“Anyway,” he manages after a while, trying to keep his words...well, understandable, at least, “Kara—my cousin Kara, the one who writes—she’s, uh. I don’t really...have a real relationship to anyone beside her. Back on Krypton, I mean. But then...I had this talk with Bruce, and I—he said I didn’t know what family was, and—”

“He what?” Martha exclaims, shocked enough that her coffee cup almost topples to the ground. Kal catches it, and raises a placating hand:

“No, no, I—it’s fine. He was right, for the—please sit back down. He’s—he wasn’t wrong. But...he wasn’t entirely right, either. Because I realized—as we talked, he and I, I realized that...I’m learning. About family. Thanks to you. What I’m saying is—I consider you family, too.”

Kal chances a glance up when he hears Martha sniffle, and when their eyes meet she makes the kind of choked-off sound Kal has only ever heard from people too profoundly emotional for words. He’s far from done with what he wants to say—hasn’t reached the real crux of the matter, yet—but the sound gives him enough courage to keep looking at Martha as he continues:

“I haven’t—I don’t think I’ve told you this before but...I’m supposed to pick an Earth name. It’s intergalactic law for people who migrate to a planet that hasn’t got proper awareness of the rest of the universe yet. And so—because I consider you like a mother—I was wondering if you’d be willing to, uh...pick it.”

“Clark,” Martha blurts out immediately, the name all but bursting out of her through a sob. “It’s—with Jonathan, before—if we’d conceived a son, we’d have called him Clark.”

Something fierce overtakes him, too strong and too encompassing to be called joy—it rushes through his veins at the speed of light, makes him straighten up and grin and cry at the same time, fills his heart and lungs with warmth and light brighter than the sun. It flows through him like the best, most brilliant tsunami in the history of the universe, makes his palms and armpits tingle with it, and in an instant he’s got Martha gathered in as tight a hug as he can give her without hurting her, sniffing and laughing and sobbing all at once until, finally, he finds just enough breath to say:

“Hi, Ma. I’m Clark.”

“Oh, shoot,” Kal realizes, a few hours later. Or—Clark. He’s still not used to it, still goes giddy with the joy of it, but he’s sure it’ll only grow easier to think of himself that way as time goes by.

He and Ma—and that transition is so much easier than the other one—have cried their fill and had a celebratory dinner; and through all that, it hadn't even occurred to him, not until just now.

“I need to tell Bruce!”

He’s off so fast, after that, that he actually has to turn back around and give Martha a kiss on the cheek and a promise to do the dishes when he comes back, before he’s off again. Less than a few minutes later, he’s flying over Gotham, almost surprised to find the sun still up over the city, and making his way toward Bruce’s cave.

He finds it occupied, of course. Kal—Clark—might have only brushed shoulders with Bruce Wayne, but nothing in those few minutes, let alone the glimpses he’s caught on TV or in the occasional tabloid, has given him any reason to think Bruce would ever consider Bruce Wayne an acceptable person to be in times of crisis...and it isn’t like Clark hasn’t prompted a significant one. So, all in all, it isn’t much of a surprise to find Bruce hard at work under the hood of the Batmobile—“People keep calling it that—I should get it patented.”—despite the late hour. Or, well, late for regular people; it’s probably barely afternoon for Batman.

Batman, who, for better or for worse, doesn’t react when the main doors open to let Clark in, or when he lands next to the car. Or, in fact, when he clears his throat no less than three times, with increasing volume. Clark waits a bit longer, mindful of the very heavy, very solid piece of metal over Bruce’s very human head, before he reaches down, seizes the underside of the car—

“Don’t even think about it.”

Clark tries to bite down on his grin at the sound, but even he realizes he’s not very successful when he speaks next. There’s something heady about causing Batman to break his resolve, after all, and for all his newfound strength Clark is still, for the most part, just a guy.

“Sorry,” he says, not quite managing to sound as sorry as he should. “It seemed kind of necessary.”

Stony silence, only disturbed by the occasional click of tools—some he recognizes, some he doesn’t—answers him, and Clark reminds himself sternly that it’s his fault Bruce doesn’t want to talk to him right now. He does still have to count in his head a for a bit before he trusts himself to say:

“Look...I’m not here to reopen that conversation.” The silence from under the car becomes, if at all possible, gloomier. “I just...I don’t know if you’re aware—you probably are, being you—but I have to pick a human-sounding alias if I want to stay on Earth. Legally speaking.”

Not even a hum.

Clark closes his eyes, and doesn’t let himself feel frustrated or flustered at the result of his own actions. Instead, he tightens his fingers into fists once, twice, and makes himself say: “In my case I was—I think I’ll probably just change it altogether. My name I mean. On my intergalactic papers.”

Bruce’s...whatever a plank on wheels is supposed to be called. It squeaks, at any rate, when Bruce rolls from under the car and fixes Clark with a Look that is, in all honesty, far less somber than it could be.

“I wanted you to know. First.”

Nothing really...changes, in Bruce’s expression. His eyebrows don’t rise, his mouth doesn’t grow softer or tighter or—he doesn't show any of a dozen possible signs of modified attention or reaction to someone the human body is capable of giving without a word. Still, whether it's Clark’s imagination or something else entirely, it’s like the atmosphere of the Cave changes around him. He wouldn’t know how to quantify it exactly—it seems weightier, that much is sure, but other than that...well, other than that, there’s nothing that seems to matter much but the intense hazel of Bruce’s eyes on him.

It seems, eventually, like one of them is going to break the silence—they both open their mouths to do it, in any case—but they never get the chance.

“Ah, Mister El,” Alfred says from where he’s bringing in what must be Bruce’s evening meal. “What a pleasure it is to see you here—you should have called ahead, I would have had something ready for you.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark says with a polite smile, “I’m quite all right. And, uh...it’s no longer Kal-El, actually.”

Clark turns back toward Bruce for the next part—can’t fight against the overwhelming sense it makes to do so. Bruce—Bruce Wayne, Batman—of all people, knows the importance of a name. He’s known Kal-El, and Shadow, and Kal, and all three of those men have considered him a dear friend. Their dearest friend, in many respects...and it makes sense for him to be the first person to know, after Martha. It makes sense for Clark’s birth, of sorts, to be witnessed by the very man who made it possible in the first place.

“Hi,” he tells Bruce. “I’m Clark Kent.”

It is, perhaps, a little overdramatic to offer his hand in greeting, like they’ve never met before...but then they are both dedicated to parading around in form-fitting costumes to fight crime, so perhaps overdramatics can be a shared language of theirs, if they let it be. And besides, overdramatic or no—corny or no—Bruce does reach out, clasp Clark’s forearm with strong, greasy fingers and say:

“Bruce.”

Clark meets Diana in the Alps, in the sort of landscape that would almost look right at home in El if you could just paint it with a red overlay. The mountains here are shorter, of course: humans don’t have the same tools krytons do when it comes to digging into the earth, let alone setting a second major tectonic event in motion. What the region lacks in height, though, it more than makes up for in palette, and Clark takes a moment to drink in the view before he actually touches down on a wooden deck.

The restaurant, which Diana assures Clark would be much more populated if it were winter, oversees a series of long slopes, one or two with jagged rocks strewn in the middle: rivers of green rushing downwards, the thin blue ribbon of a river cutting through them in the distance. Pushing further, Clark spots many kinds of wildlife, from mammals to insects, and a variety of flowers just as wild and hardy-looking as the vegetation of El was.

“Looks great, right?” Flash—well, no, Barry: he’s in the plaid jacket again—says behind him.

“It does.”

Grinning, Barry motions for Clark to follow him, and they walk across the large deck to a picnic table close to the southern guardrail where John, Victor, Arthur and a man Clark has never met have joined Diana around...hot cocoas, going by the smell. They’re several minutes deep into a heated debate about whether or not certain places count as mountains—the unknown man is arguing, extremely soberly, that Earth can’t even pretend to play in the same category, and the table erupts in protests—Arthur, specifically, yells something about things depending on where you count from—just before Diana abandons her posture of distinguished remove only to say, “Perhaps we could ask Superman to referee. Being the only one of us from outside the solar system should make him an impartial enough observer.”

“Well,” Clark says with a shrug and what he hopes is a suitably apologetic grimace, “I don’t know about the mountains on Mars, but where I’m from, we call that a hill.”

“Don’t let the French hear you say that,” Victor all but snorts. “They’ll get upset.”

“The French get upset too easily, sometimes,” Diana says, but there’s no bite to it, and a moment later she tempers her words further: “But they do know how to cook, so there is that.”

Clark gives a polite nod along with the rest of the table, and peers at the drinks menu with more than a little curiosity. Barry has time to instruct him not to worry about price—“Diana usually pays when we enter her income bracket.”—before Clark settles on another hot cocoa despite the balmy weather, and a dessert consisting entirely of egg whites in custard.

“I imagine Bruce helps, when he comes along,” he half asks the table once the waiter has gone with his order.

He’s not prepared for Arthur’s explosive laughter, or for John to snort into his coffee. The stranger doesn’t smile, but he does tilt his head, just a little, and says, “It seems you have a rather different experience of him than we do.”

“That’s...quite likely, I guess,” Clark says. Can’t expect Batman to treat him the same way as people he’s been colleagues and friends with for years. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where I’ve left my manners, I’m K—I mean. Clark. I’m Clark. Sorry it’s—new. Haven’t done the paperwork yet.”

“Oh, that’s why it sounds so human,” Barry says while John pulls out his phone to make a note of it. “I was wondering if we’d get another J’onn.”

The stranger inclines his head towards Clark again, and a diffuse sense of ‘well met’ greets Clark's thoughts. On autopilot, Clark reaches for the pleasant sense of camaraderie he’s carried as emotional background noise since he set foot on the deck and draws it just a little tighter around his mind, mingled with his own desire to make the acquaintance a pleasant one, and almost doesn’t realize what he’s doing until J’onn’s eyebrows tighten, just a little.

“Sorry,” Clark says, causing eyebrows to draw up around them, “force of habit.”

“What’s force of habit?” John asks. Diana squints:

“Cutting J'onn out of his thoughts, I’d assume.”

“Sounds fishy,” Arthur remarks, and Clark decides that’s his cue to explain before someone—oddly enough, his bet would go to Victor rather than Barry—decides to pick up on the humor of that word in Aquaman’s mouth:

“I used to—uh. Operate outside the law, back on Krypton,” Clark explains. “My family didn’t receive off-planet guests all that often, but I encountered enough of them—and enough of them were—what’s the word for that?”

“Telepathic,” John supplies.

“Right. Enough of them were telepathic that concealing what I was thinking about became a reflex.”

Not, Clark confesses in the semi-privacy of his head, that I particularly intend to lose it. I highly doubt you’re the last telepath I'll encounter, and they can’t all have good intentions.

That does sound quite reasonable, J'onn answers. And if anything, you feel far less defensive about it than most of the others did.

No explicit thought or image passes between them, but for a short second a distinct Batness hovers in their connection, and Clark doesn’t really feel like struggling against the grin blooming on his face.

“Great,” Arthur sighs, sounding exceedingly—but not falsely—put upon. “I guess we’re going to have to get used to you talking over our heads, then.”

“Not at all!” Clark promises. “At least, it’s not my intention. I mean...it would be rude, for a start.”

“Yeah, not even Batman tries to do that,” John remarks as he stirs the remnants of his cocoa. “And besides, you’re assuming that J'onn would be okay with that kind of behavior, which is rude.”

“Aquaman doesn’t know me as well as you do,” J'onn points out, but John snorts and shakes his head.

“We’ve worked with you enough for him to realize that. Just because B—Bruce is being a stick in the mud about having new people join in—”

“Oh, don’t be a hypocrite,” Arthur says—Barry and Victor erupt into an eerily synchronized groan, and Clark hears Diana’s discreet sigh as easily as a tempest. “You haven’t exactly been fighting him about any of it.”

“Must we really have this conversation again?” Diana asks, mostly rhetorically, before she turns a vaguely fond but still exasperated expression in Clark’s direction. “They’re always bickering about which one of them comes the closest to being able to go toe-to-toe with Batman.”

“It’s not about that!” Arthur and John protest with identical looks of horror.

“Isn’t it?” J'onn asks, making Barry laugh at his quiet disbelief.

“It absolutely is about that, and I don’t know if you guys noticed yet, but Clark has got you beat by—what’s the Earth’s circumference again?”

“Just over forty thousand kilometers,” Victor deadpans.

“Yeah, that, at least.”

Blushing, Clark drops his gaze to his hands on the naked wood tabletop, cocoa still steaming in the half-full cup. The others are watching him, he knows. There’s a special kind of silence that happens when people who’d gotten quite comfortable forgetting—or ignoring—that you were there are forcibly reminded of your existence. Reactions after that vary, though not a lot around Ka—Clark—but the silence? That’s always the same.

This one doesn’t last long, however, thank Rao, because Diana lets it live for all of five seconds before she says in a vaguely wondering voice, “That was a surprise indeed.”

“I don’t know what came over me,” Clark mumbles, the tips of his ears heating up even more than they already have. “I’m not—I’m usually better at listening—”

“Oh, people listening to Bats isn’t the problem.”

Arthur pauses when the waiter comes back to clear their table and ask if they’d like something else—sodas and another hot cocoa are ordered—but as soon as the coast is clear it’s John who picks up the thread.

“Bruce is very good at making people listen when he puts his mind to it—”

“Because we’re terrified of him.”

“You’re terrified,” Victor says, bumping Barry with his shoulder hard enough to make him waver in his seat. “Some of us just don’t care enough to really fight him.”

“Let’s call it that,” J'onn murmurs.

Clark is fairly sure Diana heard him, though her poker face is too good for him to pierce it, and he’s left with the strong but unprovable feeling she’s currently doing a great deal of internal eye-rolling at everybody else’s expanse.

“The point I’m trying to make,” Barry insists as he rights himself, “is that even Diana’s never gotten that kind of reaction out of him, and she’s notoriously unafraid of basically everything. Even Bats.”

“Oh, well,” Clark says, forcing his shoulders into a small, dismissive shrug, “I must have caught him on a bad day.”

“He doesn’t have bad days,” the table replies with frightening unity.

“Officially,” Diana concludes. “We’re all well aware he’s only human—though he is quite skilled at making people forget it—but he is, without a doubt, the most stubborn person I’ve ever met in my entire life, and I’ve been in this world for over a hundred and fifty years.”

“So, what’s your secret?” Barry asks, and while more than one other person around the table chastises him, even J'onn gives the impression of paying closer attention.

Clark, keenly aware of their gazes on him, slouches under the pressure and focuses on keeping his fingers still, his hands flat on the table. What kind of question is that, anyway? ‘What’s your secret?’ Ha. As if Clark had somehow tamed a beast, when all he’s done is stumble into the path of a brilliant man who ended up leading him—quite by accident—to his salvation. There’s no secret there, nothing but nearly three decades of misery and then the most extraordinary stroke of good luck the universe has ever witnessed.

It isn’t—Clark has a life outside Batman, now. He meant what he said, about being Superman with or without Bruce’s blessing. He’s got Martha, and Alfred, and Earth-appropriate papers coming right up—might even get to tie himself legally to Martha as a cousin or some other kind of distant relative, if he’s lucky. Eventually, he’ll be able to actually go out, make friends. Oh, he’s...he might never turn out to be the kind of outgoing person Bruce Wayne is, but Clark is already miles and miles away from who Kal was, just by existing, and that’s only going to get better as time goes by. So yes, he does have a life outside of Batman—has not actually depended on the man for a while now—and it’s a pretty good life, so far. But he’s also not naive enough to think he owes that existence to his own effort.

“Well, whatever it is,” Arthur chimes in before Clark has time to figure out how to deflect the question, “I would love to be able to annoy the guy half as much as you do—that was magnificent!”

“It really wasn’t.”

Arthur doesn’t blink at him, or even show any outward sign of pausing, for that matter; but he doesn’t interrupt when Clark continues either.

“Just because things got...loud...that doesn’t mean he didn’t make good points.”

“Oh, come on!” Barry protests, Victor’s mouth twisting wryly in the background. “He acted like you were a regular human who ran into a burning building with nothing but a t-shirt and boxers on! That’s ridiculous!”

“And the lot of you acted like the very purpose of his existence was to annoy you,” Clark retorts before he can even think of stopping the words.

Silence shrouds the table, Diana carefully sipping her cocoa on his right—though Clark can tell her eyes aren’t leaving his face—and the atmosphere is more than a little awkward, especially for a second meeting. Still, as he’s heard Alfred say: in for a penny, in for a pound. So he refuses to allow himself to hesitate, sinking into the comforting certitude of Superman to keep himself going.

“Experience matters—being careful matters, if not for our own sakes then for the sake of the civilians we could fail to help or outright harm if we’re not serious enough about what we’re doing. The goal of an organization like the Justice League is to help everyone, isn’t it? Gather as many helpers as can be found to help as many people as can be reached. Isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Diana says, setting her cocoa cup back down on the table.

She doesn’t share the others’ look of contrition, but a glance at her confirms her expression has gone from surprised to speculative—Clark would falter at the sight, but Superman meets it head on, determined to get to the bottom of this, even if it hurts his relationship with the Justice League. It will, in the long run, bring more good than bad anyway, he’s sure.

“Well, there you have it, then. You don’t build something like that without discipline, and dedication—and paperwork. We are all adults here; we are all capable of recognizing that. So I may disagree—strongly disagree—with Bruce about a number of things, but I’ll still be taking him seriously, because he did make good points, and if I’m not going to listen to them, then what even is the point of being part of a team with him?”

Breathing in deep, Superman closes his eyes and forces his hands to unwind, his heartbeat to slow down. Superman is not supposed to get angry, not supposed to yell at teammates—or, if he’s going to be realistic, at anyone. A man who can destroy a tractor without even noticing could easily kill a person he’s annoyed with, no matter his intention, and while people may forget he has this ability as long as he keeps his temper under control, he has absolutely no doubt a little bit of shouting would do wonders to jog their memories.

Fortunately, once he does convince himself to look at his—possibly, one day, if he’s lucky—future teammates, they don’t look scared. Arthur, Barry, and Victor have sunk down in their seats, a little, and John seems very absorbed by his fingertips. J'onn’s face is impossible to decipher, and not just because he manages to make it feel totally blank despite having specifically chosen features for himself. Overall, this is a better reaction than Clark was anticipating, and he turns to Diana with a cautiously optimistic smile...only to find her looking at him with a disturbingly cryptical grin, something sparkling in her eyes as she says, “So, that’s your secret.”

“What? What’s his secret?”

“He likes Bruce.”

“Well, yes,” Clark says, Arthur’s smug grin making heat rise on the back of his neck, “of course I like him. He’s my friend.”

“Batman doesn’t usually do friends,” Victor remarks with a wry twist of his lips, “but I guess there’s a first time for everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go back. Dinner with the old man.”

Clark watches Victor get to his feet, mutters of encouragement and good wishes for the evening rising from the table, and waves goodbye just before he takes off, without even considering the nearby cable cars. Barry yawns, then, glancing toward the sun where it is already dipping down towards the mountains, and says:

“You know, I’d love to stay longer—I still have like, three million questions—but I’ve got a thing tonight and I think I’d like to nap a little before it's time for that. Also, laundry.”

“Anything we can help with?” Diana asks, but Barry shakes his head.

“Thanks, but it’s not really Flash-related. Haven’t forgotten about your analyses, though—they’re still processing. Should have the results for you tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Barry.”

Barry nods, makes his way off the deck, and, once he’s out of view from the inside of the restaurant, takes off at a run, the blur of him zipping through evergreens until Clark can’t see it anymore—not without a better idea of where he’s going. Then Arthur gets up too, making some noise about going home as well since everyone’s leaving, and pretending to be terribly inconvenienced when John offers to drop him on the coastline on his way back. Soon enough, it’s only Clark, J'onn, and Diana left to pay the bill and tell the waitstaff their friends decided to hike back down the mountain.

“For my part,” Diana tells them afterwards, “I was thinking of hurrying up to the top and catching the sunset there. There’s a great view of Mont Blanc and Geneva below, if you like that sort of thing.”

Clark does and, apparently, so does J'onn: less than a few minutes later, they’re up the mountain and looking down at the whole valley of Geneva. The city sprawls along a wide lake, lights on against the early night of mountain villages everywhere: it looks like a piece of night sky itself, from up there. Clark refuses to look closer, just so he doesn’t have to shatter the illusion. Higher up, Mont Blanc and its surrounding peaks are aflame with the sunset, wide streaks of light slashing across the darkening sky, and Clark absorbs it all—imagines he can see actual red in there, hear a m’ro moo in the distance. He’s growing used to the nostalgia, little by little. Has mostly managed the trick of not letting it cut him down, of acknowledging it and moving on...But even like this—even with training, and a growing number of sunsets and sunrises there to help...there may never cease to be a part of his heart, the part that will never forget having been Kal, that looks at all this beauty and misses another kind of wilderness all the more strongly because he never felt able to enjoy it while he could.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, well aware of the twist to his lips.

“It is indeed.”

J'onn’s voice sounds different, then, and when Clark turn he’s almost not surprised to find a green-skinned man in place of the neutral, purposefully forgettable features from earlier. He has no eyebrows, or any sort of hair Clark can see; and J'onn’s outfit doesn’t keep much from view. But his eyes glow with the same red as Krypton’s sun, and the color is enough to take Clark in completely. J'onn doesn’t quite smile—whether that’s a personal quirk or a Martian thing, Clark wouldn’t know—but he does say:

“The colors are very reminiscent of my home planet...though they are perhaps somewhat less orange here than they are there.”

“The sun was always golden on Themyscira,” Diana offers, a hint of sadness tinging her smile. “A divine gift, I assume. Greece is—the sunsets there come close, but they’re not the same. Nothing ever is.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is.”

“You mustn’t be too hard on the others,” J'onn says after a long silence, when all that remains of the light is a thin lining of orange over the snowy mountains. “They’re young, and impulsive.”

“They’re too set in their ways for them to get used to being part of the League quickly,” Diana says. “Especially Arthur.”

“Well, he’ll have to learn, won’t he?” Clark asks. “All of us will, if we’re serious about keeping the League afloat, and I am. Even if I’m not—this could change things. Really change things. But—”

“But there’s too much room for error if we’re allowed to run around on a whim,” Diana concludes. “And error with people like us would be...well. I imagine you’ve had more than enough time with Bruce to expose all the ways in which a rogue group of super-powered people could do far more harm than good.”

Clark didn’t have to wait for Batman’s arrival in his life to realize that unfettered power could be a dangerous thing. Krypton was more than enough of a master class in that; and hearing your aunt fall to hear death in the dead of night—dismissing it as a bad dream and not realizing that was what it was until entire months have gone by—has a way of driving a lesson home. Now is not the time for that conversation, however, and so Clark nods, holding a sigh in. The Justice League is a good idea, he’s convinced of that. But it will only be a good thing if everyone involved, including him—even if he doesn’t ever get to actually join—is willing to put effort towards that goal. Even if said effort results in paperwork.

“Don’t worry,” J'onn tells them when the lull in conversation becomes noticeable. “I’m confident we will all rise to the occasion...It doesn’t seem like any of us is the type to leave their home unprotected.”

“Home,” Clark murmurs. “I suppose that’s what it’ll be, eventually.”

It isn’t, just yet. He likes his life here, has no intention of leaving in the foreseeable future, but home? Home is still a place far off among the stars, with mountains so high they might as well be touching the sky, and a sun so red it changes all the colors of its world. Home is, still, a place too vast to name, where he was small and scared and all but invisible...and yet it is a place he misses still, part of him longing to go back, to see his parents again, to—but those are useless dreams, and Clark shuts them down with a deep, shaky inhale.

“It’s not so bad, you know, once you grow used to it. Plenty of this to experience, and the neighbors are fairly decent.”

“Oh, I know. So is my housemate, actually,” Clark tells Diana, unable not to mirror her smile, even if he tried. “Speaking of her...it’s my turn cooking tonight. I think I’d better get going.”

“Of course,” J'onn says with a solemn nod. “As for the future—I realize we share neither a culture, nor a membership in the League, but I know something of what it is to be an alien. So does Diana—”

“In a manner of speaking,” Diana interjects with a little smile, “but as J'onn was about to say—we’re here if you’d like to talk. Or drink.”

“Diana is very fond of wine.”

“And whiskey. And vodka. And I rarely say no to a good rum.”

Clark laughs at the way Diana winks, the faint sense of fondness floating around J'onn. He didn’t get to talk with the League as much as he wanted today, but they were good conversation, and so he’s still smiling when he floats upwards—Diana congratulates him on his progress with a teasing tone—turns towards Kansas, and heads for Smallville.

Clark comes back to Smallville just in time to put himself between Martha and the stove and bicker with her about not letting him skip out on chores, while she insists she won’t just sit around being hungry when she can just fix dinner and let him take care of something else later on. Which is fair and perfectly logical, but Clark makes sure to keep being contrary, just so he can see Martha’s grin widen as the conversation goes on. Later that evening, after Clark is done doing the dishes, Martha sits him down in front of the TV and announces it’s time to keep furthering his pop culture education.

“You have a choice: we can stick with Star Trek and watch the animated series, or we can go for something a little different and have ourselves a Star Wars marathon.”

Clark looks at the cover, and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s still set in space.”

“There was a fad, and I’m a nerd, sue me,” Martha replies. “We could skip ahead and watch Buffy or the X-Files, but you said you wanted to maybe take a break from long shows, so….”

“Let’s go with Star Wars , then.”

“Great. Could you get the lights?”

It would be a lie, so far, to say that Clark has been as enthusiastic as Martha is about the shows and movies she’s shown him. He doesn’t dislike them, far from that, but he has to admit that a good part of the fun in these is watching Martha mouth lines as they are said on screen, and listening to her impart a veritable encyclopedia's worth of obscure knowledge about fictional characters, the fictional universes they live in, and the people who dedicate an astonishing number of hours to loving those things. It isn’t the only part of pop culture he's discovered, of course: he enjoyed Clue immensely, especially the bit with doing the voices—“Oh, I’m definitely introducing you to my D&D group.”—raged at Chutes and Ladders, and got his butt properly handed to him in no time flat the one time Martha had him playing Risk. The shows and movies are definitely Martha’s favorite part, though, and watching her enjoy them is a delight in and of itself...Clark can’t wait to see what it’s like when she’s let loose in the middle of like-minded people.

Of course, they’ll have to wait until his new papers come through before they can think of actually letting anyone meet Clark. But it’s nice to make plans for the future, even if they’re frivolous ones about watching movies with new people. It’s the small things that keep you going, after all, like hoping Luke Skywalker will finally get some closure from the man who killed his father—

A sound prickles at the edge of Clark's hearing.

“I think Bruce is coming.”

“What?” Martha exclaims, looking between the front door and the screen, where Obi-Wan Kenobi is searching for Darth Vader in the Death Star. “Right now?”

“He’s in the plane,” Clark replies, getting up from the couch and trying to make sure he hasn’t left anything embarrassing lying around. “Shouldn’t be more than five minutes, I think.”

He’s not entirely sure why this urge to neaten up has even seized him. Rationally speaking, he could stay on the couch with Martha and keep watching; but the thought of Bruce looking at the place and thinking Clark is responsible for any sort of mess is far too distressing to be ignored, and so he doesn’t try to stop Martha when she pauses the DVD in the player and goes to put the kettle on.

Four minutes later, at the most, Bruce Wayne knocks on the front door.

It’s Clark who answers, far more flushed than he needs to be, and what is even going on with—

“Oh, hi, Bruce.”

“Hi. I, uh—I was wondering if we could. Talk. For a bit.”

“Uh,” Clark says, intelligently, looking at the TV first and Martha second—she looks more than a little perplexed, though whether by Bruce’s presence or Clark’s behavior, it’s difficult to say. But she gives a little shrug anyway, so Clark concludes: “Yes, sure. Let me just—”

Clark gestures down at his socked feet, and then almost topples when he bends to put shoes on, which would be embarrassing under any circumstances; here, now, combined with the way neither Bruce not Martha are saying anything while they wait, it has the potential to become thoroughly mortifying. Still, eventually Clark manages, and then he’s vaguely waving in Martha’s direction and stepping out through the front door and into the balmy air of an early August evening. He follows Bruce away from the house, toward the fields, and when the silence between them becomes too tense to bear, he makes himself blurt:

“I’ve got a room now. Of my own. I mean, it’s, uh—it’s above the storehouse. If you’d like to...I don’t know. Sit down or something.”

“Certainly,” Bruce says in Ellon, more formal than they’ve ever been with each other—then he winces, almost too quick for even Clark to see, and chooses much more casual, downright friendly grammar to add: “Lead the way.”

Nodding, Clark does as he’s told, and they finish the walk to the storehouse and up the ladder in silence, until Clark is sitting on the faded couch and Bruce is looking around like he’s trying to appraise the place. Tension grows between them again, threatening to push Clark into another bout of insanity, when Bruce apparently decides it’s his turn to try and produce some semblance of conversation, in English this time:

“I like it, Clark. It’s very midwest. Very you.”

“Thank you...I guess.”

Bruce nods, short and decisive, and then his shoulders straighten, and his hand lets go of the hem of his blazer. When he looks back at Clark next, there is no hesitation at all in his posture. Clark adjusts in response, slips into Superman’s demeanor without even having to think about it, and remains entirely neutral when Batman says:

“The League has voted in favor of accepting your offer of an off-planet base. They sent their responses along tonight, as well as a number of suggestions, questions and requests regarding the actual process of installation...John has volunteered to ask around for transportation devices—he mentioned something called Zeta beams?”

“That makes sense,” Superman replies with a slight nod. “They’re limited in range, but they’re cheaper and easier to maintain than other systems. Probably the best choice for a test run, and they’ll be safer for any civilian who may come in contact with them, too.”

“That’s settled, then. I’ll put the team’s feedback together and send you a summary so you can prepare your answers before we have another meeting.”

“A meeting?” Superman asks, puzzled. “I thought you didn’t want me joining the League?”

There’s a brief pause, Batman’s lips pinching together as he gives Superman a flinty look, but Superman doesn’t move from his place on the couch, afraid a single shiver of his muscles will bring whatever bridge they’re trying to build crumbling into dust between their fingers.

Eventually, Batman says, “The League will have no choice but to work with you on this. It makes more sense to sit us all around a table than to have me keep acting as a go-between.”

“Of course,” Superman agrees, finally getting to his feet so he can extend a hand for Batman to shake. “Well, I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to working with the lot of you.”

“The League could say the same,” Batman answers, stiffer than ever despite the steadiness of his gaze, the confidence present in every nuance of movement in his hand. Then, as if taking a plunge he adds: “Wonder Woman informed me I have you to thank for everyone’s speedy responses. I don’t know what you did, but I’ve never had Arthur take less than four business days to answer an email from me, so...thanks for that, Superman.”

“You’re...welcome.”

Batman nods again, either oblivious to or unconcerned by Superman’s slack jaw, and turns around to leave with such a flourish that it almost feels like he’s swung a cape over his shoulders. Deflating, Clark sits back down on Martha’s old couch, feeling vaguely disappointed with the proceedings. Sure, it makes sense for Batman to let him know about that sort of development, and if Clark had been opposed to working with him, he wouldn’t have offered his ship as the League’s headquarters, let alone fight fought to be considered an acceptable candidate to join. Still, he’d have hoped—that is to say, with how their last conversations have gone, he’d have thought—oh, but it probably doesn’t matter.

And then, a second later, it definitely doesn’t matter because when Clark tries to figure out where Bruce’s plane is, he realizes not only has the thing not moved, but there’s also a distinct crunch of graveled earth under expensive shoes. Well, he can’t really hear the expensive part, but it’s Bruce. Everything he wears is expensive. It’s also deeply, deeply irrelevant right now, at least compared to the question of why on Earth he hasn’t left yet. Frowning, Clark floats down from the loft, landing behind Bruce without a sound—and grinning when Bruce grunts but doesn’t seem startled at all.

“Is everything all right?”

“No,” Bruce retorts, almost a bark. Then, switching to Ellon after a long silence: “About—when you came to the Cave and— fuck .”

A deep breath as Bruce turns his back to Clark.

“His name was Jason,” he tells the sky, which is almost entirely pink with sunset. His son’s name sounds odd, next to Ellon words, but Clark has had more than enough time to realize some things in his life are easier to speak of in English, and he doesn’t begrudge Bruce the reverse. “I—I was not there. That—that—bastard took him, and t—”

Bruce cuts himself off with such force, Clark is almost afraid he’ll chip his teeth. He takes a tentative step forward, hand reaching out to touch, but stops himself at the last second. Who knows, after all, if touching Bruce right now would be at all helpful? Clark waits instead, tries to leave space for Bruce’s harsh breathing, for the sort of feeling that blocks the throat and traps the words inside. For the sort of sound that feels like if it starts, it’ll never stop again.

“I was not there,” Bruce repeats, deflating, hunching under the weight of it all. “My boy died, alone, because I was not there. Because I took a vow—because Batman exists to save people, to help them, but I—whatever exists between Batman and Bruce Wayne, it’s never brought anyone anything but pain. And that is the thing that trained you.”

This time Clark does reach up—touches the fingers of his right hand to the back of Bruce’s left elbow, and, with as much care as he can manage, positions himself just a little closer to Bruce: just close enough that he won’t have to speak above a whisper for Bruce to hear what he’s got to say. He clears his throat, fearing for a moment that the words really will stay stuck inside—or will cut through his throat like razors and leave him to bleed out here in the grass, in the first place where he’s ever felt like he could fit in.

“You know,” he says, with his hand still on Bruce’s elbow and his eyes firmly stuck to the ground, “I used to hate it. The—the thing in the middle. It just—it never managed to really be Kal, it was never strong enough to be Shadow...I thought...I thought it was—thought it would be better for everyone if it just...stopped existing. Disappeared, and left Shadow free to complete his mission. To be—well. Essentially: Batman.”

Clark forces a chuckle, and it scrapes at the inside of his chest, at his throat, until he almost decides to switch back to English and the—not quite the ease of it, but something like it, at least. He’s the one who forced this conversation on Bruce, though, without pausing to think about the circumstances in which he’d have preferred to have it—if at all—let alone the language. The least he can do is let Bruce decide what words to use for the rest of it.

“I don’t—I can’t express how much I hated it. I thought—it felt like it could never—be. Like I had to be something else, always, or I’d just be some sort of terrible—”

“You’re not—” Bruce starts in English, twisting around to look at Clark’s face. “There’s nothing hateable about you. You—”

“It’s okay,” Clark cuts in, sticking to Ellon even if Bruce won’t.

He’s still not sure he’ll manage to say what he needs to say properly with this specific language, but now that he’s started it seems...important, somehow, to say all of it in his mother tongue. Especially when he realizes, as he says it, that it really is okay—or, at least, far more okay than it’s ever been before.

“It wasn't, for a long time. I certainly wasn’t okay when I tried to become a second Batman. But then—then we came here. To Earth, I mean. And then—then I met you. Not Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Just you. The guy in the middle.”

Clark smiles, just a little, when Bruce’s mouth all but falls open, color leaching from his face.

“You were the first person who saw me. Batman saw Kal, and then he saw Shadow, but it’s you who—you were the one who helped me when I had no option but to learn to be myself. You helped me learn what I needed to know, and then you introduced me to Martha and—look,” Clark adds, when Bruce’s face goes entirely white and his eyes widen in something far too close to horror for comfort, “I’m not saying—you didn’t turn me into Clark. Of course not. But you—you made it possible for me to...I don’t know. To become him. Become me. And I’m not—it doesn’t...erase anything, or cancel anything out. I know that. I’m not expecting it to. I’m just saying—it’s not pain. What you, Bruce, brought me. It isn’t pain, or anger, or sadness, or—it’s quite the opposite, in fact. Like...a sheltering rock in a storm. Maybe I’d have survived without you, but, Rao, I’m glad I found you.”

“You say that now,” Bruce mutters, blood rushing back into his cheeks, his neck, his ears.

Clark watches Bruce’s skin change color and wants to hug him, press him close until all the affection he feels, all the love and friendship and hope he’s found here, on Earth, flood from his chest into the man who made all of it possible. He wants to gather Bruce to him and keep him there until he realizes exactly how much he’s done. It wouldn’t erase the pain in Bruce's past—nothing would, Clark knows—but maybe, just maybe, it would help soothe it a little, and that would be worth it.

Clark ignores the urge, however—doesn’t listen to the part of him that wants to kiss Bruce’s forehead; as if it could solve anything—and reaches for Bruce’s elbow again instead, giving it a friendly squeeze. He settles for smiling down at Bruce in as sincere and reassuring a way as he can manage, leaning into him for comfort—his or Bruce’s, he’s not sure—until they both realize how close they’re standing and step apart at the same time, breathing like they’ve been underwater all this time.

“Thank you,” Bruce says in strained English, still flushed but more...stable, now, than he was when he first arrived. “That was—thanks. For...sharing.” Bruce clears his throat. “I should go back to Gotham. I’ve got things to do.”

“Yes, of course,” Clark replies, his whole skin buzzing with a sort of electricity he doesn’t remember ever feeling before. “Well, goodnight, then. Let me know when you’ve got a date for the meeting.”

“Will do,” Bruce replies, more softly than the words really require. Then, almost hesitant: “I’m going to need my arm back.”

Clark lets go with a sheepish chuckle, face blooming with summer sun-heat, and watches Bruce walk back toward the front yard, bypass the house entirely, and climb into the plane, taking off in the general direction of Gotham. Clark watches him go far longer than a human could—has to force himself to stop, after a while—and then he spends longer still just standing there next to the grazing field and grinning at the stars.

Martha has situated herself back on the couch when Clark comes inside, nibbling on popcorn with her giant book of crosswords, the screen still frozen on Ben Kenobi’s quest for Darth Vader. She waves Clark’s apologies away as he sits down, making room for the bowl of popcorn between them and grabbing the remote before she asks, “What did Bruce want, anyway? It must have been important, for him to come all the way here.”

“Oh, the League’s decided to use my ship as headquarters. He was just here to let me know.”

“He made a four-hour flight just so he could tell you something that would have fit into a text?”

Caught by surprise, Clark almost doesn’t catch the popcorn bowl in time to prevent a fatal fall to the ground. When he looks up from his near-blunder, Martha is still staring at him with a raised eyebrow. Clark flushes again, not quite as pleasantly as before—though not in a painful way, either—and manages a shrug that he hopes is convincing. Somehow, he hadn’t thought of that, and now the very knowledge is throwing a wrench in his thought process, making his mind sputter and...well, not die, but definitely not work as it should.

“I mean,” he manages after a while, “there was...something else we needed to talk about it’s just—that wasn’t the only thing, is all.”

“Yes,” Martha says like she thinks Clark hit his head somehow, “but he still flew for four hours—eight, with the trip back—just to have a, what, thirty-minute chat with you in the barn?”

“I think I should get a job,” Clark blurts out.

As diversions go, this one is absolutely disastrous—he doesn’t need to see Martha’s face go a stony sort of blank to realize that. She’s a kind woman, however, and so she pretends not to notice the fumbling—or the way Clark’s fingers are millimeters away from denting the metal bowl they’ve used for the popcorn. For a few seconds, silence floats between them while Clark tries to figure out where to go from there...but then, as it turns out, he must have been thinking about this a little, because his mouth starts working as if on its own:

“I can’t just rely on your generosity forever. And it’s not that I don’t like living on the farm, it’s just—I don’t think I want Superman to be the only one who helps, you know? Super strength can do a lot of things, but it won’t solve everything.”

“So...are you thinking about going into politics?” Martha asks, filching a fistful of popcorn even as she turns to face Clark more completely. “Because that might mean more scrutiny than you’re ready for.”

“Oh, no! No, my cousin is a politician, I’ve seen what that can be like—no, I don’t think leadership is the thing for me.” Clark shudders. “I do want to help, just...not that way.”

Martha hums, and makes a bunch of other suggestions—working for a non-profit, being a teacher, a social worker, a foster parent...none of these options really catch Clark’s interest, but the conversation does last long enough to prevent another go at discussing Bruce’s reason for flying all the way to Kansas, which Clark counts as a win.

He’s not sure he feels ready to share the delightful strangeness of the warmth in his stomach with anyone—not sure what to do but savor it, grinning at the ceiling of his loft until he falls asleep with a smile on his lips and a contented hum on his tongue.

Clark flies into Detroit later that week so he can meet with John and start filling out his paperwork. There’s a lot of it, predictably, and in a language Clark never learned, which makes the whole process even longer than it would normally be.

“I realize it’s stupid,” John says when they set aside the paperwork in favor of a coffee over his extremely shiny kitchen table, “but J'onn is the only other alien—well, non-Terran—I’ve met, and since he was able to read it without a problem, I kind of assumed—”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll learn it,” Clark reassures him cheerfully, almost surprised by his own persistent good mood. “I can recognize a couple of words already.”

John’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead, but Clark just smiles and keeps filling out his application for a Corps-territory passport, since his Kryptonian one has been revoked. (It hurt, somehow, to read about it in Kara’s latest letter. It isn’t like he hadn’t expected it, but it caught him by surprise anyway.) The good part is, once that’s done, the Green Lanterns will be the ones to take care of inserting Clark Kent into American databases—which is a blessing, because Clark doesn’t have the slightest idea how he’d manage that.

“We just do the legal bits, though,” John warns when Clark shares his thoughts. “If you want to convince people you’ve always lived...wherever you want to settle down...you’re going to have to ask for J'onn’s help.”

“I haven’t decided where to go yet,” Clark replies with a shrug, refusing a third cupcake with a polite smile. “I’m not even sure what I’ll do with myself—I don’t know how to do any Earth job. Well, aside from some farming, but that’s not a career path I’m interested in.”

Oh, he’ll do it, if he has to. If Martha needs the help, or if he can’t find another job, but...well. Part of it is that he genuinely does want to help more than one person, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to do that as a farmer. Another part—more selfish, more shameful—is that after a lifetime of only barely ever leaving his house for anything but crime-fighting, he has no desire to settle down in another place where he’d see the same hundred faces for the rest of his life.

“Well, what do you want to do then?” John asks. “Me, I’m an architect—I like it, but it’s not for everyone.”

“I want to help,” Clark replies, aware of the petulant note in his voice but strangely incapable of keeping it out. “I want to—Krypton’s government is quite...corrupt. On multiple levels. I’m used to helping people, smuggling information pamphlets out, and getting them off the planet when they become compromised...I think I’d like to do something like that. Not the smuggling-people-out part, necessarily but...making sure the public has access to information, even if it means annoying a few people in the process. It’s not like I can’t take it, after all.”

John looks at him for a long time, every line of his face speaking of someone focused on an idea—though what idea, Clark doesn’t really know. He sits there, trying not to fidget too much, until John, as deep in thought as he was before, asks:

“Have you ever heard the term ‘muckraker’?”

“Can’t say I have, no.”

John grins, and ends up sending Clark away with a lot of reading recommendations, the names of three different universities in various cities, and a promise that he’ll be welcome to stay with John if he ever needs to spend time in Detroit again.

Not exactly the afternoon Clark had anticipated, but not exactly a bad one, either.

On Saturday, five days after Bruce’s strange visit to the farm—and the loft, where his smell lingered the first night, caught in a closed space while Clark, for some reason, never quite got around to opening the back doors—Clark receives a text from him that only says ‘clark.kent@dmail.com’, followed by a string random numbers and letters, which, Clark reasons, must be a password. It takes a few minutes before he manages to access the mailbox, but once he does he’s not that surprised to find a single, tersely-worded message with a fifty-seven-page PDF attached.

He’s in the house’s living room, with the brand new couch all to himself while Martha is out in town for her weekly book club. He takes the time to sip from his coffee before he scrolls past the main title—“Project Watchtower”— takes a look at the table of contents, and promptly chokes on his coffee, laughter stinging at the corners of his eyes until he has to set his suit-made tablet aside and double over with it. It takes him a while, but eventually Clark does get himself back under control...just enough, at any rate, to send a quick text to Bruce’s number:

‘How much did part three hurt to write?’

‘My teeth may never recover,’ comes the near-immediate response.

Clark snorts again, scrolling down the file past ‘I. Technical Concerns’ and ‘II. Political Concerns’ to go straight to ‘III. Personal Concerns’ which he’s absolutely certain will turn out to mean ‘questions Batman deemed unprofessional but felt compelled to include anyway’. And, indeed, the first item on the explicitly unordered list doesn't do much to change his mind about that.

‘You can tell Barry replicators are not a real thing,’ he texts Bruce.

‘Not unless I want him to come up with another ridiculous science-fiction related questions. How do you even know what a replicator is?’

‘Martha describes herself as a veteran nerd.’

Clark chuckles to himself as Bruce’s side of the conversation turns into a ‘currently writing’ bubble, sipping on his coffee again while he gives the following questions a cursory look, dictating answers where he can and marking things to look up in other places. He’s on the cusp of sinking into complete focus—and moving back up to the more serious questions—when his phone vibrates with a new alert.

‘I still didn’t expect her to teach you about that first.’

‘If I recall correctly, she said I might as well turn to Wikipedia and scientific journals for ‘the high brow topics’ and let her take care of my cultural and hands-on education. What’s a TARDIS?’

‘Let me guess,’ Bruce replies, again without pause, ‘Barry?’

With a snort, Clark shuffles around on the couch until he’s no longer sitting but rather sprawled on his back, tablet resting on his belly and propped up against his bent leg. It feels a little bit like surrendering to some form of temptation—like waking from a luxurious nap and sinking back into bed with a beloved book in your hands—and his smile widens, warmth bubbling in his stomach with the delightful fizz of a soda bottle. He smiles down at his tablet as he types an answer, still technically working even though he’s looking for ways to appall Bruce more than he is actually trying to answer questions.

‘Arthur, actually. Should I be surprised? I have no idea what this is referencing.’

‘An alien,’ is Bruce’s instant reply. It makes Clark frown despite himself.

‘Far be it from me to complain,’ he writes, ‘but I don’t think you’ve ever replied to my messages this quickly. Is there a special occasion?’

He doesn't send it. He stares down at the tablet for a long time instead, the texting app that wouldn’t exist on a human-made item blinking at him in bright, textured colors, and hesitates. He’s not sure why he hesitates, exactly. It’s an innocent enough message—one he’d have no problem sending Kara, for example. But here, and now, he can’t help but think maybe he should try to sound less—less. Less something, surely, though he can’t quite put his finger on what or why. It’s enough to keep his fingers away from the ‘send’ button, at any rate, and he stares at the screen for a moment longer, hoping against hope that Bruce will send something else and spare him from having to make an actual decision.

He does want the conversation to keep going—has never had any objection to talking to Bruce in any capacity, or at any length—but, perhaps, not quite that way. Still, Bruce doesn’t seem in the mood to say more. So after a while, Clark erases the unsent message. And despite—or perhaps, a tiny voice whispers at the back of his mind, because of—his vague awareness of the implications, he decides to ask:

‘What are you doing?’

The next alert is for a picture of Bruce’s feet in very expensive shoes, propped up on what looks like a very expensive table surrounded by a bunch of people in very expensive suits. Clark may have grown up in ridiculous wealth—even more so, perhaps, than Bruce—but Krypton’s wealth is very different from Earth’s and he’s never been rich here. Besides, it isn’t like he ever felt like he belonged in El’s palace either. He certainly would never have dared to flaunt his disdain for it the way Bruce seems to be doing now, at any rate.

‘Playing stupid in a meeting,’ Bruce writes a few seconds later, the ‘currently writing’ dots hovering for a long time before he adds: ‘Intensely boring work.’

There’s another break while Clark tries to figure out how to respond to that, and then, to his utter bafflement, Bruce sends:

‘I’m not good with people.’

Clark stares down at his tablet, blinking just to make sure he hasn’t misread the message—it is, after all, not related to anything they’ve been saying so far, and hardly news besides. Bruce Wayne might be excellent at wrapping people around his little finger—as evidenced by the general tone of fond dismissal most tabloids seem to adopt when they discuss him—but neither Batman nor Bruce has ever struck Clark as particularly skilled in the art of interpersonal relationships. Or, well. Sincere interpersonal relationships. To point that out would be rude, though, and potentially misconstrued, and so Clark sighs in relief when the next message comes:

‘I was harsher than I should have been.’

Another pause.

‘During the meeting.’

Oh, Clark thinks. That meeting.

‘You apologized for that already.’

‘No,’ Bruce sends.

Then, after a pause:

‘I didn’t.’

Another blank.

‘I let you know you were right about’

‘about him’

‘but I didn’t say I was sorry’

‘so’

‘here it is’

‘it wasn’t fair of me’

‘to make it sound like you were bad at your job when i’

The suspension marks continue to hover at the top of the screen for a while, and then they vanish, leaving Bruce’s sentence unfinished and the air brimming with a certain sense of...finality, somehow. Or maybe a sense of opportunity. Like Bruce isn’t going to say anything further—he probably isn’t, Rao, this must have been like pulling teeth for him—but it’s up to Clark to decide whether he’s going to let it drop or not. Whether he’s going to make something of it or not.

And he’s nowhere close to knowing what he’d want to make of it, but he does know he is very much not okay with the conversation stopping here—wants to keep Bruce talking as long as he can, just to feel that sense of connection between them, the faint, pleasing tingle of knowing Bruce is thinking of him.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, after spending enough time deliberating he’s half afraid Bruce will be done with his meeting and too busy to answer. ‘I figured as much.’

Rao, how grateful can you be for the possibility of picking your words with care? (Quite a lot, as it turns out.)

It takes him a long time to find enough courage to add:

‘I care about you, too.’

Bruce doesn’t reply to Clark’s last message. It was, Clark reminds himself, always a possibility. A very predictable one, at that, and so he decides not to mind at all. He reads books instead—runs to and from Kansas City multiple times just so he can go through all their books on journalism and law and, when there’s really nothing left for it, politics. He hasn’t been able to let the idea of journalism go ever since John suggested it; and maybe he’ll regret it later, but for the moment it feels right, and he’s determined to follow his gut wherever it’ll lead him. It’ll do him good to let himself be led towards something as opposed to away from things, for a change.

The whole business takes about a week, and even then only because he’s alternating between that, Project Watchtower, and the related email chain where Barry piles food suggestions on him, Victor keeps making subtle references to things he claims to be too cool for, and Arthur routinely shoots down every single one of Diana’s suggestions to create a group chat.

That bit is, obviously, not really work, but it does lead to several lunches and outings, and it’s still good for Clark’s horizons to expand. It makes Martha chuckle when he tells her, just a touch of sadness in the sound. Having seven whole friends is a new thing, though, new enough he feels compelled to swear on Rao he’s not inventing them when he writes to Kara. He is damn well going to enjoy it as much as he can.

He’s sitting at a library table and trying to figure out how college application forms work—he hasn’t really discussed it with John, but he’s starting to figure Earth out well enough to realize he won’t be able to just fake a degree, especially when the programs he’d be most interested in, as a student, don’t come with online courses.And then his phone rings and nearly makes him jump through the roof. Grabbing at the table to prevent it from clanking back down and alerting the entire library, Clark manages to stop himself before the top of his head climbs past the tops of the bookshelves and, feeling redder than his cape, answers the phone.

“Bruce,” he manages, just a little more breathless than he’d like. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“Are you free?” Bruce asks in strangled, almost brittle English.

Clark frowns, spine straightening without even thinking about it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bruce says, with the sort of haste that says something is definitely wrong. “I’m just—”

“Bruce, where are you?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Kent,” Bruce retorts, but there’s that brittleness in his voice again, and Clark almost forgets to exit the library like a normal person.

Flying to Gotham barely takes him more than a few minutes nowadays. Fifteen, tops, when he lets it—and he’s definitely not going to let it right now, so he’s fairly sure he’s the reason Bruce is running his fingers through his hair and muttering ‘shit shit shit shit shit shit shit’ to himself when he lands on the deck next to the lake house. It’s a bit of a surreal sight, in that Clark has definitely never seen any of Bruce’s personae this messy, not ever—and also in that the second Bruce realizes he’s not alone he physically stops in his tracks and cycles through at least three different colors before settling for a blank face with a very, very bright red overlay.

“What is it?” Clark asks in Superman’s voice, just in case the house is somehow compromised. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Bruce hisses through his teeth, taking three steps toward Clark before he doubles back, grabs a package off a glass table, and brandishes it like a shield. “Your papers came through—John had to leave for some kind of emergency with the Lanterns, so he left them with me.”

Clark, mouth opening on a quiet gasp, drops out of Superman’s posture and costume all at once—sinks down into the Kal-esque slouch he’s decided on for Clark Kent’s public persona instead, and proceeds to open the thick envelope with even more reverence than he’d anticipated. He takes them all out, one by one—driver's license, ID card, passport...and a birth certificate in appropriately faded paper. He brings it up to eye level with trembling fingers, the world dissolving into a blur when he sees Smallville listed as his birthplace, Jonathan and Martha Kent as his parents.

Wiping at his face doesn’t do anything to slow the tears, or the sobs that turn into chuckles—or maybe the other way around. After a moment Bruce must take pity on him because his hand settles on Clark’s shoulder, thumb squeezing in the dip above Clark’s clavicle as he clears his throat and, in a shaking voice, says, “See, nothing wrong.”

Clark manages a strangled noise that might have become a word with some practice, shaking his head for emphasis even as he tries to stop the helpless giggling that's taken him over. Bruce’s hand is warm on his shoulder, solid where Clark feels suddenly fragile, and he leans into it just a little harder than is entirely appropriate, glad that it’s Bruce here with him to receive the news.

“I’m sorry,” Clark manages at long last, “it’s just—you sounded so nervous….”

“I don’t sound nervous,” Bruce retorts, but there’s no heat in the words.

And even if there were: the Earth’s sun has given Clark an eidetic memory. He’d know Bruce was lying anyway. As it is, all he does is snort and wish he had some kind of handkerchief as he sniffles and wipes the last tears from his eyes, and then sighs like he’s been dragging a small moon behind him for years and has finally been allowed to set it down.

“Thank you,” he tells Bruce in Ellon, making sure to use the most respectful and affectionate forms he can think of. “For everything you’ve done...and for being here.”

“It was my pleasure and my honor,” Bruce replies, surprising Clark with his truly commendable use of an Ellon form he has to have learned after their return to Earth. “Actually...I was wondering if, perhaps, you would like for us to celebrate this together.”

For a moment—just the one, earth-shattering moment—Clark’s heart turns loud enough to drown the universe in its rhythm. The Earth, the Milky Way, Krypton itself all cease to exist, swallowed into a heartbeat like glorious bells, a warmth like the sun filling Clark’s veins and squeezing at his guts and his heart and every inch of him in between as he digests the way Bruce spoke the words—shy, almost reverential in tone as much as in form. This is—this would be how an Ellon would offer...lifelong commitments. The kind of arrangement of the heart that can’t, won’t be broken by anything except, perhaps, those who entered it. Clark feels his face grow redder and redder with it, his armpits and neck prickling with the emotion until even his sun-altered body is sweating.

“Bruce,” he manages, feeble and almost too low to be heard, “I don’t think you—”

Bruce makes a face like he’s about to jump from a roof to another one too far away, knowing the gap is too wide and there’s no way he’ll make it, but unable to allow himself to back down anyway. It’s remarkably close to the face Clark imagines he pulled the first time he jumped down from the Citadel’s dome, the first time he flew his own h’mori as a child. The same face he might be wearing, right now, as he allows himself to trust Bruce’s dedication—to believe the man really, truly knows what he is saying.

Bruce, after all, wouldn’t have become Batman—let alone survived this long in the uniform—if he’d been the kind of man content to be anything less than excellent at anything he decided to learn.

“I would love to celebrate with you,” Clark tells Bruce, offering just as much of himself as Bruce offered him.

The feeling is heady, terrifying and intoxicating, not unlike flying: the mad rush of a fall with the absolute certitude he will be caught at the bottom, and land, safe and unscathed, in a place where there will never be any doubt of his welcome. Or, well. Not enough to make him leave, at any rate.

He watches the realization bloom on Bruce’s face, far redder than any shade Bruce Wayne has ever sported, and all the lovelier for it.

“Well,” Bruce says, clearing his throat hard enough Clark can’t help but wince in remembered sympathy, “what do you say to ice cream?”

He’s switched back to English, but it doesn’t do anything to dispel the joyful, brimming tension between them, and Clark reaches for just a little bit of Superman’s strength and bravery. Just enough of it to take the second plunge—always the scariest, in his opinion, because by then you’ve had time to realize exactly what you’re risking—and says:

“Before that, though...can I—”

“I’m not a blushing princess, Kent,” Bruce cuts off, the attempt at irritation just enough to pull Clark from his stupor. “You don’t have to court me or anything.”

“Fine,” Clark sighs, glad for the way Bruce’s grumbling makes some of the nerves go away. “In that case...I’d like to kiss you, if that’s all right with you.”

Bruce’s features all but scream ‘duh’, and Clark snorts, giddy with it, before bending down to kiss Bruce's lips and forget, just for a while, that fear even exists at all.

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

The Stranger, Part 2

FULL CHAPTER

Part 1

Dean x Reader

Summary: Reader finds a stranger wandering the road, his head and clothes bloody. He’s disorientated and doesn’t remember who he is. She takes him in and they get close until he starts having nightmares about monsters and killing people.

Then one day, a sleek black car pulls up and a tall man gets out, wearing lots of flannel and has shaggy hair. He claims that the stranger is his brother and he’s come to collect him.

Warnings: Talk of abuse, anxiety, mild violence, language, canon divergence

Word Count: 4.2K

Everything Tags: @his-paradox @sorenmarie87  @lefthologramdeer @grace-for-sale  @redm81 @becs-bunker  @docharleythegeekqueen @moonchild-shoshanna  @idontfuckingknowgurl

SPN Tags: @soythedemonqueen  // @kazosa  // @lucifer-in-leather // @perseusandmedusa // @tiquismiquis // @mrsbarnes-rogers  // @yorkeylover // @through-thesilver-lining // @illysamorgan // @fictionalabyss // @gettinjoyful // @auntsalgal // @stuckupstucky // @miss-spnm0mma // @teller258316 // @sphollis-blog // @sweet-things-4-life // @hobby27 // @sweetlythoughtfulbird // @theoriginalvicki // @dreamchester67 // @xxwarhawk // @assassinofmasyaf // @mahalaraewolfe

THE STRANGER Tags: @unlikelycollectortimetraveler // @chalicia // @kurage14 // @earthtokace // @attractiverandomness // @dizwinchester // @myunrulylife // @mirandaaustin93 // @supernatural-dolan // @keepmyselfalive19 // @superflurry // @anathewierdo // @babykalika2001 // @lipstickflannelleatherjacket // @brimorganbooks // @pilaxia  // @artisticpoet // @dawsonfyre // @xalgaliareptx // @xi-i-i-whatsyouremergency // @superwhovianfangirl

Seven Days Later…

“Dean! Dinner’s up!” you called down the hallway, but he didn’t answer. Maybe he’d fallen asleep again, he had been doing that a lot lately. You could tell he was tired. Maybe it was lack of sleep, or he was putting in too many hours at the store after whatever accident he had. Either way, his sleep was broken and haunted, and even from your room upstairs, you could hear him occasionally calling for someone or something.

You knocked softly on the bedroom door and it pushed open slightly. The room was half lit by the table lamp beside the bed, and Dean’s form was laying on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow. He had looked more than a little tired over the past few days. He simply said he hadn’t slept well, so you left it alone. But you were scared he was hiding something more. Maybe the pain in his head was getting bad again, or his ribs weren’t healing, or he was starting to remember who he really was.

You’d tried (and failed) to convince him to see a doctor, swearing up and down that he was fine. Even now, at half past seven in the evening, his rest was labored and broken. You noticed he was scowling in his sleep, his legs twitching and his body tense. You were about to wake him when he turned over suddenly, his arms violently flailing in front of him and muttering the words, ‘no… don’t…’ repeatedly.

“Dean?” you said just above a whisper, “Dean… wake up.”

You sat on the bed beside him and lightly shook his shoulder, igniting his gut instinct to react. He shot up from the bed, grabbed your wrist tight and twisted it roughly.

“Ow! Dean!” you screeched, causing him to really wake up and notice his surroundings.

He registered your face and immediately dropped your hand. “Y/N, I’m sorry… shit. I was having a nightmare, and—”

“Its fine, really,” you said rubbing your wrist where he grabbed you. “That must have been one hell of a nightmare.”

“Yeah,” he grunted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying to rid his brain from the horrific visions he just had. He looked at you mournfully, his eyes kept going to your wrist and the guilt he felt was painted all over his face.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Dean quickly shifted his gaze from you, making you feel as if he was hiding something from you, or at least holding back. Even though it had only been a little over a week, you’d come to feel like you knew him, at least this version of Dean, and something felt off.

He sighed and looked at you apologetically. “Maybe later. Right now, I can smell dinner and I’m starving.” He pulled himself off the bed and extended you a hand to help you up. “What’s on tonight’s menu?”

“Meatloaf and potatoes.”

“Perfect,” he smiled again and extended his elbow for you to take as you exited the room together. “And what’s on the Netflix for bingin’?”

“Whatever you like,” you said, though, for the first time since he’d been there, you weren’t as enthused for your night of ‘Netflix and Chill’ with Dean as you had been in days past. Trying to shrug off the odd feeling you had, you simply smiled and headed towards the kitchen to eat.

He kept the conversation light, steering it away from his nightmares whenever you tried to bring it up. Hell-bent on changing the subject, you let him ramble on about the store, the shows you’d been watching, and whatever other small talks he threw your way.

Once dinner was done and the dishes were cleared, you found him on the couch, his head resting back against the cushion. He was sitting on the far end, and you took your place on the opposite end of the sofa. Dean’s eyes were closed, but he felt your weight shift the cushions and it made him grunt.

“You put me in a food coma,” he groaned happily, patting his stomach with both hands. “Please don’t tell me there’s dessert… unless it’s those apple things you made the other night. In that case, I’ll have two please.”

You laughed at him and shook your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Nope,” he said, as he opened his eyes and turned to look at you without taking his head off the cushion, “you’re just a really good cook.”

“Alright, enough flattery. I don’t have the apple things, but I will make more tomorrow.”

Dean did an animated fist pump and grinned.  

“What do you wanna watch?” you asked, grabbing the remote and flicking on the tv. “We could binge Game of Thrones… oh, or maybe The Walking Dead.”

“Nah, no zombies, ice ones or otherwise. How about Stranger Things? Those kids are so damn funny.”

You agreed and put the show on to where you’d left off. Sometime around when Joyce Byers was buying an insane amount of Christmas lights, you felt his eyes on you. You looked at Dean and confirmed that he was staring at you. This made you blush and feel very self-conscious.

“What? I have a booger or something?” you laughed but drew your knees up into your chest, a defensive habit you developed while growing up. Your nerves were feeling the weight of the last week, and it hit you (not for the first time) that this man was a complete stranger, and you were just letting him live with you.

You had just opened your home and business to him like you’d known him for years, not just found him bloody on the side of the road. At times you thought he was the best friend you’d ever had, and other times you chastised yourself, brutally, for taking him in like a stray dog.

Now, with the way he was looking at you, you worried if you’d made a mistake. Would he hurt you? Attack you? Beat you silly just for fun? The swirling chaos that was erupting in your head must have been written all over your face because Dean noticed you weren’t okay.

He grabbed the remote and paused the show. “Hey, you alright?”

You couldn’t answer. Somehow between the earlier situation in his room, and now with the way he was looking at you, anxiety had filled the crevices of your brain and you were certain that Dean was some lunatic hell bent on hurting you.

“Y/N?” He leaned forward and reached across the couch, holding out a hand towards you. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” You could feel your hands start to tremble, your mind still racing with questions and doubt about whether you could or should trust him. “Hey, talk me. What happened? If it’s about earlier, I’m really sorry I scared you.”

“I, uh, I’m—” you started to cry, and not just a few tears. Something had been building up since the confrontation with Shane and having Dean around was adding to it. Having grown up with an abusive father figure, and a bully of a brother, men were always something you had a tough time navigating. There hadn’t been too many good ones in your life, and while you felt Dean was one of them, anxiety was now making you doubt that.

“Hey, hey… it’s alright,” he tutted, and wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “whatever it is, we can fix it.”

Dean pulled you into the crook of his arm and held you close. It should have made things worse; normally that’s what happened. Being that physically close to someone was usually the cause of a near instant panic attack. But not this time. Dean’s arm around you helped the trembling to stop, the endless chatter in your brain to cease, and even your tears found a way to dry up. He used his hand to push your head closer to him, leaving a kiss on the top of your hair.

“If you’re worried about Shane, he picked up his keys and he promised he’d stay away.”

“It’s not Shane, it’s you. You scare the shit out of me,” you said in a surprisingly even and calm tone.

He didn’t push you away or react adversely at all. Instead, his grip on you readjusted slightly, making you feel more comforted. You heard him sigh and looked up to try and read his expression. Dean was biting his lower lip, concern dusted across his brow.

“This has gotta be weird for you, I get that. I think about it a lot. If you want me to go, Y/N, I will. I’m better, my head is pretty much healed, my ribs don’t hurt at all. I can just go—”

“That’s just it, Dean. Despite everything, I don’t want you to go. Yet, I fear what happens if you stay. You don’t belong here. You probably have a family, or someone looking for you. For over a week now you’ve lived here, and we quickly fell into this weird domestic routine that feels completely foreign to me. I’ve lived alone for a long time, and except for my shithead brother, I don’t have anyone I talk to regularly.”

“That ain’t right, Y/N. You should be happy and have someone—” he paused and rubbed his hand over his stubbled cheek, lightly sighing. He was serious, but also sweet in the way he was looking at you. “You deserve someone that appreciates you. Someone who looks out for you and cares about you. I’d be dead if you didn’t find me. Honestly, every time I try and think about where I should be, or where that note said I had to be, all I can think is this is where… I am where I should be.”

This time when you looked up, the intensity in his gaze pierced into you, causing a swell of erotic discomfort that hadn’t been there before. Who was this guy that he could bring forth such a rush of emotions? He could make you laugh, feel safe, but also terrify you with how quickly he reacts, like he did with Shane and then earlier when you tried to wake him. He was mysterious and yet familiar, which caused an odd sense of déjà vu that couldn’t be explained. At the same time, you felt yourself wanting him more with each day that passed. These weren’t feelings you were used to having, in fact, they were elusive and very absent in your life.

The house was completely silent. You felt yourself start to slightly tremble again, but it wasn’t out of fear this time. Dean’s face was inching closer to yours, so close you could make out the army of freckles that fell over the bridge of his perfectly shaped nose. You heard him swallow nervously, just as his hand brushed against your chin to direct your face up towards him.

Before you could object, Dean’s lips pressed softly against yours. It was tentative and sweet; the passion driving it was slow to ignite, but it was there bubbling under the surface of the uncertainty it was layered with. He didn’t try and shove his tongue in your mouth or grab you and throw you down on the couch; he kept it light, opening his mouth just enough for you to feel the silky tip of his tongue against yours.

His hand brushed the hair away from your face and tucked it behind your ear; then gently cradled your jawline and neck. You weren’t lost in the moment but fully immersed in it; inviting whatever anxiety still clung to you to leave. It went on for more than a minute, the hesitant, yet sensual touches of two people who just wanted to forget the outside world for a moment and find comfort in the other.

He pulled back first and pressed his forehead against yours. A ghost of a smile touched the mouth you were instantly longing for again.

“I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” his voice was raspy and dry.

“Don’t apologize Dean. I’m glad you did. I wanted you too, so much. I’m just… scared.”

“I’m not like Shane,” he said taking both your hands into his. “I would never hurt you or lay a hand on you.”

“I know, I’m sorry I thought otherwise.”

“You have plenty of reason to, Y/N. You don’t talk about it much, but I can see it. And I hate it.”

“Who the hell are you?” you whispered, almost inaudibly, but the desperation you felt to really know him coated your words. You examined his face to try and find something in it that spoke up to your question. But all you found was some kindred—but lost—spirit, swimming amidst the cut of his green eyes.

“Sweetheart, I wish I knew. But right now, I don’t hate the guy I am with you.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, right in the chest. The way he looked at you when he said it just proved that he was sincere. You didn’t know if that made it worse, or better.

“I’m just afraid to get too attached. One day, your life is going to come walking through that door, and you’ll be gone.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re right, I don’t. But neither do you. You don’t even seem to want to know where you came from.”

“Whatever is going to happen, will,” he said, completely ignoring your last comment. “We can only control right now, right? So, I say we enjoy this for whatever it is and watch the rest of this episode.” He raised his brow playfully, getting you to smile. “Besides, I gotta know what this woman is gonna do with those lights,” he chuckled, but his expression was trying to convey something else. It was as if he was pleading for you to just agree. So, you simply offered him a small smile, then nodded and curled into his side.

You wanted him to kiss you again; thought about just pulling him to you, but you didn’t. Whatever was happening was meant to be taken at a snail’s pace and not just because he was still healing, but because you didn’t want to end up having to do any healing yourself. A broken heart never set correctly, and it was one thing you didn’t need to deal with, ever again.

  After going to bed that night, you stayed awake for a long while, mulling over everything that had happened in the past week. Starting with a strange man crashing into your life, then a confrontation with Shane, and now it had just become that much more complicated with the kiss you shared.

Dean kissed you one more time, very softly, while saying goodnight. Though it didn’t last as long as the first one, somehow it was harder to walk away from. Getting involved with him was not in your plans, and maybe in the cold hard light of day, you’d come to your senses, but at this moment all you wanted to do was go back downstairs and be with him.

While you were trying to decide what you should do, there was a large crash of the metal garbage cans hitting the pavement near the garage. Assuming it was probably the raccoons again, you took it as a sign that you should go downstairs and just double check. You jumped out of bed and put your cotton robe over your PJs that consisted of a pair of boy shorts and a tank top and headed down to check out the raucous.  

Tiptoeing down the old wooden stairs, you paused outside his bedroom door and listened. It was quiet. Deciding you’d leave him to sleep, you were about to go peek out the kitchen window to check on the noise when another sound from outside caught your attention. This time you heard low voices through from the other side of the exterior wall.

You knocked lightly, but frantically, on Dean’s door. When you heard no answer, you pushed it open anyway, nearly jumped into the room and closed it quickly. The crash of the cans must have woken him, as he was sitting up in bed already. He held a finger to his mouth in a gesture for you to be quiet. Dean threw the covers off himself, pressed himself against the wall and gingerly lifted the curtain covering the window closest to his bed. He motioned for you to come closer and you obliged with no hesitation.

“I hear voices,” he whispered, carefully putting the curtain back with minimal movement.

“Me too.”

“Do you have any weapons? Gun? Machetes? Hell, fireplace poker?” he asked, still calm and cool as always.

“Um, I have a shotgun. Its upstairs in my closet. It's not loaded and its locked in a case. Honestly, I don’t even know if it is fully assembled anymore. I hate the damn thing.”

“At least you have one. C’mon,” Dean said as he grabbed your hand and headed upstairs.

You got to your room and rifled through the closet until you found the locked case. Fumbling with the keys you’d grabbed from the dresser, you opened it and handed the whole mess to Dean. “Do you know—”

Before you could even finish your thought, he was taking the pieces, assembling and loading it in record time. You watched in awe with the speed he had it locked and loaded as if it was as natural as breathing for him. For the briefest moment, the intruders were forgotten, and a bit of the earlier anxiety set it.

‘Who the fuck is this guy’ you kept thinking, yet still really didn’t fear him, just the things you’ve seen him do.

The sound of glass breaking downstairs made you jump, but Dean was by your side in a second.

“I want you to stay here,” he said firmly. “Lock this door and don’t open it unless you hear my voice, alright?”

You nodded, fear starting to consume you. Dean didn’t miss it. “Hey, it’s gonna be fine. I’ll take care of it.” He held the side of your face with his hand and locked his eyes with yours, making sure he saw that you believed him.

“You’re going to kill them? I can call the cops—”

“No, not yet. No cops,” he barked, then shook his head, as if trying to get the thought gone. “I’m not gonna kill anyone. Just stay here. Find whatever you can that would hurt someone and hold on to it.”

He tried to offer you a comforting smile, but the sound of more breaking glass set him into action and he was gone out of your bedroom door. Once you locked it behind him, you tried to regulate your breathing and not let the panic overtake you. You did consider calling the cops anyway. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? Not that they would be much help. Your local Sheriff’s department consisted of three officers, two of which you knew from high school and wouldn’t trust them to find a lost dog. Instead, you choose to follow Dean’s caution and just wait it out.

The house was quiet again; you couldn’t hear Dean or anyone from outside. Hoping the intruders left on their own, you chanced a peak from the second story window that overlooked the garage and driveway. All you could make out were three shadows moving along the perimeter of the house and peering into the windows that weren’t already shattered.

The blast of a shotgun rang out and the three shadows took off through the backyard. One of black masses fell over one of the tipped garbage cans. They scrambled to their feet when they saw Dean exit the house by the back door. The dim back porch light gave just enough illumination for you to see him stalking across the driveway, cocking the shotgun.

The fallen intruder got to his feet and dove for cover behind the garage just as Dean fired another shot. Though the adrenaline was coursing through your body, you didn’t feel any more fear. The anxiety of it all slipped away the moment you saw Dean down below; you just knew you were safe. It also didn’t escape you that when he fired the second shot, he wasn’t really aiming near the target.

‘Just a warning,’ you thought and felt even more relief.

From downstairs, you heard the back door close. Not too long after, you could hear Dean’s footsteps coming back upstairs, then his knock on the door. “Y/N, it’s me, open the door.”

Before he could step foot all the way in, you were throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. You felt him sigh against you, placing one arm around the small of your back and hugging you tightly. When you let him go, you saw the concern he held on his brow and followed his gaze to his hand. In it, he held a brick with a paper attached.

“What is that?” you asked. A wave of nausea rising from the pit of your stomach. ‘That,’ you thought, ‘is nothing but trouble.’ “What does it say, Dean?”

He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. “This is what came through the window. It was on the living room floor by the couch. A second one broke one of the kitchen windows.” He held out the brick for you to take.

Examining it, you turned it over and saw the paper that had been firmly rubber banded to the brick. The note said, ‘we’re coming for you’.”

“What the hell does that mean? Who is coming for me?” your mind was racing, and all you could come back to was that it was from Shane, or some of his idiot friends trying to scare you. Even though you hadn’t heard from him since the incident in the store, you knew he was petty and underhanded; he would do anything to get what he wanted.

“Y/N, maybe it's not for you… maybe this is because of me. What you said earlier… maybe—maybe you were right. My past is catching up to me.”

You felt your knees weaken and abruptly needed to sit. Finding your way to your bed, you fell onto it and drew in a deep, shaky breath. Dean carefully rested the shotgun against the window and sat next to you on the bed.

“Good thing you don’t have close neighbors. Cops would’ve been here by now,” he tried to joke but knew you were too rattled by the message.

“Dean… what the hell do we do now?”

“I don’t know, Y/N. Whoever the hell they were, they’re gone for tonight. I saw two of ‘em take off, one went ‘round the garage but I doubt he stuck around.”

“We really are quite the pair, huh? Me with a psychotic brother, you with a mysterious past and no memory. Where’s the Lifetime people when you need them?”

Dean laughed and rubbed both hands wearily over his face. “Tomorrow, we will try and figure this all out. Not much we can do now, so we should probably try to get some sleep.”

It was your turn to laugh. “Yeah, sleep. Ok. Cause that’ll happen.”

“You gotta try. You’re no good to me sleep deprived and crabby,” he teased, his eyes were tired and his features soft.

You touched his stubbled cheek, cradling his jaw with your hand as he leaned into you. “Will you stay with me? Up here? I really don’t want to be alone after that.”

He nodded softly. You got up from the bed and placed the brick on the floor in the corner. After you slipped off your robe and left it on the chair, you crawled back into bed and Dean followed suit. You both laid down, facing each other in a near mirror-image; each of you with one arm curled up under your pillow.

“You should try to sleep,” he whispered, gingerly brushing away a lock of hair that had fallen on your cheek.

“So should you.”

“You sure this is alright? Me, in your bed?”

You smiled and nodded. “Trust me, you’re right where I want you to be,” you teased, using his own words against him.

He chuckled, his tongue peeking out against his bottom lip and biting it slightly as he sleepily gazed at you. “You know, despite what just happened, I don’t hate how this day ended.”

“Me either. You make me feel safe, Dean. Regardless of which one of our train wreck lives brought this to the doorstep, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Dean’s eyes drifted closed, as he wrapped his one free arm up around your shoulder. His fingers grazed against your skin, leaving you wanting to feel more of him. Even though you were more confident that he was really the man you thought he was, you still wanted to be sure; take things slow. For tonight, just falling asleep next to him would be enough; his arm around you, his breath on your cheek and secure in the knowledge that he would keep you safe from whatever threat lay waiting.

Falling asleep with him was just what you needed. Until his nightmares started again. That was something you weren’t prepared for, and Dean’s nightmares scared you far more than the intruders ever did.

Part 3 Published 8/3/18.

Drop me an ask if you want to be added to tags.

[lilacmoon83]

Finding You Always

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 178: One Less Problem

Snow released a calming breath, as they spent their short lunch break together outside the Courthouse. It was a warm day and they had sneaked over to a park bench nearby. The press was occupied so far with interviewing Clayton, who was soaking up the limelight they were shining on him. That was just fine, for Snow and David wanted nothing to do with it and were thankful the reporters hadn't noticed them yet. Instead, they focused on each other and spending a few quiet moments together. Snow sat in his lap, resting her head on his shoulder, as they talked softly and occasionally exchanged kisses.

"I hate that you had to relive all those nights that you spent in that cell," he mentioned.

"I know...but it's over now. I just wish it was over for you too. They're going to grill you," she feared.

"I'll be fine, because I'll have the same thing that you had," he replied, as he took her hand and looked up at her.

"I'll have you to look at and you always give me the strength I need to do anything," he responded, as he gently cupped her beautiful face, as she sniffed.

"My darling...what is it?" he asked.

"It's silly," she replied. He smiled and kissed her forehead.

"Your feelings are never silly," he reminded.

"It's just...we don't deserve any of this," she said.

"Of course we don't," he added.

"I just mean...the things they are publishing about us in some of those tabloids…" she lamented.

"Snow...those publications are pure trash," he chided.

"I know...I know...that's what I keep telling myself. But Charming...you didn't read some of the things they are publishing about you. I mean, I always thought men were the only ones that objectified women...but…" she trailed off. He sighed.

"Snow...I don't care what they are saying about me. I'm yours," he said.

"I know that...I know you have never had eyes for another woman, but then I think back to all those nights when I was crying for you and I wondered if you had been cursed to be with someone else," she muttered.

"I wasn't...I was pining for my Margaret, which we both know is really you," he replied.

"Which isn't completely fair to you. If I really was gone...I'd want you to be happy," she confessed.

"And I would find happiness in seeing you through our children. But moving on? Snow...that's not possible for me. The sun and the moon set with you," he confessed.

"I know...it's the same for me," she revealed.

"Then are you really bothered by what they are saying? I know this is a different kind of adversity than we've faced before, but are you really letting some gossip mongers question how much you mean to me?" he asked.

"I know how much you love me...I've never questioned that," she insisted.

"Then what is it?" he asked.

"I just feel like that if you were cursed to be with someone else and I had come back into your life, I would have wrecked it completely," she replied.

"I won't deny that it wouldn't have been a mess, but my darling, you know that I'd always want you. No matter how many cursed memories they managed to put in my head...my heart would never forget you or the way I feel when I'm with you," he said.

"I know...and I would never doubt that, but when I read how they were claiming you got saddled with a mess like me, I wasn't sure I could deny that," she murmured. But he shook his head in vehemence.

"You are not a mess and even if you were, you are my mess. Do you really think you're not enough for me?" he asked in disbelief. She sniffed.

"I guess my time in Dr. Samdi's care did more damage to me than I thought," she replied tearfully. His half heart broke at that and he kissed her fiercely.

"Then when we get home and we will...I want you to start seeing Archie, but there is one thing I can tell with absolute certainty right now," he said, as their lips parted and he looked soulfully into her green eyes.

"Not enough for me? You are everything I'm ever going to need or want beyond my wildest dreams!" he exclaimed. She sniffed and smiled at him.

"I know...I've never doubted your love. I think everything just got to me and then those stupid articles were right in front of me and you know it's like a train wreck to me. I have to read them and then the things they were talking about...I mean they were discussing you. You know, how handsome you are and certain things about your anatomy...and what kind of lover you might be," she said. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh God…" he said in disgust and then sighed.

"I know...I told you it was beyond silly. I'm used to other women looking at you...they just usually make sure I'm out of earshot before they start...discussing you," she added with a giggle. He sighed.

"Well...look at it this way: they'll never know, cause baby you're the only that's ever gonna know the answer to those questions," he said, as he wriggled his eyebrows at her, making her giggle.

"I am," she realized, as she kissed him.

"Mmm...you don't think I've had insecurities about whether or not I'm good enough for you in the past?" he asked. She sighed.

"I know you have, but you shouldn't," she protested.

"You're a Princess...and everyone knows that I'm not a real Prince. They call you the fairest of them all, for Gods sakes. Believe me, there were times when I wondered why you chose me. You don't think I've never noticed the way other men look at you?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I never noticed. I guess we have both always been too busy absorbed by each other to notice any of that nonsense," she replied.

"Exactly...they can print whatever garbage they want in their trashy magazines, but we know the truth and that's why I'm not afraid to get up on that stand today. Because all people are going to hear is the truth about how much I love you and how you were stolen from me. And how evil that man is," he said, as he kissed her passionately again, making her swoon and feel lightheaded.

Unfortunately, it was nearly time to go back and the reporters were now finished with Clayton, only to hone in on them and during a kiss no less. David growled low in his throat, as the intrusive reporters snapped photos of them kissing and Snow in his lap, no less. They stood up and he kept his arm firmly hooked around her waist, as they hurried back toward the courthouse, even as they volleyed their ridiculous questions.

"Detective Nolan...do you have a response to Mr. Stavros' invitation to his gala tonight?" a reporter questioned. Snow and David hurried along back to the courthouse without commenting, knowing that anything they said would be taken out of context.

"Detective...it was indicated by Mr. Stavros that he may seek damages against the department for defamation of his character, citing you as the main reason. How do you respond?" another questioned and he clenched his fist, as they kept walking, especially when they saw Seraphina there, known as reporter Phoebe Cooper in this world, intent on harassing them, especially his wife.

"Detective...if you and your crazy wife have nothing to hide, then why do you continue to refuse to talk to us," she asked. Snow squeezed his hand and her eyes pleaded with him not to respond.

"It doesn't matter what they say, my love…" she whispered to him. He sighed and they hurried inside the courtroom and the press was thankfully barred from entering again. But he knew what faced him on the stand, however, he would face anything for her and his family, especially if it meant helping to make sure Clayton went to prison.

"Court will come to order," the Judge stated, as she slammed the gavel down. So far, the Judge had remained biased for the most part, but knowing that her real identity was that of Madam Leota made him skeptical that it would stay that way.

"The state may call their next witness," she continued.

"Thank you, Your Honor. The state calls Detective David Nolan to the stand," Amara announced. Snow squeezed his hand and he went up to the witness box.

"Detective...can you please describe the first time you met Clayton Stavros?" she asked. Weaver had warned him about this question and fortunately, the curse had created an entire background between him and Clayton that had been inserted into police records upon the inception of the curse, so David made sure he read through everything to make sure he knew all the facts and that they would match the records. The events they were going to discuss never actually happened, but David knew Clayton wouldn't refute any part of it, for he would seem like the crazy one if he told people how they had really met and how Clayton himself was hundreds of years old. He knew the Collector would go along with this narrative to protect his own interests and David could only hope that in turn, it would help put him behind bars.

"It was years ago and I was a very young detective. I was involved in stopping illegal contraband from coming into the country down at the docks. Among the illegal items were artifacts and items that we determined likely belonged in a museum," he explained.

"What did you do?" Amara asked.

"Those involved in overseeing the items being brought into the country were arrested, but we quickly determined that they were just underlings. Captain Weaver determined that the artifacts were in fact stolen from museums overseas. That's when he assigned me to investigate," he answered. He knew this story was fabricated, but Clayton wouldn't refute any of these claims, for it was not in his best interest for people to discover who he really was.

"And where did that investigation lead you?" she asked.

"It led me to Mr. Stavros and his museum. He was intent on adding these stolen artifacts to his collection by any means necessary," David revealed, as the two men glared at each other. Part of him wished he could tell the truth and everything Clayton had put them through. He wished he could tell them that the hell they had put his wife through at the hands of Dr. Samdi was only the tip of the iceberg. He wished he could tell everyone that this man had kidnapped them, held them captive as living trophies, seen to his own torture he had endured to protect his family, and then his forcing Snow to crush his heart to cast a curse to save everyone. But this was the real world where, as far as they knew, magic and curses didn't exist. But evil did and he was determined to make the jury see the evil that he saw beneath his stupid, smug grin.

"Did you arrest, Mr. Stavros at that point?" she asked.

"No…" he replied.

"Why not?" she asked.

"There wasn't enough evidence for a warrant. Mr. Stavros is very good at keeping his own hands clean while he hires other to do his dirty work," David answered.

"Objection, Your Honor. Detective Nolan's opinion has no validity here, nor does the grudge he holds against me client!" Chad protested.

"Sustained. The Jury will disregard that last statement," the Judge ordered.

"So...you've never been able to formally arrest Mr. Stavros on criminal charges of smuggling and grand theft, due to lack of evidence?" Amara asked.

"Correct," David stated.

"And you believe your numerous attempts to catch him created this bad blood between you that ultimately led to his participation in the abduction of your wife and son, as well as his forgery of documents stating he was your wife's brother, in order to keep her in Dr. Samdi's care?" she asked.

"Yes...he wanted revenge on me and he knew the only way to truly hurt me was through my wife and my family," David answered.

"Objection...speculation," Chad interjected.

"Sustained. These are not essay questions, Detective. Please restrict your answers to yes or no," the Judge ordered.

"In fact, you believe Mr. Stavros sought retaliation against you just after you discovered your wife and son were alive and proved he forged papers, is that correct?" Amara asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Can you tell the Court why?" she asked.

"Just after I brought Margaret and Bobby home where they belonged, a man broke into our daughter's room and held her at knife point," David responded.

"Objection...relevance?" Chad questioned.

"I am getting there, Your Honor," Amara protested.

"Overruled. Make your point quickly, Counselor," the Judge ordered.

"How awful...do you think this thug was sent by Mr. Stavros in revenge?" Amara asked.

"Objection Your Honor!" Chad protested.

"Withdrawn...no further questions," Amara replied, as she took her seat, while Chad approached the witness box.

"Detective Nolan...is it safe to say that you're incredibly angry at my client," Chad questioned.

"Of course I am," David answered.

"Do you want revenge on my client?" Chad asked.

"Objection Your Honor...it is not Detective Nolan that is on trial here," Amara protested.

"It's a valid question, Your Honor. The witness just admitted his anger toward my client," Chad argued.

"Sustained, the witness will answer the question," the Judge ordered.

"No...I want to see justice done and that means that he goes to prison for what he did," David responded. Chad shrugged.

"Some would say there is a fine line between justice and revenge. I know if it were me and someone took the woman I loved from me...I'd certainly want more than justice," he surmised.

"Objection...again, Detective Nolan is not the one on trial!" Amara interjected.

"Overruled. Change your line of questioning, Counselor," the Judge ordered.

"My apologies again, Your Honor. Your wife testified that Dr. Samdi's claims of her dissociative identity disorder is completely falsified, yet before her alleged abduction, it was a tumultuous time in your marriage, correct?" Chad asked.

"No...our marriage has never been anything but solid and amazing," David refuted.

"Let me rephrase then. The tumultuous period involved a man stalking your wife, which Dr. Samdi referenced in his memoir as a possible cause for your wife's dissociation from reality," he replied.

"My wife did have a stalker; a Professor that she worked with and her rejection of him caused him to get violent. Mr. Stavros used that situation as a ruse to take my wife and son on the night of that accident," David explained.

"And the accident you are referring to is the one in which this Professor drove his car off a cliff with your wife and son inside and subsequently the event that led you to believe they were dead?" Chad questioned.

"Yes," David answered.

"Yet there is no real evidence that my client had anything to do with the doctor that committed this horrific act," Chad stated.

"No...but he used it to take Margaret and Bobby, leading me to believe they were dead!" David exclaimed.

"Allegedly," Chad corrected.

"He forged documents that gave him custody of our son and power of attorney over my wife. Not alleged," David argued.

"Yes...and how did you obtain my client's DNA in order to prove those documents were forged?" Chad questioned. David glared at the man, knowing exactly where he was going.

"So illegally?" Chad pressed.

"No...I obtained it from his museum, which is a very public place, as he always advertises," David retorted.

"That seems to be splitting hairs," Chad accused.

"Objection! The Detective followed normal police procedure in this matter and obtained the DNA from a public place as stated," Amara argued.

"Your Honor, the state cannot prove that Detective Nolan obtained his sample from an actual public part of the museum and not say a more private one," Chad argued back.

"Neither can the defense," Amara stated.

"I'm reluctantly inclined to agree with the district attorney, but the state is teetering on the edge here," the Judge warned.

"Your Honor, I move that the forgery charges against my client be thrown out," Chad proposed.

"There is no basis for that, Your Honor. The sample was obtained legally," Amara argued.

"I will review the validity of the sample in chambers after today's hearing and determine such myself," the Judge decided, as Chad moved to continue with his questioning.

"Detective...is it true that you would do absolutely anything for your wife?" he questioned.

"Of course...she's everything to me, as are our children," David answered.

"So it wouldn't be too much to speculate that you would employ any means to obtain that DNA sample, even if it meant doing so illegally to protect her from Mr. Stavros?!" he shouted.

"Objection...he's badgering!" Amara protested.

"Withdrawn...no further questions," Chad said, obviously a bit frustrated and David was the one that got to smirk smugly at the Collector this time.

"That will be all today and we will pick up at nine am tomorrow morning," the Judge ordered, as she dismissed them.

"What the hell...I thought you said you could discredit him," Clayton growled.

"Most of the time I can. Cops are usually easy to get juries to mistrust...but he's different. The jury just eats them up and are obviously enamored by the romance between he and his wife. He's charismatic...so much so that the Jury seems willing to ignore how he got the DNA and focus on the fact that he did it for love," Chard surmised.

"Yes...he's quite charming," Clayton agreed distastefully.

"A trial scientist would find all of this absolutely fascinating," Chad replied.

"Well, I don't find it fascinating!" Clayton growled.

"Relax...the Judge may still rule in our favor on the forgery charges and I've done my homework on this Cassidy Gold that you are accused of putting a hit on. He's a small time thief...and I found someone that will testify that Weaver helped him out financially," Chad replied.

"And you think it will be enough to get an acquittal on the murder charges?" Clayton questioned.

"They have Cassidy Gold's word as their evidence and little more, nor do they have substantial proof of any business mis-dealings or smuggling on your part," Chad said, as they exited the courtroom and saw that Amara was speaking with Weaver, looking very pleased. She walked up to them and handed a file to Chad.

"What's this?" he asked.

"New evidence that the state will be entering in tomorrow and witnesses that will be testifying tomorrow," she replied. His brow furrowed, as he looked at the file and she walked away.

"What is it?" Clayton asked, his smug demeanor finally cracking slightly, as he couldn't hide the trepidation in his voice.

"A problem," Chad replied.

"I can't believe this," David lamented.

"Baby...it's not your fault," Snow soothed.

"The Judge might throw out the forgery charge, Snow. That was our ace in the hole. The rest of our case is circumstantial, because we haven't been able to get any evidence that he was calling the shots when he put that hit on Neal...Cassidy," David said, correcting himself at the last part.

"But we might have just got a huge break," Weaver interjected, as he motioned them to a nearby conference room to discuss something.

"You found evidence?" David asked, with rapt attention.

"Not me...you can thank Belle and her love of research. I don't know how she did it, but she kept digging until she found something," he replied.

"Apparently, the FBI has been quietly investigating the stealing of several prized artifacts obtained illegally from the Yucatan Peninsula, most significantly, Jade statues that have been dated back to the Mayans. Recently, these were supposed to find their way into a museum, but were stolen without a trace," Weaver reported.

"Clayton," David surmised.

"His daughter has been busy since we got to this land two years ago, but they recently caught a break and a video surfaced. My guess is that someone in his operation got careless," Weaver responded.

"Do you think we can connect it to Clayton?" David asked.

"It would be a stretch, but I have called in a favor and two FBI agents have agreed to help us if I can convince a Judge that this photo of Cecily is enough to get a warrant for his museum," Weaver replied.

"That's great...but will a Judge see it as enough evidence for a warrant?" David asked.

"No...but that's where the FBI comes in. Remember those two agents that were trapped in our town years ago?" he asked. Snow's eyes widened.

"Angela and Nick?" she asked. He nodded.

"They weren't specific, but they have something on a Judge here in Seattle, and are willing to overlook it if they can solve this smuggling case. They'll get the warrant and because I asked nicely, they're also going to testify that they believe Clayton was involved. It may be enough for the Jury to convict on the existing charges. And even if it isn't, the FBI will be going after him and his daughter," Weaver said. Snow and David smiled.

"That's amazing...we got him," David said, as he remembered something else he had just said.

"Wait...they agreed to help, because you were nice? That doesn't sound like you," he quipped.

"Charming…" Snow chided.

"What...it's true. He's not nice and I have no tact. Those are facts," he joked. Weaver rolled his eyes.

"Belle was nice...and I reminded them that Regina and your kids didn't have to help them get their hearts back after they helped bring Yzma to town," he clarified.

"That sounds more like it," David agreed.

"The important thing is that it will, with any luck, neutralize Clayton. Then we just have Facilier and Gothel to deal with, as well as breaking the curse and getting home, of course," Weaver replied. Snow blew out a breath.

"I know I'm always the optimistic one...but even with Clayton out of the picture, that's daunting," she mentioned. He put his arm around her and kissed her hair.

"I know, my darling...but we're going to defeat them all and we're going to find a way home, I promise," he stressed.

"But right now, we're going to let the legal system work for us against Clayton and we're going to go watch our daughter do what she loves," he said, referring to the recital that would be starting in less than two hours. She smiled, as he kissed her tenderly and she then hooked her hand on his elbow. They followed Weaver out the back way of the Courthouse at that point and left this behind for today. If there was one thing about them, it was that they were able to be happy, as long as they were together, no matter where and their love always seemed to win out over anything.

~*~

"This place is so different from Storybrooke," Elsa mentioned.

"I know...I definitely miss home," Leo replied, as she squeezed his hand.

"You must miss the reserve so much," she said. He nodded.

"I do...I'm worried that I'll never see it again," he replied.

"No...we will see it again. We'll find a way to get home to the future. Remember, Anna, Kristoff and I managed to get to the past, which means there is a way back to the future," she assured. He sighed and kissed her tenderly.

"You have no idea how grateful I am that you're here. I...I hate what happened during the curse," he lamented. Elsa took his hands in her own.

"What he did to you...he had no right. He's lucky someone else got to him before I could or I would have made him pay for what he did," Elsa said.

"The important thing is he's gone and you're right, we will find a way back," he agreed, as they continued on and soon arrived at Iris' school for her recital. He knew his parents, siblings, and Regina would be along to. They still had a lot to figure out, but he knew his parents were right; taking time to see Summer do something she loved was exactly what they all needed.

~*~

Regina looked up at her sister, who had been texting quite a bit for the last hour, with Chad she assumed.

"Are you sure you're okay with working for me tonight?" she asked. The redhead shrugged.

"I'll be fine...it looks like Chad is going to be working late," she muttered.

"Oh? Problems?" Regina inquired and Kelly rolled her eyes.

"If you must know...his client may be facing more than he thought and there are new things for him to go over," she replied.

"That's too bad...for Chad anyway. If it means Clayton Stavros is going down, then that's a bonfire I'll be bringing marshmallows to," Regina replied. Kelly scoffed.

"Smug doesn't look very good on you. Chad doesn't lose many cases," she warned.

"Maybe not...but this is one he should lose," Roni replied, as she left the bar to attend Iris' recital. She was anxious to talk to Snow and David too, especially if there was something new in the case against Clayton. She hoped beyond anything that might actually make him pay for all he had done. Then the next obstacle was getting Zelena to remember who she was and finding the amulet, before Gothel could get her hands on it. She blew out a stifled breath

"I hope you found that smoking gun, Weaver, because if Clayton goes to jail, that will be one less problem in our way to going home," she murmured to herself, as she merged into traffic.