#straight guy friend: /continues to talk about party's OP builds instead

[syn0vial]

everyone's acting shocked that shadowheart is the top romance option and not astarion, but as your impossibly stereotypical lesbian-with-mostly-straight-dude-friends, lemme tell you, there is nothing shocking to me about a shadowheart sweep OR the fact that astarion fans are so much louder comparatively

[alphawave-writes]

Evil actions and good intentions Chapter 10: ‘I need a hero’

Synopsis: Harold and Sigma meet the rest of the newly reformed Overwatch and make some friends. Harold and Winston finally reunite and share a tender moment as father and son.

Read it here or find it on AO3. If you like Sigrold, join the Sigrold discord server. I’ll also be participating in #Sigroldweek. 

Once upon a time, Harold got a job offer at Overwatch. Back in its prime, they had been interested in his work on respirocytes. But Lucheng Interstellar gave him a better job, and the position was filled by someone else, though he still kept in contact just in case they still had a job for him when the Lunar Ops program was finished. In another life, he might have found a cushy job as a researcher with Overwatch, traveling the world, perhaps with Winston by his side. In another life, he might have proposed to Siebren, or even married him outright, and Winston will be with them, and the three of them will live together in a comfy home of their own. But life, or perhaps the universe, had other plans.

He doesn’t know why that’s the first thought to filter into his head when he exits the airship and takes in the sprawling Overwatch base. Buildings are carved into the rock, obscuring it from sight. Night time has fallen, making the base look desolate and abandoned, but as Tracer leads them through, he sees the slow trickle of life and habitation. An offering near the cliffside to a deity, leftover Christmas decorations hanging from the rafters, tracks on the gravel made from footsteps and tires.

Tracer is a far more eager guide compared to Satya, even if she often diverts on irrelevant tangents. She talks about the history of the place, her own past in this very base, as well as some humerous anecdotes about the other Overwatch agents. Every now and then she points out buildings that she thinks are important to note. The hangers where everybody’s rooms shall be, the communal kitchen, the washhouse with the ‘nice showers’, and of course Winston’s lab. Whenever she mentions Winston, she makes a point of glancing back to Harold with a knowing little smirk. She’s looking for a reaction. Harold has absolutely no idea if he’s giving the right one or not.

Satya is quiet at the back of the group, keen eyes taking careful notes of every little detail. She speaks up only to clarify on Tracer’s ramblings, confirming directions and instructions for her stay here. Sometime during the flight she’s somewhat accepted that she is now in need of refuge. Whether she wants to be a hero, that’s another thing entirely.

Siebren doesn’t speak at all during the tour. His gaze is up to the moon. Harold can’t help but let his eyes drift up to the celestial body hanging in the sky. The sky is clear and the light pollution is minimal, but the sparkling stars don’t hold a candle to the light of the moon. A wash of confusing emotions bubbles up to the surface as he stares at the lunar surface, gazing upon the lunar craters and moutains, many of which he’d personally explored.

“Do you miss it? The moon?” Siebren asks quietly when Tracer’s not paying attention.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t. It’s always up there, lighting the night sky. A reminder of my mistakes.”

Siebren frowns. “It’s not your fault, what happened. Your colleagues were idiots.”

“Sure. So am I.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Siebren says softly before straightening his posture. “You’re incredibly reckless. Nagging. Inappropriate at the worst of times—”

“—OK, I get it,” Harold laughs.

“—short-sighted, and far too trusting, but you’re not an idiot. Never have been in all the years I’ve known you.”

Harold smiles despite himself. It's an abysmal effort to cheer him up, but Siebren is trying his hardest, and he can't help but appreciate it. “I hope good-looking is on that list.”

Siebren smirks. “Do you really want to know?”

Harold punches Siebren lightly on the shoulder, shaking his head. The events of a few hours past feel so long ago, and Siebren is acting like nothing happened. Knowing how fragile Siebren is now, it should comfort Harold that he’s laughing and talking normally, and yet it doesn’t. There are words left unsaid, stories left untold. Siebren hides it well, but his jaw is set tight and his shoulders are tense. Mentally, he’s in control. Emotionally, that’s harder to say.

Harold waits for Tracer to begin talking before he makes his move. “That was a black hole earlier,” he says.

“Yes,” Siebren utters, looking uncomfortable.

“I heard the noises. The universe’s melody, as you called it.” He pauses before admitting, quieter, “It’s terrifying.”

Siebren grimaces. “I know.”

Harold frowns. “How many lives did you take?”

“Far too many to count,” Siebren says. “I’d rather not kill, but it's a necessary evil in my life now. I cannot have any regrets.”

Harold remembers the lifeless body of Tempest Williams stacked amongst the other guards and feels sick to his stomach. “I’m not like you then.”

“It gets easier over time, the killing. You learn to accept it. Death is inevitable and life can be cut short. Although,” Siebren ducks his head, “I was not necessarily in control when I first took a man’s life. Even now, it's easy to convince myself it's all for the sake of research.”

Harold has suspected this for some time. He isn’t surprised, but it doesn’t comfort him to know that Siebren has lost his mind before and that Talon manipulated him to kill when he was in that fragile state. It explains why all the Talon staff feared Siebren. In his mind’s eye he sees himself in that fateful moment last night when he lost control himself, eyes wild and crazed, his attacks bloodthirsty and savage like an animal. In a way, it’s worse than Siebren, because he doesn’t have an excuse to defend his actions. He let his emotions get the better of him, clouding his vision. He is the one who killed those people. He’s a murderer.

Siebren's hand goes up to his shoulder, rubbing small circles. Harold wants to lean his head onto Siebren’s shoulder and press his lips into his neck and forget about all the atrocities they have just committed, but he knows this is the extent of Siebren’s comfort. Siebren has a point, and he will not back down from it.

“I don’t want to get used to killing,” Harold whispers.

Siebren continues rubbing, his touch light. “I know you don’t. But you will. You’ll have to if you want to survive, and I know you can. You have gotten so far by yourself.”

Harold smiles bittersweetly. “Still, if only I can avoid it.”

“You’re a grown man, Harold. I won’t shield you from the world, but I will support you.” Then, with a smirk, “I’ll always be here for you.”

Harold feels a tap at his hip and sees Siebren’s knuckles grazing the fabric. He smiles softly to himself as his fingers entwine with Siebren’s, squeezing softly as they continue their walk.

Tracer leads them to an unassuming building a few stories high. Lights and noises can be seen from the tinted windows above. Harold holds his breath as Tracer goes through the main doors and blinks within. His eyes shut rapidly as a burst of light fills the large room.

Harold has to admit, of all the things he expected when first arriving at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, a party wasn’t one of them.

The place is a laboratory filled with tools, though they have all been shoved to the side away from view. There’s a long table full of foods and drinks, all with a little piece of paper to tell people what it is, who made it, as well as any allergy warnings. Music is playing from an old-fashioned radio. Many are partnered in twos and threes, conversing pleasantly to one another. Soon as they enter, all the people within turn their heads to them, smiles on their faces. To Harold’s disappointment, he doesn’t see Winston.

“Who are your friends?” A rather tall and muscular man with white hair asks with a teasing tone in his voice.

“New guys here to hang with us for a bit. Got into a bit of a scrap to save them.” Tracer turns towards them and grins. “Should’ve seen us, we were fighting Talon with the best of them.”

“Then they are comrades.” From the table behind, the tall muscular man grabs a jug of beer and lifts it up.

That’s enough to get the small crowd to approach them. In an instant the three of them are surrounded on all sides by friendly faces. Tracer giggles lightly to herself while she raids the buffet table.

The first to greet them is the large, muscular man, flanked on either side by an equally muscular young woman and a bearded dwarf. All three of their eyes glance down to Siebren’s feet, floating a foot off the ground. They don’t seem to be frightened. In fact, they seem more intrigued than anything.

“All sorts of fancy schmancy tech nowadays,” the dwarf scratches his head.

“What’s wrong, old friend? Have you lost your touch?”

“My ‘touch’ can make your armour break faster than a boiling frog in a cauldron!”

“It’s not ‘technology’,” Siebren utters. “I have just harnessed gravity.”

The two old friends look at each other incredulously and shrug. The bigger man is quick to put a hand out. “Reinhardt Wilhelm.”

“Torbjörn Lindholm,” the dwarf says, putting his own hand out.

Siebren stares at the hand for just a second before shaking both firmly. “Sigma,” he says.

“Dr. Siebren de Kuiper,” Harold corrects, turning to Siebren. “Talon used to call him Sigma. But you don’t have to use that name anymore.”

He looks like he’s about to object but Reinhardt has already clasped Siebren on the shoulder. “So they have enslaved you, but you escaped? How dreadful they must be, to strip a man of his identity.” His expression suddenly goes dark. “You were not the first to get pulled into their ranks. We lost one of our own that way.”

Harold almost thinks Siebren might set the record straight but instead he keeps his mouth shut. As if sensing Siebren’s discomfort, the two men launch into a variety of anecdotal stories about each other. Reinhardt was once a knight for the German Crusaders during the Omnic War, while Torbjörn was a member of the Ironclad Guild. He tries to play it off as a cool secret society, but Reinhardt clarifies that it was just a very ostentatious name for a group of ragtag engineers. The two had been best friends for a very long time, to the point that Reinhardt was given the honour of naming Torbjörn’s first child. At this, Brigitte, who reveals her identity as the eldest daughter, begins to pick holes at her father and godfather’s stories, correcting them on the more fantastical elements.

Harold watches as Siebren falls securely into conversation. He mentions his own work as an astrophysicist, his early life growing up and working in Den Haag and the very briefest account of the ISS accident that gave him his gravitic powers. He does not talk about his mental health or what he did in Talon, which is probably for the best. It will inevitably sour the party mood. Siebren joins in on the light teasing shared between the family, making fast friends with Reinhardt and Torbjörn and Brigitte. It’s the first time he’s looked at ease since their escape, Harold notices. After today’s events, he never thought he’d see that smile again. He’s glad he’s been proven wrong.

“You are a man of strong caliber, are you not?” Reinhardt asks Siebren.

“I should think so,” Siebren utters.

“Oh no,” Brigitte sighs.

“Then why not a friendly little challenge between friends? Brigitte, bring us some beer.”

“Not a drinking contest, Reinhardt.”

“It’s hard enough lugging you around, you big oaf, but I ain’t lugging the two of you,” Torbjörn mutters.

“What’s wrong?” Reinhardt smirks at Siebren. “You chicken?”

Harold silently groans as Siebren stiffens visibly. With the markings of a man who very much doesn’t like it when someone attacks his inflated ego, Siebren stretches his hand out and the two men shake.

“This is not going to end well, is it?” Brigitte murmurs under her breath.

“Nope,” Harold sighs. He knows from many a post-conference pub crawl that Siebren, despite his size, is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Harold is a heavyweight when it comes to drinking, but he never liked the taste of alcohol enough to drink outside of special occasions. Certainly not enough to know how many drinks is his limit.

While everybody gets a table cleared for the drinking contest, Harold walks over to the buffet table and grabs a small plate. He fills it up with as much food as the small paper plate can hold. He’s got spring rolls and samosas and moon pies that look suspiciously similar to the ones he made back on Horizon, and is pleasantly surprised to find out that Winston made them himself. Food in hand, he finds a corner of the room and munches quietly, watching the small crowd. Tracer’s having a dance party with a shorter, tan man on rollerskates near the radio. On the second floor, near the staircase, Satya is watching the man with narrowed eyes. The look in her eyes is knowing and distrustful, and Harold thinks he sees the same look in the man’s eyes whenever their stares connect, but they don’t say a word to each other. A few minutes later, Brigitte breaks away from her father to chat with Satya. She hides it well, but Harold can see the relief flood Satya’s body.

It’s an organization, but it feels more than that, Harold thinks. These people from different walks of life move and talk to one another like they’re friends. Suddenly Winston’s comment that Overwatch is his family makes a lot more sense. They have all bonded over disaster and war, and those bonds are stronger than gravity.

Harold can only hope this family will accept him.

From the corner of his eye he spies a Chinese woman with glasses approach him. She looks familiar, but where from he cannot place. In her hand is a plate full of Chinese dumplings.

“You do look like the photos, Dr. Winston,” she comments.

“I’m sorry?”

“Winston, my friend. N-not you, Dr. Winston,” she stumbles. “He’s got a photo of him with you. The two of you are so cute!” Seeing his confusion, she smiles shyly. “Sorry. You may not know me. I’m Mei-ling Zhou, but you can call me Mei.”

“Oh, I remember. You were in the same team as Dr. Adams. Part of Overwatch’s Ecopoint project, right?”

Mei frowns deeply, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Harold knows that look. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

She nods quietly. “We got into a blizzard in Antarctica. The cryostasis machine malfunctioned for everybody except myself.”

Harold cannot help but grimace. He’s missed a lot about the world, it seems. He’d worked together with Julian Adams, right before he got the job with Lucheng Interstellar, a long while before he will meet Siebren. Silently, he gives a soft prayer for Adams and his family, wherever they may be.

Harold takes his time to stare at the crowd and the unfamiliar surroundings. After a few seconds, he says, “I don’t see Winston.”

“He’s a bit nervous about meeting you, so he left. I’m not sure why though, this party is to celebrate him and all he’s done for us.” She points at Tracer, who’s taken a break from dancing to commentate on the drinking contest. As Harold suspects, Siebren is losing badly. “Lena got into a really bad accident. She was like a literal ghost, all see-through, disappearing for months and then reappearing. ‘Chronally displaced’, they called it. But Winston made a device so she can be with us here in the present, and now she can zip through time. She’s so cool!”

So Winston’s an Overwatch agent and an inventor, Harold thinks. Another surge of pride fills his lungs. “I assume you know him through Overwatch?”

“No, we only met recently, but he is very lovely and very kind.” She giggles behind her hand. “You raised him well.”

Harold chuckles as he rubs the back of his head. “I suppose I did.”

"He misses you. Every time I see him, he’s always looking at a photo of you.” She gives a shy smile and adds, “He hasn’t said much, but I think he’s glad you’re safe.”

Harold stares at his surroundings, warm but unfamiliar, a fusion of the past and present and future. Winston’s stories make up the particles of these stony cliffs and worn workbenches Harold’s missed so many of them. He wants to learn them, one by one. He wants to make up for lost time. “You don’t…happen to know where he is?”

Mei just smiles and points at the main hangar doors. “Check the cliffs outside. He likes sitting there to think.”

Harold gives her a friendly goodbye, locates Siebren (who fortunately did not partake in Reinhardt’s challenge and is still sober) and together they head away from the party.

It’s hard to find out what Mei meant by the cliffs, because most of the area outside the HQ is made of steep cliffs. The cool evening wind whips at them, a stark contrast to the warm levity of the party. Harold's worried he might have to rely on the nanobots to see in the darkness, but the moon shines brightly above their heads, lighting the way.

They make their way down the stone steps and follow the path between the buildings. It’s there that they find Winston, sitting at the edge of the cliff between two smaller buildings, gazing forlornly at something in his hands. Harold pauses in his steps, his breath catching in his throat as he watches Winston’s silent form. Winston is here, looking exactly the same as he remembered, only more mature. The white bodysuit hides most of his fur,

He turns to Siebren, who only stares at him. Siebren offers his hand to Harold and he squeezes it lightly before finally approaching Winston. Harold sits beside him, not saying a word. Winston doesn’t appear to react, but Harold can feel those sunflower irises scan him, looking for any sign that he is an imposter or a ghost or a figment of his imagination. Something to prove he's not real.

Harold glances at the photo and recognizes it almost immediately. It’s one that Winston took when he was a child, the first one he ever took, albeit by accident. Harold was working in the lab with Hammond when Winston took the picture. Seeing his younger self smiling politely into the camera, seeing baby Winston play eagerly with his glasses, it sends a familiar ache of affection to his chest.

“Where’d you get that photo?” Harold whispers.

“The camera,” Winston replies, just as quiet. “I grabbed as many spare pictures I could find, and then I downloaded the rest from the camera before I came to Earth.” He smiles bittersweetly at the photo. “I was so young.”

“We both were.”

Winston blows air out of his large nostrils. “You were in your forties.”

“I’m still young, I was just even younger back then.”

Slowly, he grabs one end of the photo and pulls it towards him. He can feel Winston’s fur on his arm beneath the white bodysuit and the body heat radiating. For a second, Winston stiffens, and Harold worries if perhaps he’s gone too fast, but then there’s an arm wrapping around his back. He turns to see Winston’s eyes, as wide and beautiful as the moon in the sky.

“I miss you,” Harold admits. “Sorry I haven’t been here for you all these years.”

Winston shakes his head softly. “It’s fine. I had family to take care of me when you were gone.”

“Overwatch, huh?”

“Yeah,” Winston chuckles quietly for a few seconds. He stares at the photo and smiles. “I guess I’m lucky then,” Winston says, finally gazing upon Harold. “I’ve got two families now.”

Harold’s vision begins to blur and he realizes that tears are forming in his eyes. He huffs as he wipes them away with his arm, which he has only just realized is still red from when he was strapped to the bed. He’s not sure if it’s the sea wind or the new setting or the moon above his head, but Oasis already feels like a lifetime away. Winston’s gazing upon him with unspoken affection.

Before he can say anything, the air shifts as Siebren floats over.

Harold patted the ground next to him. “Join us,” he says.

“I shouldn’t,” Siebren starts, but Harold is already standing up and dragging him to the cliff edge. With a roll of his eyes and a smirk of his lips, Siebren waves his hand. Rocks from the cliff roll up and stack together to create a reclining chair for Siebren to lie down on.

“And you thought me seeing in the dark was special.”

“Off-target effects,” Siebren says in an annoyingly inaccurate representation of Harold’s voice.

Winston’s gaze lingers between the two older men, a soft look of understanding falling on his face. He chuckles deeply. “You two haven’t changed.”

Harold shares a look with Siebren. “We haven’t, have we?”

Siebren smiles bashfully but earnestly. “Speak for yourself.”

The three of them sit there and watch the stars as they glitter in the ebony expanse of space. They’re content to admire for afar, but old habits die hard, and soon Harold’s talking about the stories behind the constellations. Siebren joins in about the more scientific fact about star systems while Winston discusses the planets in great detail. For one brief moment, they’re just enjoying the present together, without fear or worry about the past or the present. They’re a family, reunited at last.

Harold doesn’t hear Siebren slip away, leaving him alone with Winston. His eyes are glued to the moon, pale and beautiful despite all the tragedy that bathes its surface. He wonders briefly if Chang’e, the goddess of the moon, saw the rebellion. Who would she mourn more? The humans who lost their lives, or the gorillas who endured so much suffering?

“You’re together with Dr. de Kuiper, right?” Winston asks suddenly.

Harold blushes despite himself. “Despite the universe being hellbent on keeping me buried in the ground? Yes.”

“But you were gone for a decade. Everybody thought you were dead. How did you find each other again?”

“Siebren found me. Or rather, Talon found me. I was called a lot of things while I was stuck on the moon. Jade Rabbit, Specimen: 31, a whole bunch of expletives, you name it.” He stares at the rushing waves far beneath his feet. “I joined Talon partly because Siebren was in their ranks, and partly because I didn’t know better. I think it’s the same with Siebren, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

“After all this time, you still loved each other?”

“I’m not sure if we still loved each other. I think we were relieved to have a familiar face at first. But then we fell into old habits.” Harold recalls the first fleeting kiss he pressed onto Siebren’s face after Tempest’s first attack and smiles. “Guess it’s more accurate to say an old flame got rekindled.”

Winston nods thoughtfully. “I know the feeling. Sounds similar to how I feel right now.”

Harold turns to Winston and frowns. “How do you feel about me being here?”

“I don’t know,” Winston admits. “A bit nervous, I suppose.”

“Nervous? About what?”

“About how I feel about our relationship. About the moon, and the others back on Horizon…and you.”

The waves beat against the rocky face of the cliff, reflecting the light of the night sky. Harold wonders right then and there what will happen if he jumps. From this height, the impact would normally kill him, but he’s not a normal man anymore. Will the nanobots protect him, or will it all be futile? Will Winston and Siebren cry over him if he dies for real this time?

Winston turns his head sharply away in embarrassment. “S-sorry. D-don’t take it the wrong way, I am happy that you’re here and that you’re alive. Heh. I’m…really glad you’re alive, actually, but…um…”

“It’s fine, champ. The past is the past. We choose whether or not we look back upon it for guidance.” Harold braves a small smile. “Whatever you want me to be, I’ll always be here to support you.”

Winston smiles bashfully to himself. He takes the glasses off his face and stares at them for a few seconds. Harold just looks at the frames, an identical copy to his previous pair, caressed in Winston’s gorilla hands like they’re the most precious thing in the world. He turns to Harold, smiles enigmatically, then slips them back on.

His words are quiet against the thundering waves and the howling winds, but to Harold, they’re crystal clear and perfect pitch.

“I really did miss you,” Winston whispers.

Harold wraps his arm around Winston’s shoulder and squeezes tightly. “So did I, buddy. So did I."

They stare at the ocean until they’re shivering from the cold. They stand up and walk together back to the party, side by side. There’s still nervous smiles shared, still a bit of fragile hesitation, but it feels like the walls between them have crumbled. They’ve become just a bit closer. He doesn’t even realise that his arm is still around Winston’s shoulder until he gets back to the party.

The light atmosphere is gone. The music has long stopped and there is no chatter or banter. Everyone’s attention is drawn up to a hologram, their faces unreadable. Harold stares at the hologram, where a news presenter, Olympia Shaw, stands in front of a very familiar building.

“We’re just outside Lucheng Interstellar’s headquarters here in Lijiang, where they have just made the announcement that Dr. Harold Winston is still up on Horizon One.”

At a press conference, the new director of Lucheng Interstellar stands amidst a small crowd of reporters. Harold doesn’t recognize the man, even when his name pops up. He smiles professionally into the camera.

“It’s absolutely gut-wrenching to lose one of our own, but now we have the chance to bring one of our scientists back home. If we are able to rescue Dr. Winston, not only will we know more about the tragic accident that cut communications with the lunar base, but we will also gain valuable data on human colonization in space. We might learn more about how humans will be able to adapt to live on Mars.”

Olympia Shaw shows the formal picture of Harold taken from his badge on the screen as she discusses Harold’s research and role on Horizon, as well as giving a vague generalization of the rebellion. It’s weird to hear someone talk about him like this, like he’s a celebrity of the utmost importance.

Tempest’s picture pops up briefly as the director discusses her ‘untimely’ death. The news claims it’s a sudden heart attack. Harold knows better.

The footage cuts back to the conference with the director, flanked on both sides by his investors. “We will be launching a shuttle as soon as possible. Our primary goal is to bring Dr. Winston back down to Earth safely and rehabilitate him if needed.”

He says more, but no one is concentrating on his words anymore. They’re all staring at the people flanked by his side. Moira and Sanjay stand a fair bit away from him, both dressed in sharp suits. He feels eyes latch onto his body, one by one. Suddenly his throat feels dry.

“Why are they saying you’re still on Horizon?” Tracer asks.

“My tracker should be on my old lab coat there, but that can’t be it. Dr. O’Deorain and Sanjay Korpal know I’m alive.”

Winston frowns gravely. “What are they planning?”

“The research,” Siebren utters, his expression dark. “Mr. Korpal was talking about Dr. Winston’s work with interest. The nanobots he has created can give a man temporary invulnerability. Talon hopes to use it to create the ultimate living weapon, an invincible machine of death.”

“We know Talon has already mastered mind control techniques, and if Dr. O’Deorain really is a member of Talon as our intel suggests, who knows what technology they have?” Winston shakes his head. “If it’s just technology and research they want, it still doesn’t explain why they’re saying he’s in space when he’s right here.”

“It’s blackmail,” Harold says grimly. He feels the eyes on his body once again but he tries to shake the feeling away. “They have part of my research, but not all of it. I’ve only wrote about improvements, not the actual design itself. And the original design is stored on Horizon’s computers. If they get their hands on it, combined with my notes, they can recreate it. Get the invincible soldiers they’ve always wanted.”

“It’s an excuse to go back up there,” Winston gasps. “If this means what I think it means, we have to stop them.”

“How?” Harold asks.

Winston smirks as he adjusts his glasses. “You just leave that to us.”

All around Harold, the Overwatch members rally together, faces bright and fierce in determination. They’ve huddled around Winston, looking up to him as their leader, but more than that they are united by a single cause. That’s the thing that unites these disparate people and personalities together, Harold realises. They all want to do good by the world. They are all heroes.

It’s always been Harold’s dream to change the world for the better, but so far he’s just sent it hurling faster into chaos and destruction. But with these people, this new Overwatch, maybe he finally has an opportunity to make amends. Maybe this is why he is here. To right his wrongs. To make a difference.

To be a hero.

He clasps Winston tightly on the shoulder. He closes his eyes for a second to compose himself, and when he opens them, he’s sure there’s fire and gold in his gaze. His voice is unwavering and strong. “Never accept the world as it appears to be. Dare to see it for what it could be.”

Winston’s eyes glitter. Small gasps escape from a few of the others around them. “Does that mean…? Are you…?”

Harold smiles. “I’m helping you out, hero. Wherever, however I can.”

[alleiradayne]

Part I - Lesson Learned

Characters: Jared Padalecki, Me, Clif Kosterman Warnings: None, only fluff and mild angst here Word Count: 3,108 A/N: Assume all parties are single and absolutely no spouse hate!

In another minute, I’d have gone to bed.

In five minutes, I’d have passed out.

And in the morning, I’d have seen the post on Instagram and been pissed at myself all over again. 2016 might have repeated itself had I not learned my lesson the hard way that year.

Instead I sat in the chair at the desk of my hotel room, phone in hand, and flipped through every social media platform I had. I searched tags and pictures and an endless stream of fan accounts until I found that for which I willingly sacrificed sleep.

#spnfamily @jarpad Jared and me @ Sneaky Pete’s!

“Ugh, Sneaky Pete’s?! Really?!”

If you can’t tell, I’m not fond of that bar. Every time I’ve been there, someone starts a fight. Something about alcohol and open stripper poles enraging people.

But Jared was there. Though I desperately needed sleep, I wanted to meet him outside of the con. Just once. Just to get that sort of selfie with him. You know, blurry, half-drunk, overexposed, and hair in my face with his perfection right next to my hot mess. That selfie.

The handle of the hotel door clicked before I realized I’d left my chair, tossed on my N7 hoodie, and shut off the lights.

“What am I doing?”

Silly question. I knew exactly what I was doing. Stalking a celebrity. Yup. Real healthy. I know. An endless tirade of chastising thoughts raced through my mind as I walked down the hallway to the elevator. An eternity passed while I waited, and twice I nearly turned back for my room. But when the bell sounded and a door opened, I darted in and smashed the button for the main floor.

In the lobby, I rushed to a side door and avoided any eye contact. If I had looked at anyone, they would know what I was up to. They would know I was leaving my hotel to go to a bar because a celebrity I wanted to meet was there and that I had stalked him on social media. They would know the second they looked at me, with my red cheeks and wide eyes. Yeah, she’s on a mission. A creepy fanatic’s mission.

The cold November air hit my face with such force, it sucked the breath from my lungs. Again, so lost in thought, I’d lost track of myself. It happens from time to time. I get so caught up in my brain, I forget where I am. Usually it's because I’m planning out another piece of writing, whether it’s my novel or fanfiction. Better not think about that too much or your dumbass will end up telling him about it. If you’re even lucky enough to meet him…

I scoffed loud enough to scare a dog and their human as I passed. Should have taken a Lyft. But nope. I had not plan that far ahead. Too impulsive. And by the time I got to the bar my feet screamed for relief, not because of the long walk, but because I’d been on them all day. Saturday at a Supernatural convention is long. The Saturday Night Special had been entirely worth it though. I’d never look at Rob Benedict the same way ever again.

At the door, I handed the guy taking cover a ten-dollar bill, and I barely heard him over the music as he asked for my wrist to stamp. Not that I paid him much attention either. I had a mission. Unfortunately, Minneapolis complicated finding a 6’4” brown-haired, broad-shouldered guy. Loads of men fit that bill there, what with the plentiful Scandinavian population.

Through the entry, I scanned the crowd as I headed to the bar on my right. To my left, stripper poles stood in a line on their platforms, every single one packed with far too many people. Though I laughed at the idea of Jared on a stripper pole in a packed bar, I knew better. He might be silly, but he sure as hell wasn’t dumb enough to do that in public.

With the bar three people deep, I forced my way to the front, a few well-placed elbows and crushed toes parting the throng. The bartender, a harried woman who tried to put on her best smile, took my order, ran off for a glass and the bottle of scotch, and poured my drink. I avoided eye contact again as two men—boys, really, they looked barely old enough to be in the place—on my right tried to get my attention with terrible pickup lines that involved my drink. Not that I could hear them. Bass deep enough to shake the building thumped terrible party music accompanied by terrible lighting and shitty vocals.

Did I mention I hate Sneaky Pete’s?

I emerged from the crowded bar and headed for the stairs, still scanning for a set of shoulders above the sea of heads. When I saw nothing of note, I took the stairs to the speakeasy basement to find it nearly dead.

Nearly.

A few booths sat occupied, couples and smaller groups that wanted to escape the insanity of the main level, music muted to a dull roar. An older man sat by himself sipping a drink at the end if the bar nearest me. And the bartender—a woman about my age—talked with him. She’d get an extra tip with that sort of attention.

With a sigh, I turned back for the stairs, but something out of the corner of my eye stopped me. I looked over my shoulder, then turned back around as I spotted them. At the far end of the bar sat two people, one with long brown hair, and the other bald.

You know, leading up to that point, I never thought it would happen. From the second I’d left my hotel room, I imagined getting to the bar, getting a drink, sipping it down as I walked through the place once, maybe twice, then leaving.

But there at the bottom of the stairs I stared, dead-eyed, at Jared Padalecki.

At the back of his head.

Close enough.

My feet refused to move, though I desperately wanted them to. There were a great many things I wanted to do. But for the life of me, in that first moment, I balked. And it wouldn't be the last time. I damn near ran back up the stairs and out the front door.

But then Clif nudged Jared and pointed my way. He turned and spotted me, and Christ, I'll never forget that smile or his awkward wave. I'll never understand what about him then had managed to ease my nerves, but he had, and one foot stepped in front of the other until I passed him.

“Hey, Cliffy.”

Jared cackled as Clif leaned from his stool and hugged me. “She clearly knows the rules.”

“Get in good with the body guard, right?” I said as we parted. When I turned to Jared, I managed to keep my shit together as he hugged me in turn. “Nice to meet you. Again.”

Parted, he asked, “Were you here last year? What’s your name?” He motioned to the stool Clif had vacated.

By the end of this, you’re going to hate me. I hesitated yet again before taking a seat. “Jeanna,” I replied as I sat down. “And yes, I was here last year with my sister. We bought the very last J2 op Friday morning.”

“Well, then it was meant to be,” Jared teased. “Is that Jeanna with a G or a J?”

A long pull from my drink eased my nerves. That he even thought to ask that question set my heart racing “A J. We were J4 in that photo op. My sister is Jessica.”

“J4, I love it,” he said with a laugh. “So, how was the Special?”

“Rob kissed me,” I blurted.

Jared rolled his eyes, not missing a beat. “Rob can be a cheeky fucker sometimes,” he said. “How did he manage that?”

“They set up a sort of ‘pit’ area in the big aisles on both sides of the theater,” I said as I air-quoted. “A new friend and I stood the whole show. I got some amazing pictures.”

“You’ll have to show me after you get them cleaned up,” Jared insisted. “Twitter?”

“I’d love to…” I started as I looked around the bar. The conversation had started so well and had continued so easily, buy my confidence slipped. It was too good to be true. I had missed something, a sign or a phrase. Clif would escort me away any second. “I’m sorry, I should probably leave you alone. I don’t want to take up your personal time. You’ll be up to your eyeballs in fans tomorrow, and I’ll see you plenty then anyway—”

Before I slipped from my stool, Jared reached out with an unsteady hand but stopped short of touching me. “You don’t have to. You’re not bothering me. Not like there’s a million people trying to get my attention.”

I eased back onto the stool as I thought. I had imagined meeting Jared in public on occasion. But that simple fantasy usually consisted of a short greeting, getting that selfie, and then being on my way. Never in a million years would I have guessed that I’d have him all to myself for a personal conversation. “Are you sure? I mean, like I said, I’ll see you all day tomorrow. I’m in VIP, I have your solo photo op, I have your meet and greet—”

“You bought all that?” he asked.

“Damn straight I did, I love—”

Yeah, I usually say I love Jared Padalecki. But not to his ridiculously gorgeous face. “I uh… you’re my favorite.”

I’d tell you that Jared blushed when he regarded his beer, sipped from it. But the dimly lit bar masked his face in angular shadows so dark, I’d never know. “It’s okay, Jeanna,” he started. “You’re my favorite, too.”

“Wow. Thanks,” I retorted as I sipped from my drink. “I get it, I made it weird. Don’t rub it in. I’m not exactly… it’s not every day I get meet someone like you.”

Jared laughed through his nose as he spun the bottle of his beer on the bar between his thumb and middle finger. “Not many celebrities in the Twin Cities?”

For a moment, I stared at him, unsure of what to say. When he stared back with his easy smile and perfect hair curled behind his ears, I understood. “You are probably aware of this, but, you’re not just some random celebrity, Jared. You’re… you’re an incredibly important person to me. To a lot of people. Your compassion and empathy for people knows no bounds. You’re so selfless, I don’t know how you do it. I’d be exhausted all the time.”

Jared’s smile fell and I resisted the urge to scream, to take it all back the second the words were out of my mouth. Too late, Jared capitalized on the moment. “I appreciate your honesty,” he commented. His hand moved for my shoulder once more, but as before, he hesitated. “I’m… flattered to have had such a positive impact on people’s lives.”

“Good,” I stated, “you deserve it.”

I could have died a happy woman right then and there as Jared smiled in the wake of my words.

If I told you everything we talked about that evening, you'd have a novel on your hands, and a boring one at that. Sure, we flirted here and there, but I quickly understood that Jared was the type of person who truly meets people. He wants to learn everything he can about them before parting ways, take something profound, new, defining with him when he leaves. I told him about things I never imagined I would have—including my ideal final season for the show, complete with angels, demons, monsters, sex (not with monsters), love, and for once, a real shot at peace. Retirement. On a beach somewhere in Texas with a cooler full of Margie. As much as he liked the idea, he confirmed my suspicions. Sam and Dean’s story does not end on a beach with girlfriends (or angel boyfriends) and a cooler full of Wisconsin's fictional pride.

It was one o’clock before I even thought to check the time. We had talked for two uninterrupted hours. And as much as I wanted to stay, I needed to be back up at seven for my much-anticipated Sunday.

But before I said any sort of goodbye, I grabbed a napkin and my sharpie—always carry a sharpie with you at cons, just in case—and wrote down my number. When I slid it to him, Jared picked it up and squinted at it.

“I didn’t even have to ask,” he joked.

“Oh, gimme a fucking break, dude, you’re swimming in pussy,” I retorted.

With a crooked smile, he shook his head. “Not really. Do you think I do this,” he paused as he gestured between us, “all the time?”

“With that face and your body, I would,” I said. “Not to mention your heart and brilliant brain, too. You make conversation too easy.”

A distinct shade of pink slashed across his nose, distinguishable despite the dark shadows on his face. I waited for another witty retort, but nothing came. He simply stared at me, eyes searching mine with an intensity that rendered me speechless.

I had told Jared things about myself most people in my life did not know. And as I sat there, staring at him, I realized that Jared understood that. When he hesitated to touch me for a third time, I spoke. “Are you… scared?”

“Maybe a little,” he mused. “I can promise you, this isn’t something I normally do. Spending this much time with a fan… never struck me as a good idea.”

“And now that you have?” I asked.

Finally, his hand enveloped mine where it sat on the bar. “I'll say this. You’re a natural at meeting celebrities. You played it cool even though you were nervous. You talked to me like I was just… another person. And that’s incredibly refreshing.”

“You make it sound like most fans are cra—”

He shook his head, vehement in his disagreement. “No. You’re not. Ya’ll are amazing and generous and so full of love. I would never disparage any of you. Most engagements with fans, either at a con or out in the wild, are short or in a… sort of controlled or contained system. It’s kind of sterile. It sounds ridiculous when I put words to it, but there’s little margin for error and that’s intentional.”

“So, you’re saying it’s almost scientifically curated to go well,” I offered.

“Almost is the key word. There’s a reason Cliffy follows us everywhere,” Jared added with a coy smirk. “But more often than not, what we need is someone to take care of a crying fan because, if Jensen and I or any of the other cast had to handle that on our own every time it happened, we’d lose our minds.”

I recalled the first time I had met anyone from the show. “I thought I was going to throw up after I met Misha a couple years ago.”

Jared laughed his dorky cackle as he said, “Misha gets that reaction a lot.”

“He was all hands…”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

“No, it was wonderful.”

Again, Jared cackled as if I’d said some sort of perverted innuendo. With his hand still on mine, he took it from the bar and held it. “See, that right there, that's... oh, how gross, I don’t want to say you’re ‘different’ and make this fucking weird. But… I don’t know, I’m not explaining myself very well.”

“I won’t let it go to my head,” I started, “But I think I get it. This’ll sound weird, too, and it might creep you out, but I’ve always imagined my personality was very similar to yours. I’ve always imagined that, at the very least, were we to have worked together on a set, we would have become really good friends.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jared started, “And it’s not weird. We could be friends.”

I tried. I wanted nothing more than to walk away from that night remembering the perfection of our conversation up to that point. But when disappointment contorted my smile, Jared saw it, and winced. When I started to talk, he spoke over me. “I didn’t mean it like that. We could be friends, sure. But…”

His voice trailed off as he thought, eyes listing to the bar. “But?” I asked.

“But I’m guessing at this point you were hoping for more than that.”

What constituted as “more”? Best friends? Friends with benefits? Long-distance lovers? “Look, I gave you my number as a hail mary.”

“What?”

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I couldn’t resist the joke. “It’s a sports term. Like, slam dunk or…”

He grinned as he said, “Ball handler?”

I never thought I’d ever hear my laugh mixed solely with Jared’s. But laugh we did, singing a song I wanted to play it on repeat forever. I had to drop another joke to hear it again, to commit it to memory. With my pithy line readied, I sucked in a breath between laughs and spoke.

Not a single word made it past my lips, for Jared’s landed on mine with such sudden insistence, I froze. His massive hand warmed my cheek, fingers slipping into my hair, and he pressed harder, as if to remind me of what he had done. It worked, but not how either of us had wanted.

I promise, I’ll make up for how ridiculously I behaved here. When I squirmed away from him, I hated myself. I ended the kiss as quickly as it had started, slipped from his arms and off the barstool to race to the stairs. He didn’t follow me. And I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to see the dejection on his face that I knew was there.

I was up the stairs and through the front door in seconds. I wasted no time heading straight back to my hotel, oblivious to the chilly November drizzle. Incessant ridicule ran through my head, berating myself for being rude, for being a bitch, for being just downright mean. And for passing up on spending a night with someone I knew that, without a doubt, would treat me with nothing but respect.

How fitting then that, when my phone rang, I answered it without thinking.

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