occasionally writing

"What'd you decide on?" Jason asks, flipping a pancake and bringing you back to the current moment.

You can't help but quirk a brow, "He’s already seen me bleed out, Jase. Think he’ll forgive a sub-par gift?"

"Absolutely not. He’s still offended Tim once got him a Batman mug."

That earns a soft snort from you, "noted."

Jason smirks, passing you a plate, "so?" he prods.

You roll your eyes but smile, accepting the breakfast, and pushing yourself to sit up on the counter. You wince a bit as your body contorts against your stitches, and Jason sends you a warning look, but you continue to smile innocently, as you settle and tuck in.

"Well, actually, I was thinking I might make him something," you admit.

"What?" Jason pauses, and for a second, his full attention is off the stove, and on you.

"Lemon lavender shortbread cookies to pair with this specialty blend of earl grey that I found in Chinatown last week," you finally concede.

"You're gonna bake?" Jason’s still staring with an awe filled look.

You were a skilled baker, your grandmother had been a formally trained patissere chef, and since the woman had practically raised you, you'd picked up a few skills of your own. You didn't bake often, it led to nostalgic feelings that often left you... unmoored. But every so often there's an occasion special enough to call for it.

More often than he'd like to admit, Jason's found you baking after hard missions. Tough losses, near misses, trying to make something good in the midst of all the bad cloying to you. He always understood. Keeping you quiet company, and forcing you to stop when your hands started shaking too bad.

"Figured with all the effort Alfred puts into feeding your family, I can make him something in return," you shrug, pointedly focused on your eggs and pancake, ignoring the way Jason was staring at you.

It's that stupid gentle look, that makes you want to spill every single thought you've ever had.

"He'll love it," Jason finally says.

Your lips twitch up, and you let out a sigh, "I could use a sous chef," you hint after a few moments of silence.

"I'd be honored," a warm hand lands right above your knee.

You're forced to look at him then, his hair a curly mess atop his head, eyes soft, his hand is warm, and you can feel the callouses against your skin.

You let it linger… just for a second, and then you let out a breath and roll your eyes, shoving Jason back with an open palm. “Your pancake is burning,” you mutter, and he whips back around.

“Oh, shit.”

...

“You know,” Jason says from his perch on the counter, legs swinging slightly, “for someone who practically begged me to be their sous, you glower everytime I so much as think about touching something.”

You glance at him with a smirk, wrist deep in sugar and flour. And it’s a sight, all big and bulky, in shorts that are borderline sinful around his thighs, and a Wonder Woman sweatshirt that Steph had gifted him last night— which he’d giddily tossed in the wash as soon as you guys got home. His curls look so soft today-

“You really could just let me help you,” he adds on.

You force yourself to stare back down at the dough you’re forming and clear your throat, “I don’t recall begging. And if I remember correctly, the last time you helped me in the kitchen, you nearly burned your eyebrows off.”

Jason grins. “It’s only a fire hazard if you don’t know how to flambe, and I know how to flambe. Plus, Alfred would revoke my kitchen rights if I ever burn down any kitchen. And at the moment, Duke, Damian, and I are the only ones with kitchen rights, and I refuse to lose to them.”

“Well, as long as our intentions are clear, Chef. Now pass me the lavender, will you?”

He reaches over, but after a beat, he shifts, holding it just out of reach, “say please.”

You narrow your eyes, “Jason.”

He dangles the herb like a cartoon villain, “Pleeaaase?” he goads.

You huff, toss a bit of flour in his direction. He pretends it hits him like a gunshot, over dramatic as always, as he tumbles off the counter, clutching at his chest and keeping the lavendar in his grip balanced the entire time.

You roll your eyes, wiping your hands on a rag, and pick up a lemon, “lavender. Now. Or I swear I’ll zest this lemon onto your pillowcase.”

Jason laughs, finally handing it over, “one might interpret your threats of violence as a love language,” he says a playful smirk on his lips.

You hum, focused on measuring, using the back of your spoon to swipe the excess, “one could make that interpretation,” you muse.

“Yeah,” he says so casually you almost miss it, “pretty bold of me, huh?”

You pause your measuring for just a moment. “Maybe just bold enough,” you offer softly.

The beat of silence stretches—not uncomfortable, but charged in that way things sometimes are with him.

“Well, you know me. Never met a limit I don’t want to push,” he shrugs, clearing his throat.

The moment breaks, and you smile despite yourself, “I think that’s the exact warning you gave me when I moved in.”

Jason watches as you knead the dough together with deft hands, sleeves rolled up and brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn’t say anything else. Just studies the way a few locks have slipped loose from the messy bun at the back of your head, the soft crease in your nose when you focus, the calm that settles over you when your hands are busy and your thoughts quiet down. You’ve got some flour on your cheek, but all it does is add to your charm.

“You’re staring,” you murmur without looking up, you always seem to know when he’s looking.

“I’m observing,” he counters, not bothering to move his gaze away.

You glance up at him, amused. “Well, observe that if this batch comes out wrong, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” he says, hopping down from the counter to grab the baking tray. “But only if I get to eat your tragic failures.”

“Bold request,” you scoff, scooping dough with practiced hands, “I would never subject your delicate sensibilities to my failures,” you add.

“I don’t think you could make something I wouldn’t eat,” Jason snorts.

You flick a bit of zest at him. “Wanna help me roll these out.”

“See? You do need me.”

“Maybe,” your lip quirks, always, you think privately. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

Jason grins again, pulling off the sweatshirt before coming around the counter.

“Too late,” he winks, reaching for the rolling pin and giving you a gentle shoulder bump.

...

When the oven timer dings, you nearly rip the mitts off the hook.

You’d spent the entire time while the cookies were baking over-analyzing your process. You’d washed the dishes wondering if you’d over worked the dough, or if you’d let it chill long enough.

Jason watches from his spot on the stool, sipping the last of his coffee as you open the oven with more intensity than is strictly necessary. Wincing a bit at the ominous little creak the door gives, he was going to have to take a look at that later this week. A blast of warmth escapes as you pull the tray out and set it down carefully on the trivet.

You stare at them, lips tugging down.

Jason waits, watching as your wring your fingers together, waiting for them to set for a few minutes. The kitchen smells downright delightful with the notes of lemon and lavender in the air, as you eventually start moving the shortbread's to your cooling rack. Though Jason notes your frown has not yet dissipated.

You continue to stare, expression unreadable as you take one of the cookies and snap it in half. There’s a bit of a snap, but it looks clean and crumbles in your fingers as you stare down at it.

He can see it on your face that you’d already made a decision as you half-heatedly bring a piece up to taste.

He leans forward, “Well?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “They’re absolute rubbish.”

Jason blinks, “What?

You point at the tray with the sort of resigned despair usually reserved for funeral eulogies. “The edges are too brown, the texture’s wrong, the lavender’s too subtle…”

Jason snorts, already reaching for one. They look and smell incredible, like the ones you’d see on an add or a professional’s blog, picture perfect, he thinks, stuffing the cookie in his mouth. “oh fuck,” he says around his mouthful of shortbread, “they’re delicious.”

You swat at his hand as he reaches for another—he dodges easily, plucking more shortbreads off the rack anyway.

“Jason, they need to cool before—”

He takes another bite.

Your eye twitches as you cut yourself off.

He chews slowly, eyes closing just slightly. “Oh, no,” he says, mock-serious. “You’re right. These are trash. Burn the kitchen down, you’ll never recover.”

“Stop it,” you huff.

“I’m doing this for you. You can’t possibly let these exist. I’ll eat them all. Every last one. No one has to know, don’t worry.”

You throw the closest thing you can at his head— an oven mitt. He catches it easily, still munching on another cookie.

“They’re not balanced,” you argue, hands gesturing as your frustration mounts. “They’re meant to melt, not—crumble like regret.”

Jason blinks, then grins. “Is that what they taste like? Regret? Huh. I always assumed it’d be less lemony.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “I should’ve started with the lemon sugar, and I should’ve zested over the sugar bowl, that way the oils would land on the sugar. The flour was off—I used the metal scoop instead of weighing it. Rookie mistake,” you grumble, glaring in betrayal at the cookies on the rack.

Jason finishes a fourth cookie and speaks around the bite. “Babe. I would eat these off the floor.”

You stare at him like he’s got two heads.

“They’re incredible,” he promises you.

That earns him a scoff and he frowns watching as you reach for the bowl again, muttering something about “adjusting ratios” and “fixing the butter-to-flour balance.”

Jason stands, crosses the kitchen, and places a hand lightly on your arm, just as you’re pulling out the scale.

“They’re really good,” he says, quiet this time. “You’re just panicking ‘cause it’s Alf.”

You sigh.

“That’s the problem,” you mumble. “Alfred will know the difference between a sub-par shortbread and an excellent one. I refuse to put a shitty shortbread in front of the British Butler who can make a perfect tea service in less than an hour and still have time to polish his shotgun to gleaming perfection.”

He squeezes your arm gently, looking at the clock, “so we make another batch. We got time,” he says gently and you nod, taking a breath. “But we keep this one. For scientific purposes,” he adds on, reaching over for another cookie.

You roll your eyes and huff, “Fine. You can have the regret cookies.”

Jason grins like he’s won something, “I will cherish every one.”

...

Jason watches you from the other side of the counter, arms folded, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as you mutter under your breath about lemon/lavender ratios.

“You know, I don’t think you get this focused when you’re patching me up after a mission.”

You don’t bother looking up, “That’s because you bleed on my throw pillows.”

“For someone who usually bakes to decompress, you’ve gotten awfully worked up,” he counters.

“I am not worked up,” you argue.

“You’ve elbowed me out of my own kitchen, threatened me with a dough hook, and you’re vibrating.”

“I just want them to be right,” you say, exasperated, as you finally move your gaze from the dough and back to Jason. “Alfred deserves—I don’t know! More than mediocre cookies with a lopsided bake.”

Jason rounds the counter, gently plucks the zester from your hand, and bumps your shoulder with his.

“They’ll be perfect. He’ll love ‘em. Because they’re from you. He woulda’ loved the first batch.”

You blink, a little thrown at the sudden calming effect his words seemed to have. “Stop being sincere, you’re throwing off my mania,” you huff as you grab the zester back.

“I’m sorry our years of friendship are conspiring against you,” he mocks.

You spare a few seconds to glare at him before shooing him back out of the kitchen again.

...

You’re staring down at the empty mixing bowl, hands on your hips, jaw clenched. The second batch of dough is sitting in the fridge, chilling. The first batch rests nearby on the cooling rack, half-eaten, because Jason has no self-control.

But you aren’t laughing. You’re tense. He sees it in the way your shoulders curl in, in how your eyes are bouncing from the recipe card to the bowl to the oven thermometer like the world might end if you blink wrong.

Jason walks over, slower than usual, and leans a hip against the counter next to you.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“This was supposed to be easy,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the bowl. “Just a simple family recipe. I’ve made it before. But now everything feels too much or not enough, and the butter’s too soft, and the lavender might be stale, and what if he hates them, or worse, what if he’s polite about them?”

Jason waits a beat before gently reaching out, doing his best not to laugh in the face of your frankly ridiculous panic, instead focusing on brushing flour off your cheek with the back of one knuckle.

“Okay. First of all, the lavender’s not stale, you and I both tasted it. Second, I am not polite and I’ve eaten half of the so-called disaster tray. Third…”

He takes your hands, flour and all, and wraps them lightly in his.

“Take a breath.”

You blink, “I am breathing.”

“You’re panicking and calling it breathing.”

You glare at him, but your hands stay in his.

“Jason,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, just as softly. “You want it to be perfect. You want him to feel seen. To feel appreciated.”

You nod once, too fast.

“But he already does. These cookies? They’re just a bonus.”

You sniff and blink too quickly, “You’re annoying when you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” he corrects, then tilts his head. “But I’ll accept annoying if it gets you to stop looking at the flour like it personally betrayed you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, and he squeezes your fingers once before letting go.

“Now,” he says, nudging the bowl with a grin, “what say you and I tackle the Not-Rubbish Batch together?”

You finally smile, small but real. “Fine. But you’re on sprinkling duty.”

Jason mock-groans, already reaching for the sugar, “Shoulda’ known this was a trap.”

The scent in the kitchen is exactly right. Lemon bright and warm, lavender soft in the air. You slide the last tray out of the oven with more care than Jason’s ever seen you use on anything but him.

He sidles closer while you plate the best dozen, tilting his head to admire them—and you.

“What’s the verdict, O judgmental one?”

You arch a brow at him, tired but satisfied, “they don’t look horrible,” you relent. Jason smirks, and your eyes level into a glare, “Don’t say ‘I told you so,’ it’s smug.”

He shrugs, amused, leaning down to you a bit, “I am smug. You’re just—”

You shove a cookie into his mouth before he can finish. “Here. Chew on that instead of your ego.”

Jason takes the bite, still grinning, even as he mumbles, “Worth it.”

...

The biscuits are secured under the seat of Jason’s bike, along with his gift, wrapped with clean folds. Your arms are wrapped around his waist, your helmet resting against his back. You’d left the kitchen a little worse for wear than you’d prefer. You’d caught Jason’s wince at its state, but promised you’d clean up once you were back later in the evening.

“Stitches?” is the first thing he asks as you both pull the helmets off.

“They’re good,” you promise.

He squints at you.

You roll your eyes, and pull up on the side of your brown leather jacket and the white sweater you had on underneath.

Jason smiles at your easy agreement. His fingers skim your side causing your nose to scrunch.

“Cold,” you mutter when he glances up at your expression.

“Sorry,” he says, though he’s still smiling at you as he pulls your gauze to the side.

“You know, some might consider this an invasion of privacy,” you note, looking down at Jaosn’s hands as he analyzed each stitch.

“One could make that interpretation,” he teases, throwing your words from this morning back at you.

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

“They look good,” he finally decides, pulling your sweater back down.

“Can we go inside now?”

“Yes, lemme grab the gifts,” he nods, lifting the seat.

You hold your helmet in one hand, decorated with constellations, painted on one night when you couldn’t sleep. Your fingers trace over the constellation of Orion, eyes flickering to Jason.

“Hey,” you say suddenly.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“I’m really proud of you, you know?” The words slip past your lips, while your mind lingered on thoughts of the warrior the constellation was named after.

Jason freezes, one hand holding the gifts, and the other about to push the motorcycle seat back down. He turns his head, and you see the flush peaking at the tips of his ears. You can’t help the fond smile that takes your lips as he slowly pushes the seat. He turns back to you, clearing his throat and tugging a bit at his collar.

“I-uh…” he starts but cuts himself off.

“I mean I’m proud of you pretty much every day,” you add, realizing where he was stuck. “But today? Today I’m proud of you for being here, even though I know you’ve spent more time at the manor in the last week that you have in the last three months.”

Jason drops your gaze, and then he turns to look at the Manor itself.

He shakes his head, and runs a hand through his hair, “Family, right?”

“Right,” you nod, looping your arm around his.

His lips quirk on the ends. Not quite a smile, but it’s enough for you to see him, Jason. He turns to stare at you. “Let’s do it,” he finally says, and begins walking forward, pace just slow enough for you to match.

...

You’re welcomed in by Stephanie, who does her best British accent, dressed in a three-piece suit, and emulates Alfred’s posture and mannerisms to the best of her ability.

“Steph, thats a nice suit,”

“Thanks. I stole it from Tim’s closet like a month ago, and took it to a tailor.”

You can’t hide the snort this time around. It gains you a roll of the eyes from Jason and a bright beam from Steph.

“It’s kind of freaky,” Jason murmurs low to you, behind her back, as she leads you forward.

“I fear we’ve underestimated her,” you concede.

Jason snorts, “doubtful.”

You hide your smile behind your hand as you both arrive in the kitchen.

She leads you both into the kitchen where you find the rest of Jason's siblings seemingly hard at work. It’s a full ensemble. Dick’s on a counter pulling out the nice dishes and plates, Tim’s moving what must be the catered meal (you wouldn’t trust any of them in a kitchen…. maybe Damian… maybe), and Steph slipped out of her Alfred persona and was crouched in front of the oven.

“Quite the production,” you say softly.

“Well, none of them should be trusted to make more than a bowl of cereal,” Jason reminds you and you can’t help but quirk a smile.

“What about her?” you ask, nodding your head at Stephanie.

“Steph’s got an exception.”

“Oh?”

“Brownies.”

“She can bake?” you ask with a small smile.

“No.”

“Jason.”

“Only brownies, nothing else.”

“Your family never ceases to surprise,” you snort.

He sends you a dubious look but shrugs, before handing you the gifts and moving to help. Jason moves easily in the kitchen. You can almost imagine the teenage version of him trailing after Alfred.

You hold Jason’s gift and the small tins that make up your own as you watch. Its only a moment later when you feels someone come up behind you.

“Hello, Damian,” you greet softly.

“Tt. There's no feasible way you could have known it was me,” he argues, stepping in line with you.

“Process of elimenation,” you smirk.

He rolls his eyes, though eventually peers at the gifts in your hands, shooting you a questioning look.

One you choose to ignore, to his annoyance and your joy.

“How is your injury?”

You tilt your head, “It’s fine, your brother is just overly cautious.”

Damian snorts, and looks offended a second later for allowing such a sound, much to your amusement.

“Todd is rarely cautious, overtly or not.”

“Guess I’m just special then,” you shrug.

“Perhaps so,” is what Damian finally offers up.

You had meant it, in part as a jest, but Damian doesn't argue and your eyes flick back to Jason who's arguing with Tim about proper serving dishes, and you know it’s true.

"High praise from the peanut gallery," you mutter, smiling.

...

Dinner’s less chaotic than most gatherings. Alfred insists on a proper meal, real silverware and polished glasses. The table is full—Bruce at the head, the rest spread out, You're sat beside Jason, across from Steph.

You sit and listen as everybody exchanges stories. Jason stays on the edge of a few conversations, as if he’s afraid to jump in. Part of you recognizes that he may have never heard a few of these stories, that he hadn’t been there.

You let your knee bump his whenever he gets a little too quiet. His knee presses against yours as his shoulders relax. It’s halfway through a story Dick’s telling, about how Alfred has always shouldered more than necessary, and to his credit, he’s doing a good job of talking around what was being shouldered at the time this story took place. Picking and choosing his words carefully enough, but everyone in the room could read through the lines. After someone had gone away.

Your knee presses to his again, and this time as it pulls back, his hand drops to it. Warm and calloused as he holds your knee in place. You blink, turning to him slightly, and when you see the tense line of him, you purposefully look back to Dick. Letting Jason ground himself, with a hand on your knee and your attention elsewhere.

...

It’s not until the meal is done, and dishes are picked up when you manage to catch Alfred alone in the hallway. Everyone has started migrating to the sitting room with their cups of cocoa. Stephanie, Jason and Duke arguing over peppermint sticks versus marshmallows versus whipped cream.

You gently hand him the tin of cookies, and the other of tea. "Lemon Lavender Shortbread," you tell him softly, almost shy. “I thought they'd pair well with this blend of Earl Grey I found.”

Alfred peers down at you over his glasses. Opening his the shortbread tin.

You hesitate before adding, “they were my grandmother’s recipe.”

There’s a subtle ease in his shoulders as the gentle scent hits him, “I assure you, I shall thoroughly enjoy them."

You smile, a little nervous as he closes the tin. You nod, preparing to go join the rest, but he stops you with a gentle, "Miss (Y/L/N).”

"Yes?"

He smiles, rare and genuine. "It’s no small feat to become part of this family. They can be quite loud and appear daunting, and sometimes, despite the number, they can be lonley. It is a kind thing, isn’t it? To be seen, to be known?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“It is, I think, my only wish; that they should all find someone who will know them.”

You stare at him, a few moments longer, “You’re a little too insightful, for my mental stability, Alfred.”

The olderman offers you an amused smile, one hand gently squeezing at your shoulder, “it comes with time and age, my dear,” before he walks away.

Jason is waiting for you on the couch by the time you make it over there.

“All good?”

You turn to Jase, eyes tracing over blue-green eyes, the white streak of his hair, the small scars that litter his face. The bump on his nose from where he’d broken it too many times for it to ever be straight ever again.

“Yeah, Jase. Alfred liked my gift.”

Jason offers you a bright smile, the charming boyish one that warms you from the inside out every time he turns it on you.

“Told you,” he smirks, bumping your shoulder.

Yeah, you did.

...

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

dc taglist: @batarella @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here @seamlessepiphany @ye-olde-trash-panda @snake-in-a-flower-crown @11om

“Hmmm,” you hum considering the possibility.

Stiles perked at your pause, “What if we get him to borrow-”

You sigh and turn back around, whipping him in the face once more, “No,” you say succinctly before continuing on your earlier path, ignoring his sputtering when he gets a mouthful of hair.

“My Dad!” Stiles shouted, as you reach your locker. You consider the option as you start spinning the dial of your combination lock. “What if we have him bring his-”

You make a face at him, “definitely no,” you huff, shaking your head, while switching out some books from your bag.

Stiles lets out a sigh, and you can see the frustration mounting on his face. You’ve been cutting him off sooner and sooner with each idea, and if you were anybody else, he’d probably continue on.

But you weren’t anyone. You were one of his best friends. One of his oldest friends. Which means, unfortunately for him, you very likely knew exactly what he was thinking.

His eyes twitched, and you had to hide a smirk.

“What if we-” he tried once again.

“No,” you hum, shutting you locker.

“What if-” he attempted, as you walked to the exit.

“Nope!”

The word left you lips as you beelined for your car.

“You can’t just say no! You didn’t even hear me out!” he challenges as you toss your bag in the back seat.

“Hmm,” you hum again as you slip into the drivers seat, before shrugging up at him, “no.”

“LET ME TALK!” Stiles shouts, practically begging.

You sigh as you turn the key in the ignition, "Stiles you’re one of my oldest friends, which means I know you pretty well. Which is why, whatever you're going to pitch, the answer is no."

You offer him a condescending smile as you roll the window down and shut the door. Stiles stands outside, just glaring at you. Instead you shrug your shoulders once again, and blow him a kiss with a wink before throwing the car in reverse.

...

Your eyes are still shut when the imperial march finally woke you up. Your phone ringing annoyingly from your bedside table. Blindly you reach over, and grab the phone, squinting against the screen’s brightness as you click the answer button.

“I’m going to murder you,” you croak, groggily.

“Oh, good, you’re awake! Listen, I’m downstairs in the driveway,” Stiles’ voice chirped through the line, and your free hand came up to rub your eyes.

“Stiles, what time is it?”

“Uh.. oh shit, uhm, it’s late?” he offers hesitantly.

“Stiles.”

“It’s almost 2:15,” he admits.

“And what do most people do at 2:15 in the morning?”

“Solve crime?” he offers playfully.

“Sleep, Stillinski.”

“Would you please just come down stairs? I need to talk to you about our case,” he pleads and you sigh, heavily.

Friendship, you were beginning to think, was overrated.

“Stiles, it’s your dad’s case. Can’t this wait til the sun’s up? Or like… school?”

“(y/n)… please.”

definitely overrated, you decide as you throw off your comforter and roll out of bed with a groan.

“You’re a horrible, horrible, person Stiles Stillinski,” you say as you scrounge around for a hoodie and some socks.

“And you, you are the very best this earth has to offer!”

You scoff, hanging up on him. You pull on some socks and stuff your feet into your shoes, before grabbing the first hoodie you could find. It swallows you, and you snort realizing it must be Scott's. Before pulling your throw blanket from off the desk chair and wrapping it around your shoulders and trudging downstairs.

Quietly you open the door and slip out, hissing as the cold Californian air pricked at your skin. You pull your blanket shield closer, walking heavily over to where the jeep was idling in your parent’s driveway.

“What do you want?” your tone is snippy, and normally you’d feel bad about it, normally.

Stiles, to his credit, beams at you. He hands over a thermos, “I brought coffee, and now we’re gonna grab Scott,” Stiles dictates, changing the gear as you grumble but pull the seatbelt over you.

“You’re so lucky you have coffee,” you huff.

...

“So you woke her up, even though it’s (y/n) 101, not to disturb her sleep anymore than absolutely necessary. You woke me up, and now you want to go and wake Derek up? And you don’t hear the issue there?” Scott asked from the backseat, he was dressed similarly to you, a blanket wrapped tight around him.

“Well, frankly, I’m more scared of waking (Y/n) up than I am for waking Derek up. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s still awake.”

“And why is that?”

“He answered my text,” Stiles shrugs, holding out his phone.

You swipe it from his hand and frown squinting at the brightness of his screen, “Stiles this text specifically says, do not come here.”

“And I am purposefully ignoring that,” Stiles digressed, as he took the the turn into Derek’s neighborhood.

“He’s going to be pissed,” Scott huffed.

“I want my bed,” you declare.

“You can have Derek’s sofa instead,” Stiles counters.

...

“Derek would you just listen to me!” Stiles huffed, and you winced, shifting a bit more on the couch. “(Y/n), c’mon you’ve read the case file, help me out!” your friend turns to you on the sofa..

Your eyes are still half lidded, and Scott’s leaning against a pillar in the loft while he listened, though his eyes fluttered every few moments too.

Stiles was standing in front of you and Derek was stood behind the couch, as the four of you sleepily discussed Stiles’ current fixation.

Derek’s gaze dropped to you, now spread out on his couch. Derek quirked a brow and you tried. Really, you did. But you were too tired to do a verbal spar with someone as stubborn as Derek Hale. Your lips turn into a flat line before you turn to Stiles, “You’re on your own, man. I don’t even want to be here,” you mumble, snuggling closer to your blanket.

Stiles spazzes at that, arms flinging out, as his expression morphs into betrayal.

“You just had to,” Scott scoffed, lazily giving you the you know what you did look.

“(Y/n)!”

You shrug completely unbothered.

“If you don’t want to be here, why are you taking up all the space on my couch?” Derek asks, sighing and rubbing at his eyes.

“I was coerced, and kidnapped,” you huff, turning to look over at Derek.

“I did not kidnap you!” Stiles shouts, and you wince at the decibel.

“Derek, would you please just listen to Stiles? I wanna go home, and catch some sleep before school, and if you don’t, no one gets to leave. It’s almost 3:30, we’ve been here almost half an hour already,” you frown, voice coming out a little bit more like a whine.

“I’m not-” Derek began and your frown deepens and you push your self up and grab at his shirt cutting him off.

“Shut up, sit down, and listen to Stiles’ new conspiracy theory, okay?” you hiss, Derek bites back a laugh at the switch in your personality, someone was crabby.

“It’s not a conspiracy theory, it’s an actual… thing,” Stiles mumbled defensively as Derek caved and sat down on the couch with you, forcing you to move your legs.

You managed to listen for about 15 minutes before you legs stretched back out over Derek’s lap. He shoots you a judgmental look, but frankly, you’re too tired to care. A few more minutes and you were knocked out.

...

By the time Stiles had finished, all three men realized you were sound asleep.

“I can’t wake her up twice in one night. She will murder me,” Stiles whispered, already stepping back from the sofa.

“Tempting,” Derek snorts.

“I can pick her up?” Scott offers, finally coming off the wall.

“It’ll wake her up,” Stiles negates, hissing, putting a hand out to stop him.

Derek sighs, hand scrubbing over his face, when did he start babysitting?

Carefully he scoops under your legs and slides out. Gently he puts them back down, and shakes his head at you. “Just… just leave her. She can sleep here, and I’ll drop her off at school tomorrow,” Derek decides.

“What?”

Scott hits Stiles as all three men turn to you, to make sure you were still asleep. Derek grabs another blanket and drapes it over your legs, then stares at the blanket, blinking, like he can’t fathom why he did that.

“I’ve still got some of Cora’s stuff upstairs, she can take her pick. It’s… fine.”

Derek says it tiredly, flatly, as if this were normal.

It wasn’t.

But there was something about you, all fire and no patience for bullshit during the day, looking small in the oversized hoodie with the hood pulled up, and the baggy pajama pants. He remembers briefly, how small Cora used to be, how fierce Laura had been. There’s things about you he remembers of his sisters, maybe it why he was a little more patient with you than the others, maybe it was just because you forced him to be. Either way it was too late in the night to be thinking this hard.

“Go home, guys, seriously. She’s fine.”

Scott nods like it’s good enough for him. Stiles casts one more look of disbelief before letting Scott pull him towards the door. All three guys tense when the loft door squeaks, eyes darting to you. But you’re dead to the world at this point.

Derek shakes his head before heading upstairs.

...

When you wake up its to the sound of someone in the kitchen.

For a second your heart races, excited, hopeful.

But the smell is wrong. There’s a cologne in the air, woodsy, familiar, but not your dad’s.

It takes you a second to remember, because your parents had to be around to actually use their kitchen.

You blink and rub at your eyes, and instead of the sickeningly clean euro-modern aesthetic your mom and had the house redesigned with the last time she was home, you’re greeted to the industrial feel of Derek’s loft.

“Good morning,” his voice drifts over.

“Debatable,” you huff, you finally sit up, pushing the hood back and running a hand through your hair. “They really just left me here?” you scoff squinting at the light coming in through his big windows.

“Stiles was afraid if he woke you a second time you’d kill him on the spot,” Derek muttered walking over, and handing you a mug with coffee.

You squint at the coffee before taking it, “probably would’ve.”

“Some of Cora’s stuff is upstairs, you can shower, change, and I’ll drop you off at school. Stiles said he’d grab your bag.”

“Thanks,” you say softly.

Derek stares at you for a second, as if he could see through you, “You okay?”

“Fine,” you smile, it’s a little flat on the ends.

You can tell he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

“Right. Eat up, and let me know when you’re ready, kid,” he pats your shoulder before walking back to the kitchen, leaving you with a plate. Eggs and toast, two pieces of bacon.

You’re glad he’s behind you because the ache in your chest comes back. You eat quietly, sipping your coffee, occasionally listening to the sounds of Derek moving around behind you.

When you finish you move slowly upstairs, the spare room where Cora had stayed. Fishing through her drawers till you found something that would work. Leggings, a tank top. You use some of her stuff from her vanity after you shower. Coming back down your hair’s pulled back in a neater bun, face much more awake and clear. You’ve pulled Scott’s hoodie back on over the tank top. You plop into one of the chairs at the island where Derek’s still stood, reaching over to grab an apple.

You take a bite and chew before looking at him, “Your couch is pretty comfortable,” you muse gently.

Derek smiles, it’s a little softer than it normally is, “yeah, Isaac and Boyd, they… uh, they used to crash on it all the time when they were living here.”

You smile soft for a moment. Fuck, you missed them. Missed Boyd, and Erica, and Allison. Missed Isaac, even Jackson, shit.

“Have you heard from him recently?”

Derek nods, before grabbing something off the fridge, it’s a postcard from France. You smile softly at Isaac’s messy handwriting, finger looping over his name. “He sends me one every month.”

“That’s really nice.”

“Yeah, I’m not totally sure I deserve it,” he admits, voice soft for a moment, taking the postcard back and pining it back to the fridge.

He takes a breath, drains the last of his coffee and grabs his keys, “C’mon kid, lets get you to school.”

...

The conversation in the car is soft, muted. Derek doesn’t fill silences like Stiles does, and honestly, it’s almost as comfortable as sitting with Scott. Derek pulls the Camaro all the way up to the round about. Stiles and Scott are sitting on the steps right out front, quickly on their feet when they spot the car.

“Thanks again,” you say softly, unbuckling.

“No problem,” he says, and you offer one last smile before hopping out.

Stiles and Scott are on either side of you a second later. Stiles handing you your backpack, and Scott a travel mug of coffee.

Derek’s lip quirks up before he drives off.

Not without checking his rear view, he catches you turn back, just for a second, before you disappear inside and he turns out of the lot.

...

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

---

Two hours later and everyone was getting into position, Scott was with you and Derek was going to go with Lydia and Stiles.

“Hey, (Y/n). You run, okay?” Derek said seriously as you moved to the back of the car.

“You know Derek, sometimes I think you forget I could kick your ass any day,” you smirk as you open the trunk of the Camaro and lift the hidden compartment to grab a gun from the mini armory you had stashed.

Derek was the only one who knew who you were, well Chris had too, but your hunter past was something that was pretty buried. You had met Derek on a case when you were a kid, your dad, John Winchester, had brought you and your brothers, Dean who was older, and Sam who was younger, with him. You had given up hunting after the closest thing you had to a real father, Bobby Singer, died. Bobby Singer was more of a father to you than John Winchester ever was. Your dad was always preoccupied with hunting the thing that killed your mom, then making sure his golden child, Dean, was being shaped into the mold he desired. Or John was busy arguing with Sam, they never got along, and they always had different points of view. Sam was smart, he graduated and saw his ticket out. You stayed.

Then dad went missing, and sam came back. For a while it was okay. When it was just the three of you, nothing ever was that bad. And then came Chuck and his angels. When Bobby died, you wanted out, out of hunting, out of demons, and angels. So you packed up and left.

It was funny when you realized the only place you felt comfortable was with a werewolf. You’d arrived at Derek’s loft at two in the morning, soaked from the rain. When he had spotted you he had welcomed you in and you’d been here ever since. Derek had been your best friend throughout it all. He was your biggest secret growing up.

When you had first met Derek on that case when you were younger you both just connected and when he saved your life and shown you his werewolf nature you had kept your mouth shut. Your dad wouldn’t have cared that Derek was a good person, or that he was the same age as you, or even that he’d saved your life. he would’ve hunted him the same way he does with all other supernatural beings.

Derek became the person you’d call when you had a moment alone or e-mail when you could. He was your confidant because he knew what you were the same way you knew what he was, and you were always thankful for that.

Months passed after you had arrived before anything really happened between the two of you, but after one night where he took care of you while you were absolutely plastered the two of you became closer than you thought possible. The two of you came out stronger, together.

“Trust me, (y/n), I never forget,” Derek laughed as you picked up your gun, you checked the clip before tucking it behind your waistband.

Derek leaned over and handed you an extra clip and two knives, both made of silver, “You know I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Junior Detective over there had figured out my family history,” you smiled while placing the weapons on your body, glancing at Stiles.

“With the way you gear up it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out,” He shook his head leaning close to you.

“Keep an eye on them, yeah?” you gesture to Stiles and Lydia, he nods pressing a quick kiss to your lips before stepping back.

“Hey, Scott!” Derek called out, gaining the younger werewolf’s attention. “Keep an eye on her, yeah?” he asked, sending you a wink causing you to laugh and shake your head.

“Always,” Scott nodded with a smile before you all broke up to cover more ground.

You and Scott had been creeping around for about an hour now when Scott’s head whipped to the side.

“What?” you whispered.

“Someone’s coming!” he whispered back.

“The omega?” you mouth.

“No, human,” Scott said with a confused look and your eyes hardened.

“Hide,” you order.

“What? I’m not going to-” Scott tried to argue.

“Hey, I said to hide, now. If it’s human I’ll flash my badge and get them to leave, that won’t work if they see some high school kid next to me,” you tell him seriously.

This time you heard a twig snap and you gave Scott a look, one he thankfully understood. “Derek’s gonna kill me!” he hissed before he carefully crept away. You pulled out your gun and turned the safety off before moving to turn.

“Don’t move!” a gruff voice shouted and your grip on the gun tightened, you knew that voice. “Drop the gun!” he shouted.

“I drop this gun, it's gonna go off,” you tell the strangely familiar voice.

“Turn around, slowly,” he huffed.

You did as the voice said and when you finally met the eyes of the man a feeling of relief flooded your body. Those eyes were green, a shade of green you’d known your whole life. His lips parted and his arms holding the gun dropped a bit as he stared at you. A small breath escaped you and while you felt relieved your heart rate sped up. Before you could say anything though Scott came barreling out of nowhere knocking the man off his feet. Immediately you were switching the safety on and running towards the man and Scott.

“Scott! Scott, get off of him. McCall! move! now!” you shouted shoving the teen wolf.

When Scott fell away the man was staring at you, his eyes tough and a bit broke but still the ones you remembered vividly, “Need a hand, big brother?” you laughed.

“Brother?” Scott asked.

“(Y/n)?” Dean’s brows furrowed as he accepted the hand you offered to pull him up.

As soon as he was up he was wrapping you in a hug, “Damnit kid, where the hell you been?”

“It’s good to see you too, D,” you sighed, wrapping your arms around him too.

When you pulled back Scott was standing again but his head was whipping around as if he could smell something, “Scott?”

“There’s something close…” he trailed.

“The...omega?” you asked.

“It doesn’t smell like another werewolf, it doesn’t even smell remotely human. It smells sort of putrid… like…” Scott listed.

“like rotting flesh?” Dean offered and my head turned to him.

“Yeah,” Scott nodded with a concerned expression.

“Dean, what were you hunting?” you asked urgently, turning to your older brother.

“A wendigo, super strange to be this far west, but don’t worry, Sammy’s got this,” Dean answered and you paled.

“Scott, you need to call Stiles, now!” you shouted at the teen. “And we need to get back to Camaro,” you whispered.

You all took off, Dean following you, and Scott wasn’t even sweating, “Any answer?” you shouted, jumping over a log.

“No!” he shook his head and you forced yourself to go faster.

“Scotty we got split up!” you decided.

“You’re joking? You’re the one that says pairs, always!” he argues.

“I know!” you shout back panting as you skid to a stop by the cars. “Dammit!” you curse kicking the Camaro’s tire. “Okay! New plan. Dean, you call Sam, I’m going to call Derek, if we get no answer Scott you take your bike and you find Derek, you’re the only one who can,” you tell him seriously as Dean and you pull out your phones. You dial Derek and you know Dean’s tryna get a hold of Sam.

“C’mon Der, pick-up your damn phone, please,” you beg quietly.

“Hey, what’s up?” Derek asked, his voice a hushed whisper.

“You need to grab Stiles and Lydia and get back to the cars, now, Derek, right now,” you tell him seriously.

“(Y/n), what’s going on?”

“Derek, run, and don’t stop, especially Stiles, okay? He’s the one at the most risk.”

“Okay, we’re on our way back,” Derek assured you and you finally took a breath.

---

When Derek, Stiles, and Lydia finally showed up you were changing out your weapons of choice. instead of a gun and blades, you grabbed your lighter and an aerosol spray. You grabbed a flare gun and a machete too, just in case.

“Hey, what’s up?” Derek asked, stopping in front of you, hands going to your shoulders to check in with you, his intense eyes checking for anything.

“It’s not an omega,” you tell Derek seriously as you move from his grip.

“So what? An Alpha? Because we’ve handled alphas in the past,” Lydia argued.

“And why’d you say I was the one at the most risk?” Stiles butt in.

“Because it’s not a werewolf, it’s a wendigo,” you sighed, shutting the trunk.

“Who’s that?” Stiles was giving Dean the side-eye and Derek’s eyes flickered to Dean and then back to you.

“Which one is this?” Derek’s voice was soft as he asked but he knew that the person behind me was related.

“Dean,” you mouth and Derek’s eyes dart to Dean again, though this time they’re more guarded.

“You mean the one who’s more likely to kill me than talk to me?” Derek asked with an irritated look.

“Yup,” you nod, slipping the machete into the harness you had attached to your waist and leg.

“Is that a machete? Why the hell do you have a machete?” Stiles asked.

“Derek, get them back to the loft, check-in with Kira and Malia, I know they stayed in tonight, but no chances,” you order.

“If you think I’m ditching you now, you’ve lost your mind,” Derek said seriously.

“I’ll be okay. I got Dean, and Sam should be here soon, right De?” you tell Derek while looking back to your brother.

“Sam’s on his way,” Dean nodded, carefully analyzing Derek.

“What happened to being a team?” he asked you and you gave him a pained look. “Fine, if you’re not back at the loft before nine tomorrow I’m calling Stilinski,” Derek warned.

“I’ll be there, no sweat. I’m not about breaking promises,” you wink before turning to Scott, Stiles, and Lydia. “Listen to Derek, please. And don’t do anything stupid and under no circumstances, and I mean none, will you come out here without Derek or without me, do I make myself clear?” you hiss at the teens.

“That turned very dark very quick,” Stiles nodded.

“No, I’m serious, okay? A wendigo is not a joke and none of you are equipped to deal with one,” you say seriously, they offer you a couple of nods in reluctant agreement.

You sigh, “thank you,” you tell them and suddenly the three of them are charging at you, they give you a tight hug and you smile as you squeeze them back. They take a step back and you smile at them one more time. Derek reached out and you squeezed his hand tight before moving towards Dean.

“You even remember how to hunt? Two years is a long time?” Dean sniffed, his earlier enthusiasm seemed to have ebbed away to pain, the pain of you leaving, and pain at everything that’s coming to light before him now.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Dean. I’m still very capable of hunting, family business after all,” you muse, and the headlights from another car reach your vision.

“What were you doing with a werewolf? With any of them, for that matter...” Dean asked as Sam arrived.

“That’s not important,” You shake your head a small smile on your lips as your younger brother steps out of the car he had no doubt “borrowed”.

“(Y/n),” Sam let out a breath and pulled you into a hug.

“Hey Sammy, it’s been a while,” you chuckle into his chest.

“No kidding,” he laughed back.

“How are you doing, little brother?” you smiled.

You didn’t miss the way Sam’s eyes darted to Dean and then to the ground before settling on you, “Busy,” he answered and you decided you’d pull that string later on.

---

When you finally arrived back at the loft the sun was starting to rise over the horizon and it was with a foul mood. The three of you had managed to kill a wendigo but it was just your luck that there was another one out there.

“Where are we?” Dean asked, eyeing the building.

“Somewhere safe,” you tell them, fishing your keys from your pocket.

“Hale? Scotty? Stiles?” you shouted as you pulled the large metal door open.

You spotted Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Malia and Kira all passed out on the couch and the floor beside it, the sound of feet on the stairs drew your attention from the sleeping teens.

“They passed out around three AM this morning,” Derek told you and you knew, from the look in his eyes that what he really meant was that he was glad to see you.

“They’re gonna complain when I send them home in a few hours,” you shake your head. “Did you tell Melissa that they’re here?”

“Yeah, and she told the rest of their parents,” Derek nodded, and then his eyes narrowed on you. “You’re bleeding.”

It was a statement and you laughed dryly pulling the door back shut, your brothers behind you. You peeled your bloody jacket off and revealed the growing red spot on your side from where the wendigo had grazed you.

“How could you tell that it was my blood?” you asked, moving towards the kitchen with a slight limp and painful groan.

“I’ve gotten your scent down over the years, I’m sure Scott has too,” Derek shook his head, grabbing the first aid kit and throwing a pillow at the sleeping teens.

You slumped against the kitchen counter and pulled off your ruined t-shirt, allowing Derek to get a better look at your side. Dean and Sam had moved closer, carefully watching Derek and you.

“You in pain?” Derek asked as all the teens slowly stumbled over to the four of you in the kitchen, Derek grabbed you by your hips and lifted you up on the counter apologizing when you groaned.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you smirk and Derek meets your eyes, he’s close now, a few inches away and he’s smirking back at you.

You heard Dean clear his throat and you rolled your eyes before looking up to your brothers.

“Right, everybody, these are my brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester,” You introduce, and one of your hands comes up to Derek’s shoulder to help steady yourself. “Dean and Sam are hunters, just like I used to be, they’re here for the wendigos that have been killing everyone.”

“Hunters? Wendigo? Yesterday you said it was an Omega, you remember that? You know before you sent us home!” Stiles butt in.

“I was...wrong,” you pull a face while saying the word.

“No, you weren't. You knew,” Scott realized. “You knew but you didn't say anything.”

“Secretive as always, little sis,” Dean chuckled dryly.

“You want to talk secrets?” you press with a glare, warning him not to go any further. “And I didn’t know, not really, I had a hunch…”

“She’s pulling out the mom glare,” you heard Kira whisper, and your head turned to her in a warning.

“Okay, this is going to hurt,” Derek interrupted, holding a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Scott moved forwards to grab your hand, the black veins appearing instantly. But you oulled back with a warning glace. He huffed but nodded and you send the boy a soft smile in relief and then a nod to Derek. Derek helped you lay back on the counter and he turned to Malia, “Hold her shoulders,” he told her and the new addition moved to do so.

Derek turned the bottle over and began pouring the liquid along the gash and then dabbing and wiping at it with the gauze he had. You squeezed Scott’s hand a little harder as he did so and let out a strangled groan.

Derek helps you sit up before wrapping a bandage around your middle. Letting his hand linger on the skin. Black veins appearing as he leeched the pain from your body.

You swayed for a second. relief hitting you, on hand dropping to Dereks shoulder to hold tight until you tapped him to stop. The veins ebbed away and you took a few deep breaths before letting your eyes flutter open.

When you were done Stiles came over, his face pulled in an expression of disgust holding a glass of whiskey for you.

“Thanks, kid,” you laugh, taking the glass.

“Brothers of mine, meet Derek Hale, Malia Tate, Stiles Stilinski, Kira Yukimura, Lydia Martin, and Scott McCall,” you finished the introduction.

“Better?” Derek's question is soft in your ear.

You offer him a half smile, "Yeah,” you nod, forehead resting against his forehead a second.

“It's... uh... nice to meet you all,” Sam forced out with a tight smile that you saw straight through.

“Yeah, can we talk to you?” Dean asked, looking you straight in the eyes. His voice had that ‘it’s not really up for discussion’ tone to it.

“Sure,” you mutter, jumping down from the counter with some help from Derek. You gave a small wince before walking over to Dean.

“This is where you’ve been?” Dean asked, his tone was accusing.

“Yes,” you nodded.

“The entire last two years, you’ve been here?” Dean repeated.

“Yes.”

“I think what Dean’s trying to say is that you should’ve sent us a message, to let us know where you were,” Sam cut in as Dean glared at you.

“No,” you shook your head.

“No? No? Are you insane, we had a right to know! You took off in the middle of the night-” Dean hissed.

“No. Because if I told you where I was, you guys would view it with your hunter’s brains,” you tell them seriously.

“What? like your little teen wolf over there? Huh? The one who tackled me last night,” Dean pointed and you knew Scott, Derek, and Malia were listening in.

“Yeah, Scott’s a werewolf, and the only reason he tackled you, was to protect me, or did you forget there was a gun in your hand?” you shoot back at Dean.

“You held a gun at her?!” Sam’s hissed whisper is directed at Dean and he rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t know it was her,” he defended.

“I-,” Sam pauses, shakes his head, looks over his shoulder and then back to you, “the one who patched you up, he’s one too, isn’t he?” Sam asked, brows dipping.

Before you could answer Dean cut in, his voice taking on a meaner tone, “Of course he is, talking about smelling blood, knowing your scent. But did you see the way he was looking at her, the way he touched her while patching her up?” Dean pressed and you shifted under your older brother’s glare. “What’s the matter little sis, you screwing the big bad werewolf?” Dean bit and you met his glare head-on.

“Shut up, Dean,” you warned.

“What? You’re some alpha werewolf’s bitch now?” Dean pressed.

“Dean-” Sam attempted to interrupt but got cut off when you shoved Dean.

“You have no clue of what’s going on here, so don’t act like you do,” your tone was low because you were on edge, finger pointing at him.

“Or what? Huh? You’re going to sick your puppies on me? Reality check (y/n) they’re monsters. We hunt monsters, remember? Saving people, hunting things, the family business!” Dean was leaning closer now and when he smacked your hand away it set off a chain of reactions.

A growl could be heard from off to the side and so your head, as well as your brothers, snapped over there, you had been expecting it to be Malia as she still had the least amount of control but it was Scott, his red eyes glowing brightly for the boys to see.

“What the hell?” Sam asked rhetorically, his voice just audible as a whisper.

“Dammit Scott. Hey, it’s okay. Alright? They...they’re not a threat to me,” you hold your hands up as you begin to walk closer to Scott.

“(Y/n)!” Dean called trying to grab you but you side-stepped him.

Derek was squaring up and Malia was looking between you and Scott and then to Sam and Dean before she frowns at Sam and Dean. Stiles seems to pick up on that too because he moves closer to his girlfriend, with a nod at you.

Scott let out another growl as you reached arm distance, “Hey!” you shout at him drawing his attention away from your brothers. “Take a breath, and pull it together, Scott,” you tell the boy, using the tone that Lydia had dubbed the mom tone.

Scott’s eyes immediately flicked back to brown and his shoulder sag a little as he looks up at you with a nervous look, like a puppy who knows they messed up.

You took a deep breath in and put a hand on his cheek moving your thumb in a soothing manner, “it’s okay, we’re okay,” you remind the boy.

“I’m sorry, I..I don’t…” Scott trailed and you knew he felt bad.

“He’s been struggling since, well… you know…,” Stiles jumped in and you offered the boys a sad smile, you did know.

You should’ve realized this was going to be a lot tougher for him now, now that he doesn’t have Allison. Now that none of you do. You look at Scott and you realize you don’t want the next victim to be one of these kids or someone else that they care about.

“It’s okay, I know they seem intense,” you nodded smiling at Scott. It was so easy to forget that the pack was made up of teens, kids. “But you don’t need to worry about me, I can lay them both out quicker than you’d think,” you wink, attempting to lighten the mood.

“(Y/n)!” Dean shouted again.

“Dean, I’m going to go pack a bag, and we’re gonna go get the last wendigo, today,” you tell your older brother, but your eyes stayed on Scott, making sure the teen was okay.

“I wasn’t done,” Dean huffed.

“Dude!” Sam interjected.

“No, that’s fine. But you’re gonna shut the hell up until we’re in the Impala,” you decide, finally looking at your brothers. “I’ll be right back,” your voice is tight as you excuse yourself before walking up the stairs.

You had just grabbed the duffle when Derek appeared in the doorway, “put the bag away, you’re not going anywhere,” Derek argued.

“I have to Derek,” you tell him.

“Why? Because your brothers said so? That’s a shitty reason,” Derek shot back.

“I’m going for you! And those kids downstairs! Our kids, Derek. Because you know that’s basically what they are, I’ve already watched three of them move away, I’ve watched four of them die! I’m not going to lose another one. I can’t handle that, but this, this is a wendigo, that’s my wheelhouse, and you know it!” you argued.

Derek’s eyes softened as he placed one hand on your shoulder, “Allison wasn’t your fault,” he said softly as he pulled you into a hug and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Your eyes shut as you took a deep breath, fist clenching in the soft material of Derek’s shirt, letting him take your weight for a moment, “she took that blade for me,” you whispered, “it will always be my fault.”

Derek held you for a moment longer, finally understanding why you had to do this, why you were willing to put up with your brother's bullshit. And then he helped you grab the weapons you had locked away in a safe in one of the cabinets.

When you came back down the stairs Scott was looking at you, brows furrowed and lips turned down, “she wasn’t your fault,” he said softly and your face fell from the tight-lipped smile it had been in.

“We don’t blame you,” Lydia added and you shut your eyes for a second to take a breath in.

“You don’t have to, I blame myself,” you tell them honestly. “And I thought I told you guys to stop eavesdropping on Derek’s and my conversations,” you remind them.

“Don’t go,” Stiles cut in. “Whatever is going on, we can handle it.”

“Look, kid, whatever you think you can handle I promise this is something you can’t,” Dean’s gruff voice spoke and you sighed because you knew these kids could handle it, you just didn’t want them too.

“Yeah old man? I think we can handle a lot more than you think,” Stiles argued.

“Who are you calling old man, kid?” Dean stepped forwards putting an emphasis on the word kid.

“Wow, you must be in some serious denial,” Stiles scoffed.

Dean opened his mouth to say something else but you cut him off.

“Alright!” you interrupted. “Stiles I know you can handle it. I do, but you guys deserve a break, okay? You have school tomorrow, so just make sure you guys are ready for that,” you ask.

“You’re benching us?” Kira asked, her hands playing with the ends of her long hair.

“Yeah, this time I am,” you nod.

“Are you benching Derek too? Because if Derek’s going, we’re going,” Malia stated flatly.

“Derek’s being benched too,” you sighed.

“Call us, when you’re done?” Scott asked, knowing that this wasn’t a winnable argument.

“Yeah, of course,” you nodded.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles shouted. “This is bullshit! We’re just supposed to let (y/n) leave with those two assholes who look like they want to kill all of us?”

“Watch it, punk. We’re her brothers,” Dean glared.

“Some brothers, you haven’t even tried to look for her in over two years!” Stiles shot back and you gaped at Stiles, maybe he had searched into your family history a bit.

“Stiles-” your tone was warning but he was glaring at Sam and Dean.

“No, they want to complain about (y/n) coming here, but these guys, the great Winchesters, they’re supposed to be some of the best hunters out there, and somehow they couldn’t find (y/n) when she wasn’t even attempting to hide!

“That’s enough!” you slammed your hand down drawing everyone’s attention.

Lydia took a step back and pulled Kira with her. Malia’s frown deepened. Stiles’ eyes went wide as head whipped to you, his mouth parted open. Sam and Dean both had shocked expressions on their face and you understood why. You weren’t as aggressive or loud the last time you had seen them. Scott was calculating everyone in the room but his eyes were trained on Derek. Derek was stone-cold now, a deep glare aimed at Dean but everyone who saw it shrunk away.

“Lydia, would you please take Malia and Kira home, unless you’ve got something to share with the class?” you hint at her.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she sighed, pulling out her keys. “We’ll see you later,” she says it firmly and you take the reassurance as it comes.

You nod and she grabs the other two girls and walks out, shushing Malia as she goes.

“Scott, you too, go home,” you tell him.

Scott looks between you, your brothers, and Derek, “(Y/n)…” his tone is uneasy.

“Go home, do your homework, I’ll help you with the SAT prep stuff later this week,” you decide, you’ve dedicated yourself to trying to keep things normal, to reassure them, that this is just a bump in the road.

“Yeah,” he nods and slowly starts to leave, but not without casting another look over his shoulder. “You should know, she might be your sister, but she’s a part of our pack, and we’ve faced a lot worse than you. We protect pack,” he adds, it’s a low warning but it’s a threat you weren’t fully anticipating.

You catch the upward twitch of Derek’s lip as he smirks in approval. Scott only waits another second before walking out.

“Derek,” you turn to face your best friend and boyfriend, “I will see you when I get home,” you say softly with a small smile. “And you, smartass,” you turned back to Stiles, “You’re coming with us, it’s time to talk to the Sheriff.”

“No, I’m not letting some sarcastic punk in my car, no way!” Dean shook his head and you rolled your eyes.

“Fine. Stiles, if Dean won’t drive we can take the Camaro,” you decide.

“Dean,” Sam said seriously. You knew why, Sam wanted you all together so he could play mediator, just like he always had.

“No,” Dean stayed stubborn and you scoffed at him, before glancing over to Derek.

“Not a scratch,” he said reaching into his pocket to hand you the keys.

You walked up to grab the keys, but he held them tight looking into your eyes. “Your car’s gonna be fine,” you tell him.

“Wasn’t talking about the car,” he said seriously, and you can feel the heat in your cheeks. “You, don’t wanna see you get hurt, again,” his voice was soft so only you could hear, though when you were with werewolves you were never really sure when they were listening or not.

“I can’t promise that,” you remind him, not wanting to lie. “But I’ll do my very best.”

He nods releasing the keys, you notice the way his eyes dip to your lips but then flicker back to your brothers. You shake your head slightly, not really bothered to know what they think. Grabbing his soft green v-neck you pull him close for a quick peck and a soft smile. He gives one back to you and you turn around, walking to the door, Stiles right behind you, silent as a mouse.

You waited until you were in the Camaro before speaking again, “When did you figure it out?”

“Scott and I have known since the second month after you arrived,” Stiles admitted. “You may have noticed I don’t tend to trust new people easily,” he huffs.

Your lips quirk at that, understatement.

“You never said anything,” you note, biting your lip to keep from laughing at him.

“We told Derek and Mr. Argent, asked them some questions, but they already knew. We trusted them, at least, on this we did, and over time we learned we could trust you too. Scott always figured you’d tell us when you were ready,” he explained.

“And the rest?” you inquired, starting the car.

“Lydia, Isaac, and Allison were the only ones, and well…” he trailed and you sniffed, pulling out of the garage and then out onto the main road.

“What about your dad?” you asked as you began navigating toward the sheriff’s station.

“He knows that there’s stuff from your past that you haven’t shared, pretty sure he thinks you were a hunter, and what about your brothers?” he shoots back.

“Black Chevy ‘67 Impala,” you nod towards your rearview window.

“They’ve been following us,” Stiles realizes.

“Yeah,” you agree stiffly.

“They’re jerks, you know, or at least the shorter one is, not that either of them is short, I mean they’re both massive, are you sure they’re human?” Stiles rambled and a small smile quirked to your lips.

“Yes, they’re human, I mean, last I checked they were, and as for the jerk part, Sam, the taller one, is usually very sweet and Dean is usually very abrasive, so…” you trail hitting the signal before turning into the sheriff’s parking lot.

You park and wait outside the Camaro for your brothers and you know that Stiles has more questions but you nod ahead, telling him to grab his dad and he disappears inside.

“Sheriff’s station?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, Sheriff Stilinski happens to be more aware of what happens in this town than it’s everyday citizens,” you hint.

“And why’d you bring the smartass?” Dean questions.

“Because he’s the sheriff’s son,” you lament with a lazy smirk and Dean’s face scrunches in annoyance. “What are you guys doing here?” you press

“Told you, the wendigos,” Dean argues.

“Bullshit, this town has a very deep supernatural history, two wendigos with a fresh and minor body count should’ve flown under your radar considering everything else here that has. So cut the shit, what are you doing here?” you argue.

Sam sighs and pulls something from the inside pocket of his fed jacket, a newspaper article. There in print is your face, it’s not the focus but the article had been on the three freak ambushes that hit beacon a couple of months ago, you knew it to be courtesy of the nogitsune. That’s why they had come, because they had finally found you.

“This was months ago, why are you here now?” you huff, shoving the paper back to Sam.

“We didn’t see it until about a week ago, a hunter buddy recognized you and sent it to us,” Sam explained. “We were worried.”

“Yeah well, your worry is overdue and unnecessary. I can handle the wendigo, really, because as much as I came here to get away from hunting, I’m constantly kept on my toes in this town. You guys can go, move on to the next town, that’s what hunters do, right?”

“What happened to you?” Dean finally spoke up and he started staring hard at you.

“Me? Nothing,” you negate.

“Now who’s bullshitting?” he pressed.

“Fine!” you amend. “You’re right, I’m different Dean because I’ve grown up. More than dad ever made me. More than Bobby did. I’m a different person, a better person. I have a real job here in town, I have a place to call home, people who love me-”

“They are not people!” Dean interrupted and you sniffed and stepped back as the crushing reality reminded you that your brother would never be able to shake your father’s mind control, even now years after the man had passed.

“Maybe not to you, Dean, definitely not to dad, but I’d argue they’re more human than we are, because those kids? They still have their entire souls, which is more than can be said about us, right big brother? It’s not like they’ve had demons tear up their souls, cut into them, manipulate them. No, last I checked, that’s just us.”

Dean goes quiet, expression sour as he stares at you. Sam’s hovering eyes darting between you both as if he’s not sure what it is exactly that he wants to say, but is forced to listen. “They are a pack, my pack, and I’m really lucky to have them,” you state, forcing your tone to be level, as you stare at your brothers.

“Do you need another minute, or….” Stiles had come back and was hesitant in approaching us.

“Nah,” you shook your head and smiled at the older man, “Hey, Sheriff. These are my brothers Sam and Dean. They’re hunters,” you explain.

“Like Argent?” Sheriff checks.

“Yeah, and also like Argent, my family have been hunters for a long time,” you inform the sheriff.

“That… explains a lot,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, we just wanted to let you know that there’s a rogue wendigo in Beacon, which is strange because historically Beacon is werewolf territory and they are not west coast creatures. Sam and Dean are here to help get rid of it, thought we’d give you the heads up,” you smiled.

“I appreciate that, (Y/n), I’ll let Parrish know too. Stay safe, alright?” he requested resting a hand on your shoulder with a heavy pat. “Call if you need any backup.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree.

“And, uh, keep this one out of trouble if you can?” he refers to his son.

“It’d be my pleasure,” you smile at the man.

“Thanks (y/n),” he offers you one more smile before patting his son on the back and walking back into the station.

“Let’s go, Stiles,” you decide and move to open the car door.

“(Y/n) we weren’t done,” Dean scoffed.

“I was,” you state flatly. “Out of everything I’ve learned Dean, hunting, and living here, I’m not going to waste my time, not when it’s so insecure. So if you wanna yell at me, tough shit big brother. I don’t feel like being yelled at for something you don’t understand. And you can pull the big brother card if you want, but you’re not dad and thank fuckin’ god, because that man fucked us up more than we can ever truly repair,” you state before getting in the Camaro.

Stiles doesn’t say anything when you drop him back off at the loft. When the Impala pulls up right after you, Stiles pauses.

“Get in, (y/n),” Dean states, and you quirk and eyebrow. “We’re gonna take care of that wendigo problem,” he says cooly, and you nod. You grab your gear bag and toss the Camaro keys to Stiles.

“Tell Derek, and if I’m not back in 24 hours then you can get the pack on it, okay?” you tell the boy as he looks at the keys and then at you.

“He’s going to be so pissed,” Stiles reminds you and you smirk.

“I like it when he’s pissed, it’s hot,” you muse and Stiles snorts. “I’ll be okay Stiles, I’ve dealt with wendigos before, and I’m trained a lot better than you think,” you assure the boy.

He nods and heads inside and you slip into the back of the impala, “How very deja vu this is,” you joke as you settle against the seat.

“Oh, she’s got jokes too, what a night we’re in for,” Dean states sarcastically.

“I’m sorry did I hurt your feelings, Dean?” you shoot back.

He lets out a heavy sigh but says nothing and you catch the way Sam looks at him and then at you and you shrug your shoulders in nonchalance.

“We missed you,” Sam stated carefully and your gaze moved to the window.

“You think I didn’t?” you ask. “Do you seriously believe that there wasn’t a single day that passed that I didn’t miss my brothers? Because I did. I just couldn’t go back, I still can’t. Not to that life, living out of this stupid car with no real ties or relationships. I needed a real life.”

“You could’ve told us that, you know? When you left, you should’ve told us that you weren’t gonna come back. Instead of pulling a disappearing act and leaving a shitty letter,” Dean huffed.

“Oh yeah? You would have just let me leave?” you press.

“Well-” Dean began and you cut him off.

“Exactly, this was the only option.”

“Things are different now,” Sam says wisely.

“No, Sam, things are the same. We’re different now,” you correct and he nods in concession.

“Why, here?” Dean asked, suddenly.

“Dad worked a case here, once, when I was in middle school,” you recalled and Dean nodded. “After school one day Dad sent me to go get you and to go get some information, you got preoccupied with a girl so I went alone. I met Derek…”

“Holy shit, Derek was the kid!” Dean shouted.

“What?” Sam asked, and you blushed.

“When I finally caught up with (y/n), she was walking out of a diner with some kid her age. They were adorably awkward as they said goodbye,” he mused and you rolled your eyes.

“The case was long, we were in beacon hills for almost 3 weeks,” you continued. “Derek and I became friends, on the last day we exchanged… contact info,” you trailed.

“Wait, three weeks, and a guy?” Sam back-peddled. “Did he play basketball?”

“How could you even know that?” you pressed.

“Because I saw some guy with a basketball kiss you, and it was the same guy I’d seen you with for a while.

“You kissed him!” Dean turned to look at you.

“Focus on the road!” you argued.

“Wait, you’ve kept in touch all these years?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, when I initially left I had no clue where to go and so I found myself on a bus to California and then eventually here, to Beacon Hills. It’s been… nice…” you admit.

“You look a lot….. better,” Sam added.

“Sam when I left I was a borderline alcoholic who barely slept, I looked like shit, all the time,” you reminded him.

Dean parks the car back at the preserves, a more secluded area that you had found last night. The three of you jumped out of the impala and you watched as the boys went to the trunk, they lifted the bottom and started gearing up.

“We should probably grab a badge,” Sam decided as he closed the trunk.

“I think I got that part covered,” you muse and your brothers turned back to you with confused looks. “I’m a deputy with the sheriff’s department,” you added, showing them your badge.

“Like, actually?” Dean questioned coming up to look at the badge clipped to your pants.

“Yeah, I get a paycheck and everything,” you smirk.

“That’s cool…. I guess…” he sniffed stepping back.

“You’re jealous,” you laugh, dropping the shirt back over the badge.

“Whatever,” he huffed, turning towards the preserves.

“Alright, let’s go gank this thing,” Sam agreed, and you all looked out.

You heaved a deep sigh and then you were all trekking back through the preserves.

---

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

dc taglist: @batarella @loninctzencarat @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here @seamlessepiphany @ye-olde-trash-panda @snake-in-a-flower-crown

Vancouver wasn’t your plan, but the law school acceptance—and the scholarship—had been too good to pass up. You’d told yourself it was practical, that you’d figure out the rest once you got there. How could you say no? seriously, you wished someone had given you an answer.

Now you’re here. You’ve moved in, unpacked, and settled. Classes don’t start for another two weeks, and you desperately need to meet someone before you talk yourself into dropping out of social existence entirely.

Thing is, you’re a social person. Really. It’s just the initial hump of making a new friend that always gets you.

It could be some bullshit unresolved trauma from when you were little and had a bully. Or it could be because you’d gotten used to your friends and your life from before you moved. Change could be good, but it was never easy.

So now you were standing outside of a bar. It’s got the lights, the bumping music, and according to Reddit and Google, was popular. Exactly where twenty-somethings go to make friends on Friday nights, that was universal, and if you could make a friend you’d be set. Just someone to ease you into Vancouver.

“You can do this,” you tell yourself softly. “you can totally do this.”

Unfortunately, your pep talk has become both necessary and audible. You start pacing a little, shaking your hands out and mumbling to yourself that you could totally go in and do this. And in the process of trying to mentally hype yourself up, you failed to realize you’d drawn in an audience.

...

Across the street, three guys lean casually against the brick wall outside another bar.

“What do you think she’s doing?” Beau asks, the trace of a grin curling through his accent.

“Who?” Quinn answers, taking a slow breath of the crisp night air.

“Her,” Beau nods toward you.

Quinn follows his gaze. You’re pacing, gesturing, lips moving to words he can’t hear. Pretty, he thinks absently—though that’s not what keeps his eyes there. It’s the endearing way you seem to argue with yourself under the glow of the sign.

“She looks wound up,” Petey says, earning a few nods.

Quinn watches another minute of your antics, “she looks anxious,” he adds. You were flexing your hands and shaking your fingers, Luke did the same thing when he was younger, still does, sometimes.

“An anxious, wound-up woman standing alone in downtown Vancouver,” Petey repeats, grimacing.

“Maybe someone should check if she’s okay,” Quinn says finally.

“Someone should,” Beau agrees—eyes locked on him.

Quinn blinks. “What? Me?”

“You suggested it, Cap,” Petey teases.

Quinn groans but pushes off the wall anyway. “Fine. I’ll make sure she’s fine,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets as he crosses the street.

...

“-Can totally do this,” you repeat for the umpteenth time. though this time you falter. Your eyes catch on one of the bouncers, who looks like he can read every though you’re having, and then gives you a pitying smile. You turn around to avoid looking at him any longer, “maybe I can’t do this,” you decide.

“Can’t do what?”

The voice startles you, hard. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts you forgot you were totally exposed to anyone walking by.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the voice continues, but you’re a little too embarrassed to look over so you keep your eyes on the street and shake your head.

“No, its fine. I probably should pay better attention to my surroundings,” you shake off.

You think that’s the end, but his presence lingers, you can barely make him out in your peripherals— dark hair, longer than you expected, jeans and a t-shirt that somehow work a little too well.

“So… what is it you cant do?” he repeats his question and you sigh.

“I’m attempting to socialize?” you tell him, though your voice lilts a bit on the end like a question.

“Socialize?” he repeats.

god, he probably thinks you’re insane.

“Yeah, you know, socialize. Go out, meet people, that sort of thing.”

“No, I get the theory of it,” he confirms and you swear theres a little amusement in his voice. “Usually, when socializing, there are people to… well-”

He trails as if unsure if he should continue the sentence, but you get where he went.

“Socialize with?” you offer, not in the slightest offended, he’s not wrong.

“Yeah…”

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“So?”

“Which is why you’re socializing alone.”

“It’s why I came out alone with the hopes of socializing,” you correct.

“Totally different,” he deadpans.

“Of course.”

A beat passes before he asks, “How is it different?”

You smile despite yourself, “Socializing alone sounds like you sit and talk to yourself. Going out alone with the hopes of socializing means you start alone—but make friends along the way.”

He tilts his head, conceding, “Okay, I see your point.”

“Thank you.”

“But…”

“What?”

“You were definitely standing here talking to yourself.”

Your face scrunches, “Touché. Well played.”

He laughs, quiet and genuine. You finally turn to look at him properly—and then freeze.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

No way. Your cousins aren’t going to believe this.

There’s a memory that niggles at the back of your brain, ‘Did you hear they’re giving the Norris to Hughes! He made Captain this year, and he’s getting the top defensive player award. His ice time is crazy, and I think he’s the first Canuck to ever get the award!’ it had been your cousin, catching you up on the awards announcements just a few seasons back. And now you were face to face with that particular topic of conversation.

“So what brought you over here?” you manage, praying your face doesn’t give you away as you clear your throat.

“Well,” he says, tone casual, “you were standing alone, seemed a little anxious, and you were talking to yourself. I guess I was a concerned citizen.”

You decide right then, that you wish he weren’t funny, because it’s not fair to be funny, handsome, and talented. It just wasn’t, and God was clearly playing favorites.

“So you thought, her, I wanna talk to the borderline crazy girl outside the bar?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replies easily.

“Bold move.”

He grins, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You said you just moved here?”

“Yeah.”

“Where from?”

“California.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful, like that explains something about you—the way you talk, maybe, or the sunshine still clinging to your voice.

“Work?” he asks.

“School.”

That earns you a longer look, a faint squint like he’s trying to place what kind of school you mean. You crack first, smiling. “Law school,” you clarify, watching him relax at that.

“So you’re not eighteen?” His tone teases.

You laugh. “No. I didn’t much care for eighteen when I was in it—with a global pandemic and all. Very happy to have left that behind.”

“So, twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four,” you correct, mock-prim. “But you know you’re not really supposed to ask a lady her age.”

He chuckles. “I apologize.”

“Accepted.”

You shake out your hands again, realizing too late that he’s watching, his gaze dropping to the small fidget before meeting your eyes again.

“So what was your plan for solo socializing, exactly?” he asks.

You breathe out a laugh. “Go out and make friends. Pretty simple.”

“But you’re still here.”

“Well, I got out of the apartment. And I got to the bar. But this is the tricky part.”

“Going in?”

“Going in,” you confirm. “Once I’m in, it’ll be fine.”

He raises a skeptical brow. “You sure?”

“Oh, yeah. It only takes a few minutes to become best friends with other drunk women your age.”

“Really?”

“For me, yes. For you, no.”

“Because I’m a man?”

“Because you’re a man,” you say matter-of-factly, the smile creeping back onto your face.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that softens his whole expression. You think it’s unfair—how gentle he seems for someone who could flatten a guy twice his size on the ice.

“So how does it work for you?” he asks, playing along.

“Well, you find a group of girls, you say hello, ask to dance, and they envelop you in. Three songs or a shot later, you’re exchanging Instagrams and phone numbers, and by the first bathroom trip it’s life stories.”

He gives a low whistle. “You seem pretty confident in that.”

“I am.”

“But you can’t go in.”

“It’s not that I can’t.”

“No?”

“No. I just… haven’t built up to that yet.”

“Nerves?”

“A little, yeah.”

“I think I’d have nerves if I was socializing alone.”

You make a face at that, nose scrunching automatically, “I really don’t like how that sounds.”

He laughs, and the sound seems to warm the night air around you.

“So… law school,” he says after a beat. “You wanna be a lawyer?”

“Yep.”

“That’s quite the career path.”

“It’s definitely a path,” you muse.

The conversation settles again, comfortable in its quiet. You cross your arms, uncross them, then glance back at the club’s glowing sign.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “most people would return the question.”

“Sorry?” you ask, turning back to him.

“Most people would ask about the other person—career, life, something.”

Something in his voice is teasing, but his eyes are curious. You hesitate, guilt tugging at your mouth, and he seems to realize what you weren’t saying.

“You didn’t ask because you know,” he says softly.

You shrug, caught.

“You didn’t say anything,” he adds.

“You didn’t either.”

“But you know who I am.”

He winces slightly at his own phrasing, like he hates how it sounds.

“I come from a really big hockey family,” you admit, hoping that makes it better.

“From California?” he asks, incredulous.

“Hey! California has three separate NHL organizations,” you defend.

He laughs, “you’re right. My mistake.”

“You’re forgiven,” you say, smirking. “The Canadian citizenship must be infecting you.”

“Hey, I’m all American. I was born in Florida.”

You stop, “seriously?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder you skate the way you do. Florida’s got something weird in their water.”

He squints, fighting a grin, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

The smirk you give him is enough to make him laugh outright this time.

“How you feeling about your objective for tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the club.

“I’m working toward it.”

“Was there a specific goal, as far as socializing goes?”

“Make a friend,” you say simply. “Someone who’d maybe help me learn the city.”

“Solid plan. A local guide is helpful. I guess I lucked out when I moved—I had a whole team.”

“Now you’re just being mean, bragging about your super cool job and built-in friends to socialize with.”

“How dare I.”

“How dare indeed,” you echo, and the shared grin that follows feels startlingly easy.

“My cousins are going to lose it when I tell them I met the Quinn Hughes during my first month up here,” you say, shaking your head.

“What would they do if you told them he was your first friend?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’d be called a liar.”

“I don’t know,” he says lightly. “You came out to socialize and make a friend. I think you did that.”

“Did I?”

“Oh yeah,” he muses, smirk overtaking his features, “you reeled me in with the anxiety and talking to yourself.”

You snort. “Well, I have been told my anxiety can be stress-inducing. It’s got quite the pull.”

He laughs, startled, then blushes faintly when he catches the double meaning. He’s still smiling when he asks, “What if I said I could show you around the city?”

“I’d say you’re a big-time hockey star who definitely has better things to do.”

“Maybe,” he says, tilting his head, “but maybe it’s what I want to do.”

You blink, thrown off balance again. When you look back, he’s holding out his phone.

“You want my number?” you ask, incredulous.

“I do.”

“I don’t usually give my number out to men I’ve just met.”

“Fair. Probably smart. There’s a lot of weirdos out there.”

“There are,” you agree.

“Yeah—like people who talk to themselves outside of clubs.”

You shake your head, laughing, “Point taken.”

Still, you take his phone, type in your number, and hand it back.

“I don’t have a Canadian number yet,” you warn.

“It’s fine. My family’s all in America—my phone plan covers it.”

You press your lips together, hiding your grin. “Well. You cleared my hurdle, Mr. Hughes.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And now…” You take a deep breath. “Now I’m going to go in, and make another friend.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Have a nice night—”

He stops mid-sentence, blinking like he’s realized something.

“Y/N,” you supply, amused.

His smile softens, “Have a nice night, Y/N.”

You start toward the door, adrenaline buzzing in your chest, but you glance back over your shoulder, “Hey, Quinn?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for socializing,” your voice just a little softer, sweeter.

His eyes crinkle, the corners of his mouth lifting, “My pleasure.”

You’re still smiling when you hand your ID to the bouncer. You’re just about to step through the doors when his voice carries after you.

“You never said if you’re a Canucks fan?”

You laugh, bright and teasing, over your shoulder, “I’m not!”

Then you disappear into the glow of the club.

...

The next morning, your phone lights up with three messages.

One from your brother: how’s Vancouver?

One from a girl named Claire—the one who’d pulled you into her friend group halfway through the night.

And one from a number you don’t have saved:

i guess when i’m playing tour guide i’m just going to have to convince you to go ‘nucks.

...

masterlist

You let out a puff of breath and look over at Javi who was sitting on your left today. Jake was directly in front of you, though he’d turned back a few times during the spiel. You could see the tension in Nat’s arms as she shifted from across the aisle and one row up.

And then Rooster cut in, he was directly across the aisle from you, both of you still tense from how the dogfighting drills the other day had gone.

“That’s because the enemy knows no one is insane enough to try and fly below them,” he huffed, and you knew in that second, that’s exactly what this mission was going to ask.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to train you to do,” you dad says and you scoff slightly to yourself.

“Of course,” you mutter, it’s quiet so no one else hears it, except Javi, who shares another cautious look with you in response, seems like he had the same pit in his gut too.

“On the day, your altitude will be 100 feet, maximum,” your dad informs you are, and there’s a hushed whisper that befalls you all. You see how ‘Nix and Bob turn to each other, and can hear the murmur from Brig and Logan who were in the row behind Rooster. “You exceed this altitude,” your dad continues, and the radar on the screen beeps, “radar will spot you, and you’re dead.”

You watch as the SAMs target the jet in the display and that beeping immediately sets you further on point.

“Your speed will be 600 knots, minimum,” your dad tacks on.

“Shit,” you whisper and Javi nods.

“Shit,” he agrees.

The timer reappears on screen as your dad gives you the last parameter, “time to target will be 2 minutes,” and you almost choke on your breath. “That’s because fifth-generation fighter wait an air base nearby,” your dad supplies as if he could sense your unease with his back turned. “In a head to head with these planes in your F-18s, you’re dead. That’s why you have to get in, hit your target and be gone before these planes even have a chance of catching you.”

The screen changes again, “This makes time your greatest adversary,” your dad repeats and you shake your head, clicking your pen as you start scribbling down thoughts based off the parameters. “You’ll fly a route in your nav system that simulates the canyon. the faster you navigate this canyon, the harder it’ll be to stay under the radar of these enemy SAMs. The tighter the turns, the more intensely the force of gravity on your body multiplies, compressing your lungs, forcing the blood from your brain, impairing your judgement and reaction time,” he explains and your hand subconsciously grips at the edge of the seat in front of you.

You’re vaguely aware of how Jake shifts his arm, so your fingers can brush against him, but you’re more focused on keeping the disbelief and nerves off your outward appearance.

“So, for today’s lesson, we’re going to take it easy on you,” your dad smirks. “Max ceiling: 300 feet. Time to target: three minutes.”

There’s nothing easy about that, you want to say, but you know better, you know that with the time crunch, and with what this mission called for, giving you any breathing room during training was a mercy.

“Good luck,” your dad says finally, and for the first time since starting the briefing today, he meets your eyes directly.

…

You’re anxious as you watch. An itch starting to form as you sit there. Coyote, Bob, and Phoenix were the first group up, and you were all listening on the tarmac. Mav had made it clear, there’d be a debrief at the end of each round. Wanting us all up in the air and able to make it through a round first.

“Time to target is one minute thirty, we are two seconds behind,” Bob’s voice crackled and you sat in your jet, waiting was always the worst, you decide. “Increase to 480 knots,” he instructs.

“We got to move, Coyote,” Phoenix tags on.

“Copy. Increasing speed,” Coyote confirms.

You’ve got the radar on your nav, watching the two jets move through the canyon. So you see as Javi shoots forward just to slow abruptly.

the “Shit!” that comes from Phoenix is proof enough she hadn’t anticipated, and you watch as she avoids crashing into Javi by pulling up, over the ceiling.

“Why are they dead?” your dad had asked, focusing on Javi, who looked too solemn in his seat beside you. “We broke the the 300-foot ceiling, and a SAM took us out,” Phoenix answers. “No,” your dad dismisses, looking back at Coyote. “Why are they dead?” he presses again. “I slowed down, and I didn’t give her a warning,” Javi admits and that uncomfortable itch returns. “It’s my fault,” he adds, and you look at your friend who seems to be overly tense. “Was there a reason you didn’t communicate with your team?” you dad asks. “I was focusing on-” Javi had begun but it’s clearly not what your dad wanted. “One that their family will accept at the funeral,” he asks and you let out a punched sound. It was something you all actively avoided talking about, the idea that in a few weeks one or more of you may not be here anymore, that theres a chance you’d have to attended each other’s funeral services, have to look each other’s family’s in face knowing why their loved one was dead. “None, sir,” Javi says, sitting straighter, and you very subtly bump your shoulder with his in concern, but Javi doesn’t respond, keeping his gaze focused on Maverick. “Why didn’t you anticipate the turn?” Your dad continues, this time focusing on Phoenix. “You were briefed on the terrain.” As Phoenix opens her mouth, searching for the words your dad cuts her off too. “Don’t tell me. Tell it to his family.” You don’t miss the look Nat gives her wizzo in response, despair and guilt all wrapped up together.

…

“Hangman, ease up. The canyon’s getting tighter,” Payback’s request is intersped with heavy breathing.

You were fiddling with your gloves as you listened, still on the ground, while Payback and Fanboy took a run with Hangman. Fritz, Omaha, and Halo hadn’t had any luck in the round before, Fritz had gotten too close too the ceiling and dipped down too far as a result, not yet used to how low the hard deck was paired with the low ceiling.

“Negative, Payback. Increase your speed,” Hangman shoots back and you watch as his jet accelerated, but Ruben and Mickey’s doesn’t.

You have to swallow the lump in your throat. You know how Jake got his callsign, you know why. You just always had such a hard time connecting the two personas that normally appeared as different people. Jake versus Hangman. Part of you was irked, because the stakes were too high to leave your wingman behind, but part of you understood, as guilty as it made you feel. The stakes were too high, not to make it to the target on time too. A prisoner’s dilemma, you decide, I wonder which circle of hell Dante’s got for us now?

“You’re going too fast, man,” Payback shoots back and your thoughts are brought back to the radar.

“Well, no harm in being ahead of schedule,” Hangman shoots back.

You can see the way Nat’s shaking her head from where she, Bob, and Coyote are sat on the tarmac. A tablet with the radar screen in front of them as they watch. Too anxious to sit in the hangar with the rest of us still yet to take our turns. Fritz, Omaha, and Halo were shedding a few layers as they joined them as well.

“Damn it, slow down!” Payback shouts, and you wince at the tone. “I can’t stay on the course!” he admits, and you feel the nerves bubbling again. The speed your dad wanted, the lack of space for mistake, it wasn’t a pretty combination.

“Ah! You’re gonna hit the wall! Watch out! Watch out!” Fanboy’s shouts force you to close your eyes and throw your head back against the seat.

You hear the radar and you don’t have to look to know their run is done.

“What happened?” Maverick asked, and you swallowed. Payback and Fanboy were sitting in the row behind you, and Jake was right in front of you. The tension was heavy. Had been since you all came back. Having to listen to yourselves and watch the radar reconstructions didn’t help. “I flew as fast as I could. Kinda like my ass depended on it,” Jake shrugs. You can see the movement of his shoulders and have to bite your lip before saying something you really shouldn’t. Before asking him why he was being like this? Asking if he’d actually do that during the mission? If he’d risk everyone else’s lives and even the success of the mission to prove he was the best? You didn’t want to know the truth. “And,” Rooster cut in. “You put your team in danger, and your wingman’s dead,” he scoffs. “They couldn’t keep up,” is all Hangman offers in response and even Javi winces at the tone.

…

You got paired with Shadow and Lucky. They were good, strong fliers. You’d never worked with them before this detachment. But Shadow was a damn good flier, able to keep pace, and Lucky seemed to have a sixth sense on him.

You and Shadow communicated pretty well, but you let the nerves catch up to you. The pit in your stomach making you think you had to speed up more.

You did, you were about 100 knots short of the parameter minimum.

“Increase speed to 600 knots,” you finally decide.

“You have to pace yourself, Athena. Go to 550 first,” Lucky advises.

You should have listened.

“No, we’re moving too slow, we’ll miss the window. Increase to 600,” you negate, increasing your speed.

Shadow, to his credit, kept up. But the speed paired with the ever narrowing canyon and a particularly sharp turn put too much pressure on you, a level of Gs you hadn’t prepared for, and you lost control, having to go above the ceiling in an attempt to avoid the wall, a fail.

“Fuck!” the curse is loud, but neither Shadow nor Lucky say anything about it until you’re on the ground.

“I would’ve made the same call,” Shadow offers.

His callsign you’d noticed was more than his ability to keep pace with anyone, but more to do with the fact that he was a man of little words.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” you argue, dismissing the sympathy.

“Athena-” Lucky’s ready to interject.

“No, Shadow would have listened,” you tell them and both men fall quiet, you were right. “I should have listened,” you say next, voice vulnerable, offering an apologetic look to Lucky.

“It’s only the first run, you won’t miss it twice,” is all Lucky says in response, patting your shoulder.

“Why are you dead?” You notice he’s asking you but his eyes are focused past your head. There’s an uncomfortable tension that’s settled over all the Naval Aviators in the room. You know why. Maverick is the teacher, and he’s been asking the same question (which is still giving you phantom hives) but everyone knows he is your dad too. “Why are you dead, (y/-” he cuts himself off, “Lieutenant Mitchell,” he finishes instead, and you can understand his need for some sort of separation. “We were moving too slow, we had to speed up, she made the right call,” Shadow defends and briefly your fathers eyes flicker to the other pilot and Wizzo who were seated in the last row across the aisle. “And yet, she’s dead,” your dad repeats. “That’s the expected result, isn’t it?” you ask. And finally your dad seems to pause, everyone does. “This mission, the parameters. We’re only in phase one and it’s pushing everything we’ve ever been taught. That’s why they chose us. Someone’s not coming home, but you have to make sure we at least meet the objective before that,” you lay it out, everything you’ve put together over the last few days. It’s not fair to press it with your dad, you know that. You’d been able to read him and everything he wasn’t saying, better than anyone else. You knew enough to read between the lines. If he was focusing on why the pilots died, it’s because according to the brass, that was an acceptable outcome. “Why are you dead?” he asks again, his voice gravelly, as he stares at you. It has the same result as when he told Javi to tell Phoenix and Bob’s families, because this is it. How do you explain to your dad why you’re dead? The United States Navy, you want to say. It’s not a patriotic thought at all, and you have to swallow it down, you chose the Navy. “I was too worried about making the time, and I ignored the advice of my Wingmen,” you admit, you hear the choked sound Javi makes from beside you. Admitting your faults today had been a quiet task, but you were willing to put it out there, you had to put it out there. “It won’t happen again,” you add for good measure, and you make eye contact with Lucky and Shadow as you say it, both of them offering you a nod in solidarity.

…

Hearing Harvard and Yale get paired up with anyone but you always left you put out. You knew you worked well with them. Nine times out of ten if was guaranteed results. Hearing Harvard and Yale get paired with Rooster made you exceedingly nervous. Your fidgeting had gotten worse as you sat and watched their run. This was the last pair though, the last group in this first round, none of you had been successful in even completing the run, let alone making it to the target on time. There was an underlying level of tension to the entire flight, and then they started shouting. You were now sat on the ground with everyone else, your head laying on Phoenix’s thigh as you listened, and stared at the sky, imagining the route and the fliers in the air.

“Rooster, we’re 20 seconds behind and dropping!” Harvard shouted.

“We’re fine. Speed is good,” Rooster negated.

“Increase to 500 knots!” Yale argues.

Rooster is as dismissive as before, “Negative, Yale. Hold your speed.”

“Rooster, we’re late!” Yale argues, tone edging with something more aggressive.

“We’re alive. We’ll make up time in the straightaway,” Rooster says, but looking at the radar, the timer, and the route you knew they wouldn’t.

“We are not gonna make it,” Harvard disagrees, voicing your thoughts.

“Just trust me!” Rooster shouts, and you wince. They wouldn’t, not fully at least, and it was entirely out of loyalty to you, not that you’d ever asked that of them, but they stood firm with it regardless. “Maintain your speed. We can make it.”

…

They didn’t make it, at least not on time.

The longer you sat in the seats the more the phantom itch persisted. It was growing unbearable at this point, and then your knee started bouncing. A nervous tick you normally worked hard to keep at bay, and based off of Javi’s side eye he noticed it.

Watching the growing tension between your dad and Rooster was only adding to your nerves.

Worse, even, was the question, why are you dead?

“Why are you dead?” the question was definitely starting to give you hives, the more you heard it. “You’re team leader up there. Why are you, why is your team, dead?” Maverick’s pushing, you can see the war in both of their eyes, and your knee keeps bouncing in response to your nervous energy.

“Sir, he’s the only one who made it to the target,” Phoenix defends, and Javi places a hand on your knee to stop it, giving you a careful look as his gaze jumps from you and then back to the mess unfolding before you.

“A minute late,” your dad sighs. “He gave enemy aircraft time to shoot him down. He is dead.”

Your eye twitches at the idea of Bradley dead.

“You don’t know that,” Bradley argues.

“You’re not flying fast enough!” Jake cuts in, and you want to interject, you want to tell him to please keep your mouth shut. “You don’t have a second to waste,” Jake adds.

“We made it to the target,” Rooster argues.

“And superior enemy aircraft intercepted you on your way out,” your dad and Rooster are locked on each other now, arguing, it was just like the dogfight, but at least this time they both had their feet on the ground.

“Then it’s a dogfight,” Rooster decides with a level of seeming unflappability that you had not been expecting nor had you been prepared for.

“Against fifth-generation fighters?” your dad’s tone is incredulous.

“Yeah!” Bradley doubles down and you balk. “We’d still have a chance!”

No, we wouldn’t, you can’t help but think.

“In an F-18?” your dad presses, but you know Bradley won’t backtrack now, they were both too stubborn, too hurt, to give the other enough grace.

“It’s not the plane, Sir, it’s the pilot,” Bradley shoots back and you wince, fingers gripping back to Jakes seat, fingers pressing into the fabric, and curling, one pinching the material on the arm of Jake’s flight suit as well.

“Exactly!” Mav confirms and a silence falls, the hurt in Bradley’s eyes is unmistakeable. And you feel like you’re fifteen all over again, like you’re standing in the rain, trying to talk to him, trying to bring him home as he finally breaks and tells you what your dad had done.

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission,” Rooster argues, resolute, his tone quiet once again.

“You really don’t get it,” Jake drawls and you let go of his seat in an instant, knowing whatever was about to follow was going to make it all worse. “A man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come home,” he states clearly, voice level, and tone low, a slight southern drawl as he turns to look over his shoulder at Bradley. “No offense intended,” he adds, winking at Phoenix, and your stomach turns.

She discreetly flips him the bird, adjusting her hair, while Bob speaks up in her defense, “yet somehow, you always manage,” he states flatly.

“Look, I don’t mean to criticize,” Hangman shrugs, and your eye twitches again, because yes, yes he did mean to criticize. “You’re conservative, that’s all.”

“Lieutenant-” Maverick’s voice holds a warning, but it’s weak, and you realize he’s just as helpless to watch the fallout as everyone else.

“We’re going into combat, son, on a level that no pilot’s ever seen, not even him. That’s no time to be thinking about the past,” Hangman continues, and your gaze flickers to your dad and watch the slight flinch he lets slip.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rooster’s tone is equally testy and your knee is bouncing again, this time, Javi doesn’t say or do anything.

“Rooster-” Maverick’s voice is soft in comparison, as he makes another weak move at diffusing the situation.

“I can’t be the only one who knows that Maverick flew with his old man,” Hangman says, and your whole body shifts, breath catching in your throat.

“That’s enough,” Maverick interjects, a bit more firm, and your eyes couldn’t decide where to focus, jumping between the three.

“Or that Maverick was flying-”

“Lieutenant that’s enough.”

“When his old man-”

You hear it as the seats shift, Rooster’s out of his, and Jake follows suit.

Your dad is shouting again, “That’s enough!” but no one is listening.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Bradley shouts and it kicks your body into gear.

Jake’s got this stupid show smirk on his face, and it all happens in slow motion as your surge forward, Coyote behind you. Javi reaching for Jake while you step in front of Bradley.

This is a moment, you realize, one that will haunt your dreams tonight, one that you’ll be thinking of in the back of your head in every interaction with Jake and Bradley going forward. You know it is, because Jake knows there’s a history between you and Brad, and you realize that he probably thinks that maybe what he’s now learned about Rooster’s dad plays a role, and you realize you should have said something, because if he was willing to get testy in a bar for you, you should have realized he’d take it as far as he deemed necessary as well.

Jake to his credit is wearing that smirk as you hold a hand up to Rooster, who’s body freezes at the sight of you.

What Jake was not anticipating was the look of utter betrayal in your eyes. You catch the slight slip in his facade as he notices the way you’ve begun to close yourself off to him.

What Jake was not prepared for, was the violent flinch you’d reacted with when he brought up Bradshaw’s old man, he’d seen it in the corner of his eye but had been too focused on pushing Bradley’s buttons.

If he’d focused a little more he would have noticed the way your eyes flicked to your dad first and then to Bradley, as your forced yourself to your feet.

Now you’re stood between them. Bradley frozen but angry, and Jake curious and hurt at the distant look in your eyes, one that only softens when your gaze flicks to where your dad’s leaning heavily against his desk.

And that guts him a little. That look. It’s not angry, it’s not venomous, it’s just devoid, and he honestly doesn’t know what to do. He can fight with anger, he can fight with venom, he can even fight disapproval, but this he doesn’t know what to do, especially not on you.

You’re the one to stop Bradley. You don’t even have to put your hands fully on him. It’s just a palm near his chest, but Bradshaw freezes when he realizes who is blocking his path.

Jake keeps his persona is check though, and saunters closer, pushing Javi’s grip off. He meant to lean in, to say something else, he manages a, “I’m cool, I’m cool. Hey! Hey!” as he shrugs off hands as he moves closer.

“That’s enough!” Maverick’s echoing the same words, as if not sure what else he could offer, each repetition meaning less and less.

But he gets stopped when a hand pushes him back. He’d anticipated Rooster to surge forward, maybe even take a swing, and wouldn’t that be something? To finally get him to act instead of freeze? But you’re the one to react with those empty devoid eyes.

Using your other hand you firmly push Jake back. It’s not an inherently violent move but it does surprise Jake, far stronger than what he’d been anticipating and leaving him entirely lost, why the fuck were you suddenly protecting Bradley Bradshaw?

A glance around shows he’s not the only one caught off guard.

The look in your eyes tells him everything he needs to know. Even Phoenix seems thrown by the 180 you’ve pulled, by the pilot you’re protecting.

Did you really think she’d protect you after bringing up her dad’s dead wingman? a voice in the back of his head asks, one that sounds a lot like his sister, but he ignores it, like he normally does.

“He’s not cut out for this mission-” Jake finally says, squaring his jaw.

“That’s enough,” Maverick repeats again.

“-you know it,” Jake adds. He then puffs up a bit, “You know I’m right,” he adds on, eyes lingering on you.

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick manages to spit out and you’re still standing protectively in front of Bradley, eyes hard, glaring at anyone who steps too close. Jake takes one more look, shaking his head before he stalks off, Coyote in tow as he goes.

And then everyone is dealing with the fallout.

Fritz, Omaha, and Halo disperse quickly, not wanting to get caught up in anymore. Shadow and Lucky shoot you a look but follow after them. Harvard and Yale, however, hover. You shake your head, and hesitantly they leave, pulling Payback and Fanboy along with.

Nat opens her mouth and tries to say something but you cut her off before she can utter a syllable. “Go 'Nix, Brad and I are going to get some air,” you say seriously, and your voice is thick with emotion in a way she’s never heard from you.

You finally drop the hand that’s stayed up in front of Bradley, turning it and gesturing for him to move. He turns and walks, following the gesture you’d made directing him in the opposite direction of Hangman, not even hesitating after being queued by you. As soon as he starts moving you’re quick to follow. You leave Nat and Bob with one more firm shake of your head as if to say do not follow.

You shoot your dad another look as you pass him but he seems frozen. You keep your gaze on Bradley’s back as you slow, but your dad waves you off, his own gaze darting to Bradley, and you understand what he means without a word being uttered.

…

You and Brad find yourselves sitting on the tarmac under the shade of one of your jets, you’d allowed him to decide where to stop, and you weren’t going to complain. It’s hot. but it’s the only place that made sense. Where you could talk freely and no one would overhear, where you were away from everyone else.

Bradley’s quiet at first. For a long time you sit. You unzip your flight suit, you roll it down, and un tuck your tank top so you can catch a break from the heat. Bradley follows after your example but remains quiet for a long time. And then “You called me Brad.”

You don’t know what posses you, but with one of the meanest tones you can manage in the moment, you scoff, “That’s your name, dipshit.”

And Bradley smiles a little at that, because while it was mean, there’s no real heat in it. He’s familiar with the fire of your anger, been the root of it the last few days, but the way you say it, even with a mean tone there’s an echo of a familiar fond sarcasm, and so he can’t help the smile.

“You haven’t called me Brad since-”

“Since before you broke my heart and my trust,” you lament seriously. You lay it out flat and you see the way he shuts his eyes in response, the smile disappearing in an instant. Your lips twitch down, that wasn’t fair, not right now, at least. “Sorry,” you offer quietly, taking a deep breath and doing your best to reign it in.

“Don’t,” his voice turns rough. “Don’t apologize to me. We both know I don’t fucking deserve it.”

This time you’re the one to stay quiet, because well, he’s not wrong.

And for the first time since you’d been faced with Bradley in the flesh, you let yourself look. Truly look at him, taking in the differences and the similarities to the boy you knew.

He looks like the Goose from the photos in the hangar, the Uncle Nick, you never got to know.

It stays quiet again for a few minutes before Bradley lets out a sigh, “can I tell you something, personal, without you running?” he asks.

He doesn’t phrase it that way to be mean, you can tell, but you’re hit with a little pang just as well. You hesitate for a second before offering a curt nod.

“You were the first person I wanted to call, the day I started at UVA,” he admits and you let out a breath. “All I wanted to do was call you and tell you all about it and plan your fall break so you could come stay with me. I’d dialed your number before I paused and realized we weren’t speaking, and I think for the first time since that night in the rain, I finally realized what I actually lost. When I realized what I’d said and how it must have hurt, and how I’d ruined it all,” he’s talking, just talking now, as if now that he’s started he can’t stop.

You find yourself frozen as he does. He’s finally giving you the real answers, the things he never put in the emails, how he felt, when he realized, all the things you’d ever wondered when you found yourself thinking about it.

“And I figured it would fade. You know, because there wasn’t anything else, because I was supposed to move on. I was the one who walked away, the one who wrecked it, just like you said. I broke it, so I had to move on. But it never faded. And then another year had gone by and one day I’d gotten a box of stuff from one of my mom’s friends, stuff they found when they were moving, they got a hold of my information and got the box to me. And there was this picture-” Bradley pauses again, trying to collect himself, but when he looks back at you there is so much sincerity in his eyes that you have to look away.

He shakes his head but keeps going, “It had to be from one of the early summers. way before mom got sick, or at least before we knew about it, but there we were. Mom was on that awful orange sofa that you fucking loved taking naps on, that she refused to get rid of because it was Little Miss Mitchell’s Nap Couch, Bradley, don’t be so ridiculous,” it’s how he says it that drives home, because that’s exactly what she used to say, tone and all, whenever Bradley asked if they could get rid of the orange monstrosity that you had in fact loved the hell out of. “-And her head’s tilted back laughing, and she’s pointing at these two idiots who were messing around in front of her,” Bradley continues, and there’s a flicker of something deep in your mind.

From the before, the thoughts you kept for the joy, but locked away due to the melancholy that often accompanied them.

“A little boy, maybe eight, on the ground, and this tiny girl, no older than five, sat on top of him. she’s just sitting on his back, with her hands in her hair and a tub of hair gel on the floor while he messed around with a GameBoy. His hair is standing on a point, but the little girl’s got the biggest most infectious smile and so the boy’s smiling too,” Bradley’s voice has gotten thick and you have to blink a bit as your mind spirals down thoughts of the summers you spent in Virginia.

You start blinking quickly, when you have another realization, you had that memory. A different photo but the same day, the same memory, you didn’t remember Aunt Carole in it, but you remembered the rest. In your photo you were sat on Bradley’s back, hands in his hair with a mischievous smile while he smiled for the camera. It had always been one of your favorites. That was Brad, your Brad. The one who learned how to dutch braid after you mentioned you really wanted your hair in braids like his neighbor used to wear. He’d gone over to her house while you spent a week with Slider one summer, he’d spent nearly every day you were gone next door, learning how to do the braids. By the time you came back he was anxious to show you what he’d learnt in the week apart, they weren’t perfectly even, nor were they particularly neat, but you had looked at him with so much joy and happiness. He had been proud of himself, and his mother even more so. He’d mastered it before the summer was over.

You’re the best big brother, Brad, you’d told him later that night, and he let you sleep over in his room staying up past your bedtime playing cards together.

“I remember,” you finally whisper.

Bradley nods, and he runs a hand through his hair nervously, “I got the box, I saw that picture, and that was the first night I emailed you,” he admits. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t look at the photo and not try, I’d spent the last two years trying to move forward, but every single time I learnt something cool, or saw something funny, all I ever wanted to do was show you. Looking through the memories, and seeing so much of you, so much of my mom, I just. She would’ve been so fucking mad, so out of her mind pissed at me, for what I said, for how I treated you. I just. I wanted to try, for her. For you.”

His voice had gotten choppy at the end, he’s nervous, your mind supplies still aware of all his ticks. You’re quick to wipe away a tear before you looked down at your hands. There was a lift inside you. Something so deep and hurt that never healed properly, like only now someone had taken care of the part that was festering. It wasn’t healed, not even close, still raw and open, but it wasn’t throbbing, it wasn’t infected, not anymore.

“You…” you trail off, taking in everything he had said, and then you settle yourself on the one part that still didn’t make sense. The one part you couldn’t piece together, “why did you keep emailing?” your voice comes out in a rush, spitting them out to make sure you ask, that you don’t just chicken out.

“Because I fucked it up,” it’s so simple when he says it. His voice so open and raw. It’s exactly what you’ve been waiting almost ten years for. “I fucked it up, and those emails were all I could do at the time, they were all I could fucking manage. Which is so fucking pathetic, but I’m sorry,” he finally says and shit, you’re definitely crying now.

“I’m so sorry. For how I acted, for how I treated you. But more than all of it, I’m sorry for what I said. Because I know you, at least I knew you. I know you could’ve forgiven me for acting like an idiot. I know you could’ve forgiven me for shutting down. I know that you would've. But I said the things I knew you wouldn’t forgive and… and the worst part is I did it on purpose.”

You’re scrubbing at your face a bit furiously now, tears flowing, and it’s too public. You’re still on base, still sat out on the tarmac.

“Stop,” you finally say, because you can’t. You can't go back to that, not when your head's clouded with the moments of the past that had made the two of you who you were. you say stop because it was bordering on too much.

“I never should have brought your mom into it,” is what he offers up next, and you can’t help the aborted sob that slips out.

There it is.

The thing you could never bring yourself to forgive him for.

Your biggest insecurity.

Bradley was the only one you’d ever confided to about it.

Not Ice and Aunt Sarah

Not Slider.

Not Carole.

Not even your dad.

Just Bradley.

You’re working on wiping the tears away and you can see how Bradley’s still crying too when he opens his mouth again, “I know how much-”

And you finally snap, “No!”

You push yourself up to your feet and away from Bradley, but he’s quick to his feet too. “You don’t get to say you know how it feels, or how much it hurts! You were the only person in the world I trusted enough to share that with. The only person I ever even fucking told! You took my biggest insecurity, the thing that caused me the most heartache and you poked at it, until it was raw and bleeding everywhere!” your voice is raised, not shouting yet, but bordering on too loud.

Bradley makes a wounded sound in response.

“I never trusted anyone with that. Except for you. And I have never trusted anyone like that after either,” you tell him honestly.

And there are tears streaming furiously down Bradley’s face, even thought it’s dead quiet as you both just stare.

“I have to go,” you finally say, your voice small, breaking, but firm.

“(y/n), please—” he starts, and you nearly falter, nearly turn back to him, almost giving in. It’s the first time he’s called you by your first name since the Hard Deck the day you both arrived, and the sound alone makes your chest twist.

“No.” The word comes out sharper than you mean it to, but it feels necessary. “I’m… I’m sorry about what Jake said. He—he shouldn’t have said that,” you rush out, the memory of how flippantly he’d spoken of Goose stinging fresh in your mind. “But I can’t, Brad. I—it took years—I can’t…”

You trail off, offering a pained look, one that says everything words can’t, before you scramble back a few more feet. The heat of the tarmac hits your bare arms and shoulders, the sunlight washing over you like a cruel spotlight, and you can feel the sobs threatening again. You can’t—won’t—let them fall here. Not now. Not in the middle of base, not in front of all those walls, the orders, the eyes that might see too much.

Bradley doesn’t move. He watches you, frozen, and you know he wants to speak, to reach for you, but the space between you feels infinite. You glance back just once, taking in the look on his face: a mixture of raw hope, fear, and heartbreak. In someways it would be so easy to collapse into him, to let the years of grief and anger spill over, to let him hold the part of you you’ve kept protected for so long.

But you don’t. You can’t. Not now.

Turning fully away, you start walking toward the locker rooms, each step a little heavier than the last. The sound of your boots against the tarmac feels impossibly loud, echoing in your ears. Behind you, Bradley exhales—a slow, trembling breath—but he doesn’t follow. You don’t look back again.

...

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But that was Sunday.

Then came Duke’s birthday, just a few days later on Monday, August 13th. Of course in those few days you managed to get yourself stabbed and slashed at, needing seventeen stitches that Jason had to stitch up. Which is why you’d been unable to join in for Duke’s Paintball Palooza.

An atrocity in Jason’s opinion because the two of you together would have smoked the rest of his family, he’s still not totally sure it wasn't a conspiracy that landed you injured and unable to participate.

He’d been hesitant to leave you alone in the apartment, even though he knew you probably wouldn’t move off the couch the entire time he was gone. But he had left you the day before for your training session with Hal, and he’d been anxious about you the entire time. And instead had to suffer his sibling’s criticisms (read: mockery) regarding the black eye he was sporting.

Then came Thursday.

Thursday, August 15th.

His birthday.

He spent the morning with you. and it was perfect. You made coffee and breakfast before he’d even finished showering. You placed a candle in the stack of pancakes with a cheeky smile, as you said a sweet “Happy Birthday Jase.”

He’d smiled softly back at you, the smile growing when you pushed over his gift, a small stack of books, that you had apparently, already read, along with your thoughts, on little papers in-between the pages.

Then you took him out to the second-hand bookstore that you both loved, and bought him three more books. Roy joined up with the both of you shortly after, and weaseled you both into a coffee stop, before you walked to the lunch. Roy smacked a kiss to Jase’s face, loud and annoying, but Jason couldn’t even hide his smile. Which only grew when Roy pulled out a glittery pink package, and a hand drawn card from Jason’s absolute most favorite person on the planet, Lian Nguyen-Harper.

Lunch went well, Kori, and Artemis (of Bana-Migdhall, not Crock) joined, and Biz had recorded a message, unable to come to Gotham on short-notice.

Then lunch ended, Artemis and Kori took off, Roy confirmed his plans with the both of you for this coming weekend on the walk back to the apartment, before splitting off at the entrance with a big hug to Jason and a “happy birthday Jaybird.”

And then it was the two of you in the apartment, and you were staring at Jason who was waffling about in the entryway.

“Loose your keys?” you smirk knowingly.

Jason sighs, finally turning to you, and your knowing smirk. “I’ve been there three times in the last week,” he huffs, slouching onto the sofa.

“Yeah for your sibling’s birthdays, and one— arguably necessary— debrief, especially given your fading bruises and my stitches,” you scoff back, sitting down gently on the coffee table so you can be directly in front of him.

“Technically, Duke and Steph aren’t actually my siblings,” he defends weakly.

Your smirk grows, “Uh huh,” you nod, “sure.”

Jason simply sighs again.

“What’s going on? Really?”

“Dunno,” he mumbles, and you roll your eyes, kicking at his foot. “Feels like I’m pushing my luck, four visits in a week,” he shrugs.

“They’re your family, Jason. They want to celebrate you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

You stare at him, the tension in his shoulders, the way he. seems to be psyching himself up to go, and you grab his hand. “What do you need?”

Jason’s eyes meet yours, and finally his shoulders drop, “Come with?”

“Belly of the beast?” you smirk.

“And back,” Jason confirms.

“I’ll call Alfred,” you nod, standing up.

“You’re the best,” he says, smiling that boyish smile up at you.

You wink at him, “don’t forget it,” you tease walking off.

When you get back to your room you scroll to Alfred’s number, and it rings once and then twice and on the third it clicks, “Good Afternoon Miss (Y/l/n).”

“Hello Alfred,” you smile.

“I do hope he hasn’t convinced you to bail him out of dinner tonight,” the butler sighs.

“No, I’d never let him ditch, you know that,” you tease.

“Too true, now, what may I help you with?”

“I was hoping you might have space for an extra tonight?”

“If you’re referring to yourself, I feel I should inform you, I’d included you in my original count,” he laments seriously.

You chuckle into the phone, “Of course you did…” you trail as a thought occurs, “But maybe you’ve got space for our favorite two red heads?”

“I believe I can make that work, we shall see you later this evening.”

“Absolutely, see you then!”

you make sure to send a quick text off to Roy with the details before walking back out into the living room and sitting down beside Jason on the sofa.

…

By the time you both had to leave, you’d both cleaned up a bit. Jeans and a nice shirt. Though you’d selected a cropped brown henley, not wanting anything to push against your stitches. You were at the desk in your room putting on some earrings when Jason walked in. He placed a glass of water on your desk, and then held out two pill bottles, antibiotics and painkillers. You shake your head but decide that today, you wouldn’t argue. You take the pills and swallow down half the glass. Then, he pulls up the side of your henley, and down the gauze to check on the stitches themselves, you bite your tongue, and remind yourself it’s his birthday, don’t slap at his hands, it’s not nice.

When he’s satisfied he puts the gauze back, and then smiles goofily up at you, likely aware you were being more patient with him than normal.

“Let’s go, birthday boy,” you scoff, pushing at his shoulder.

He smirks at you, and helps you into your leather jacket before holding the door open, letting you walk out, and locking the door before you both walk down to the garage.

The drive to the manor is quiet, you’re at the wheel, and Jason is reading one of the books you’d given him at breakfast, pausing every so often to hold up one of your notes. There’s 90s top hits playing in the background, She’s a Genius, Slide, and Brain Stew, had you mumbling the lyrics along, your eyes never leaving the road, though Jason’s were more focused on you during those moments.

When you park in front of the Manor, there’s already other cars parked, Jason replaces his bookmark, and leaves the book on the dashboard, straightening himself out, as you walk around the car to stand beside him, simply staring up at the Manor for a moment.

“Too late to turn around, right?”

“You talk a big game, Todd. But I think we both know you’d be disappointed to be anywhere else tonight,” you say gently, giving him an expectant look.

He offers a half twitch of a smile, before nodding and walking forward. He can feel you behind him, knows your moving with him, and it’s enough to keep him from pausing again. By the time you’re at the front door it’s already swinging open, and there stood, regal as ever, is Alfred.

“Hey Alf,” Jason greets, tone suddenly a bit bashful.

“Happy birthday, Master Jason, do come in, everyone’s been anxious for your arrival, ah, and hello to you as well Miss (y/n).”

“Hi Alfred, thank you for the last minute accommodations,” you smile.

“It was my genuine pleasure,” he reassures, “they’ve already arrived and are in the parlor with Masters Dick and Tim as well as Miss Stephanie.”

“They?” Jason asks, brow furrowing as he looks at you and then Alfred.

“Why don’t you go see for yourself Jase,” you tease, and his eyes narrow on you before taking off toward the parlor in question.

He makes it two feet into the parlor before a ball of fiery red hair and attitude to match, launches itself at him. But in case you forgot, Jason is a highly trained individual with reflexes that would make a premier league goalie weep in jealousy. Lian Harper, all three feet and two inches of her had launched herself off the back of the sofa where her dad, and Dick were sat, and jumped the gap to land on Jason.

The little punk.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAYJAY!” she shouts, tiny arms winding around his neck.

Jason could feel his heart rate race in panic for the second before he’d fully caught her, and then calm as he hugs the little girl close. “Thanks, squirt,” he mumbles back, squeezing her tight.

“Little Wing!” Dick cheers, following Lian’s path over the back of the sofa and then squeezing him (and Lian) tight. “Good day so far?”

“Yeah, it’s been good,” Jason nods, as Dick steps back.

“Good,” he smiles blindingly. “Happy Birthday Jay,” He says a little more seriously.

“Thanks, Dick,” Jason nods back, and then Lian starts squirming.

Jason frowns down at her, but sees how Lian’s gaze has locked on you, talking quietly with Stephanie and Tim behind him, and rolls his eyes.

“So I’m just your favorite until she shows up, huh?” he teases the little girl in his arms.

“Don’t be silly JayJay, you’re always my favorite, but I wanna say hi!”

“Well I guess I can’t argue with that logic,” Jason shrugs, placing the little girl back to the floor.

“Duh!” she jests before taking off at you, and colliding full speed into your side.

Jason catches the small wince and so does Roy, because they’re both beside you in the next second.

You flash them a look, I’m fine, it says.

“Hey there Bug,” you greet, flashing a smile down at her.

Dinner went as it usually did.

Which is to say chaotically.

The Wayne set alone were chaotic, add two Harpers to the mix, and it becomes anyones game. But Jason was happy, you could tell; the gleam in his eye when Alfred set out his favorite foods, and the smile on his face that grew as his siblings had filtered in and wished him happy birthday, dropping gifts in his lap as they swarmed about, checking on you and teasing him. But most of all it was in the flush on his cheeks, faint in his tanned skin, but present while everyone sang to him.

You watched from the doorway as Jason and Bruce had a conversation over cups of steaming cocoa, your own was dotted with marshmallows, graciously shared by the 5-year-old tyrant currently holding the bag of mini marshmallows tight against her chest.

Stephanie had tried to grab a few— without her majesty’s approval— and nearly got her fingers bitten off for it. Jason only had to look at the little girl, and she’d come flouncing over to put some in his mug, and then some in yours before resuming her post as Queen of the Marshmallow people. You smiled fondly at the occasionally feral child, it’s no wonder she was Jason’s favorite.

Finally Jason seems to realize he’s being watched because when your eyes dart back to him and Bruce you find Jase’s gaze locked on you. He quirks a brow and you tilt your head.

“All good?” you mouth to him.

He offers you the slightest nod, you smile softly, and turn, leaving them to their moment. You’re flanked a second later, Roy, Dick and Tim.

Dick and Tim form a wall between you and Lian, keeping you from her sight, though she was thoroughly engaged in Duke and Steph’s antics, the two were attempting to bargain with the girl for marshmallows, the suckers. Roy comes to your side and starts lifting your henley to the side, just like Jase had done earlier in the day.

You slap at Roy’s hand, and don’t bother looking contrite when he glares at you.

“I know you know nothing of what personal boundaries actually means, Harper, but I advise against invading mine,” you drawl.

Dick and Tim exchange nervous looks, but Roy simply rolls his eyes and continues on, unperturbed.

smug bastard.

This time you concede, rolling your own eyes in retaliation, and allowing him to pull at the gauze and peek at your stitches. You can see him counting them, and even Dick leans closer to analyze them, blue eyes flickering to you with concern.

“I’m okay, guys, seriously.”

They looked unconvinced.

You rolled your eyes again. “Jase has me on a strict antibiotic and pain killer regiment, the hypocrite.”

“It’s a lot of stitches,” Tim notes.

“I’ve had worse,” you remind all three of them.

“We just wanted to check on you, gotta make sure my preferred babysitter is in tip-top shape, after all,” Roy smirks.

You shove at Roy, fixing your gauze and pulling your shirt back down.

You’d been so focused you failed to notice when Jason and Bruce finished, but you felt it, felt him, he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t touched you. Not even Dick and Tim, who were too busy laughing at Roy, seemed to have noticed. But he was behind you now, almost as if you could feel his warmth. A quick glance around tells you no one’s actually looking at the two of you, so you lean back.

“How’d you know?” he asks, lowly.

You shrug, looking back and up at him, “just did…” you trail.

Jason smiles softly at you.

“How’d your conversation go?”

“It was… better than I thought,” Jason admits.

You straighten and turn to him.

“Happy Birthday, Jase,” you whisper again.

“You already said that,” he reminds you.

You nod, “I know, but you deserve all the well wishes,” you say gently.

Jason’s smile turns a bit introspective, “Here’s to a year with good days, like today,” he decides, holding his mug up to you.

You clink your own with his, a promise as much a toast, sealed with Alfred’s spiced cocoa, and Lian’s shared marshmallows.

a good day indeed.

And then Alfred approached.

He had that glint in his eyes, the you’re stuck in my web and don't seem to realize it, look. It did not bode well for the two of you.

“I prepared a guest room, if I might convince you to stay?” Alfred offers nonchalantly.

You bit back a laugh as Jason starts to shake his head. You interject, before Jason could burry you both in a hole.

“I believe there's some sort of special dinner tomorrow night, that we'll be back for,” you hint with a gleam in your eyes as you stare at the butler who falters and preens at the same time.

His birthday. Alfred’s. A formal invitation for dinner had come in the mail almost a month ago.

“Is that a concession?” Alfred asks hint of a smile.

“(y/n)…” Jasons voice is a low warning. you know why. he gets anxious anytime he has to spend the night here. The few times its happened you fell asleep in the guest room and woke up to jason asleep on the floor, practically guarding the door.

fear had a nasty habit of lingering where it wasn't wanted.

“We actually have a few things that we need to get done in the morning before we come back. Partly in preparation for tomorrow night, but more so for, uh, someone's extravaganza this weekend,” you cast a meaningful look to the five year old who was finally starting to loose steam.

Alfred perked at that, eyes darting over to Lian, who would be 6 on Saturday.

“It truly is a week of celebration isn’t it?” he asks softly.

“Alfred-” Jason seems ro buck up but the older man places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You needn't explain Master Jason. Knowing I will see you tomorrow is more than enough,” Alfred reassures him.

But you catch the flash in Jasons eyes, guilt, likely for not being able to give Alfred what he wanted.

Jason doesn’t say anything. But when your hand brushes his on the way out, he lets it linger.

Just long enough for you to know: he’s glad he came.

And that maybe—just maybe—he’s ready to come back again tomorrow.

...

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The bar is loud behind you, it’s almost nine now, but the sun’s only just set and the whole squad was inside, everyone covered in salt and sand from the day spent at the beach. It had been a good day, but somehow, you knew the good was about to end.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again and your breath catches.

You’d met Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo during your station at Norfolk. You’d been sent there while on medical reserve. You worked on the Navy Yard, and when you think back, it’s probably because of your mom. She’d been close with a retired Marine Gunny turned Supervisory Special Agent in Charge, all because of your grandpa. The Gunny had a team there, and somehow, you’d gotten roped into spending some time with them while you recuperated. Physically able enough to be in the field, but not yet able to withstand sustained Gs. You’d enjoyed the stint, made friends with the team. You’d left NCIS better than you’d arrived, in more ways than one.

You’d bonded with Tony over pop culture references, and a quiet reverence for the Gunny. A new level to the respect you’d always had since you’d met him as a toddler.

“Tell me,” you force out.

Please don’t say it’s Gunny.

“It’s Franks,” he finally admits, and your knees go weak. “He’s dead, kid.”

“Oh shit, oh, fuck,” you huff out, trying to reign everything in.

That’s worse.

“Did anyone call my mom?” you ask, as your legs give out.

There’s a rolling wave of grief.

You grip tight to the railing as you try not to topple.

“Gibbs is calling her now,” he says quietly.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs had been in your life as long as you can remember. He’d filled the dad role often after your own had passed. You’d never really known him as a Gunny, but you did as Pop’s probie. You can’t imagine the silence that must’ve fallen over the NCIS building. But your thoughts are focused on Mike Franks. Your grandfather. There’d always been something about him, all old school, with his own sense of justice, too patriotic for his own good, it turned out. You hadn’t understood it then, but you saw how he changed after 9/11, and that was when you realized there was still so much to do. That was the reason you enlisted, he was.

You finally sit, as the grief rolls over you. You were not new to grief, you’d lived with it as a cloud almost your whole life, but this felt different. It wasn’t like when you’d lost your dad. You’d been too young, you think. All you really knew back then was you missed him, you were sad he was gone, disappointed that he’d never come home again.

You were okay though. You had your mom, you had pop, and you had Gibbs.

Gibbs who took you to the father daughter dance after pop got hurt on a case, and couldn’t take you like he’d promised. Gibbs who taught you how to drive manual when your mom decided she was not built to be the one to contend with you and the road. Makes sense, given you elected to pursue a career involving flying jets.

You’re struck with the realization that underneath the grief is an overwhelming sense of relief. It’s not Gunny, it’s not Tim, it’s not any of them. You want to puke as soon as you think it. Guilt gnawing at your insides. You loved your grandfather, but you’d been anticipating his death for a while now. So sure that all the cigarettes would finally catch up to him.

“Gadget?” His voice is strained, thank god it wasn’t Tony, either.

“Yeah,” you manage to choke out, from where you’re now sitting, one hand still grasping tight to the railing.

“It was the P2P,” and then there was anger.

“Son of a bitch,” you huff, and now there’s tears in your eyes. “He was supposed to be in Mexico,” you add on, because you’d just talked to him. “He was supposed to be done with this!”

You’d spoken with your grandfather just a few days ago, making plans to come down to Mexico when you had a short leave in a few weeks. You’d already booked your ticket.

“He only got here this morning, Gibbs called,” Tony adds on.

it goes quiet then. As if Tony’s not sure how to continue. and you become stuck in a contemplative silence.

…

“He picked my call sign,” you eventually say softly.

“What?” Tony asks, and you can imagine the frown.

“Pop, he.. uh… I loved cars, and taking things apart to learn how they worked. He was the one who called me inspector gadget as a kid. One of my instructors heard him call me Gadget during training on family weekend, and.. and then it was my official callsign.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him. You’d never told anybody that your grandfather was the one who coined Gadget, everyone who needed to know, did.

“I didn’t know that,” Tony admits, and you can hear the sad chuckle in his voice.

“I’ve never told anyone before,” you admit, sniffing.

“I’m really sorry, (y/n),” is all he offers.

You sniff and force yourself back to your feet. “Yeah,” you say in the absence of anything else. “Tell Gunny to call me when he can,” you decide.

“Yeah, but-” you don’t listen to the rest, ending the call.

You’re not sure how long you stayed like that, but it must’ve been too long because eventually someone came looking for you.

“Gadget?” it’s Hangman who calls your name. “You drink too much or something?” he muses coming closer.

It’s not until he can see your face that he realizes you’re crying, and the smirk is gone in a second. He drops down to be eye level and you continue to look past him and at the ocean.

“Gadget? Gadget, talk to me, what happened?” his voice had gone soft, one hand gently landing on your shoulder

“My grandfather’s dead,” you say, and god it hurts.

...

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend