#antionism

smash or pass | accepting

On the one hand, Hotch is an adult who can deal with his feelings like an adult in an adult way. He’s got a son he’s teaching this too. So maybe he trusts Clint. He’s had the team’s back frequently enough to earn that. He doesn’t crowd Aaron, or push him, or demand. He’s a good person and Hotch loses weight in his shoulders when he’s around. Knows his team, his family will be safe with him.

“-- I’m not saying it.”

On the other hand, he’s been trying to get Aaron to say Hotch Smash! for ten minutes and if he gets any more smug, Aaron’s going to shoot him.

Non-lethally.

In the knee or something.

Probably.

Peter stands on a bench in the front yard of the FBI Academy, in Quantico. He was perched at the feet of the eagle statue over the fountain for about fifteen minutes before a security guy came by and told him off. And he’s maybe rationalized away the urge to just crawl up the wall and peek inside the window of Stiles’ last lecture of the week about five or six times.

He had to skip his classes to take the train from New York and make it in time, but it’s Friday, and it’s not like he’d be missing anything vital (he checked) — besides, this is way more important. Isaac is waiting on the way to the train station to ambush them, for the second part of their surprise, but Peter’s in charge of luring Stiles in. Like a spider. Yeah, he didn’t think it was a funny joke either, but Isaac always gets a kick out of those.

There are no bells to listen for, nothing that his ears can pick up (and Isaac has the better hearing of the two anyway), but the shuffle of steps rushing out of their lecture halls on a previously still surface is almost as good a giveaway that the last classes of the day are wrapping up, and a rush of trainees are steadily making their way out of the building, ready for their weekend.

Stiles is not among the first—in fact, it’s around forty minutes before Peter sees him fumble with the door and step outside, attention stolen by whatever notes he’s got in the tablet his dad got him for Christmas. And, while he’s not as clumsy as he used to be, Peter knows that look — Stiles is not aware of anything but whatever leads he’s putting together in his head.

So, when those feet miss a step and throw Stiles off balance, Peter is right there to hold him up, waiting with a cheeky grin for his boyfriend to notice just who saved him from taking a nose dive down the stairs.

“Will you walk into my parlor? Said the spider to the fly.” Wide whiskey eyes light up with the crooked smile that Peter loves so much.

Jace’s mouth opens, invariably to tell Simon to fuck off. If he doesn’t want Alec around, a man who is as much himself as his own hand is, he doesn’t want their resident dweeby vampire up here hounding him.

You know-

The sentiment never gets past his throat, thoughts fall away, recentering from deep-- pointless, useless-- brooding (yes, he is self aware enough to know that’s what it is) right on over to what the fuck?

He’s not Alec, who can hold an entire conversation with the muscles in his face and the disturbance of his presence, but he hopes the eyebrow he arches gives an emphasis somewhere in the ether.

Simon’s not looking at him, can’t see him, so Jace lets his stare linger, marveling in how easy it is for his thoughts and mind turn to Simon’s rambling. He wonders, staring at the way Simon’s ear curves, if he’s the shrimp here. Head and heart all twisted up together and encased in a cold box.

He shakes it off. Again, no, fuck off, Simon rises defensively in his chest, again falls away unsaid. There’s no energy in him for misaimed vitriol, a rarity in itself.

Simon, clumsy, misstepping, skinny Simon, who’s (rightfully) mistrusted him from the moment he met him.

Simon who took time out of whatever it was he was doing-- something more important than this-- to check on Jace. Of all people.

He pushes back from the railing with a rough exhale, a friendly clasp to Simon’s shoulder.

Peter walks through the hallway in the same quiet daze he does every morning, avoiding attention as he can until he’s reached his locker.

It’s not until he’s closed it that he notices the words carved on the door, and he finds himself blinking stupidly at them for a long moment before a bright smile blooms on his face. 

They may have to keep appearances in school, but that doesn’t mean they can’t find ways to remind each other of the truth. It’s Peter’s turn now.

For every 💭 I receive, I will write one thought my muse has had about yours.(No longer accepting)

“So, ye know-- an’ this is very interestin’ lad, ye should listen- this whole clonin’ business hit it off with cats.” She has one, in her hands. A stubborn kitten she’s plucked out of someone’s offices. Not a cloned one-- Stark Industries doesn’t clone things, thanks-- Scotty remembers him all the way from Eddie’s docks, where he’d gone after men’s shoelaces and unguarded sandwiches and, sure enough, he’s got a quarter of a grilled cheese clamped in his mouth.

“Wee old ladies what wanted tae replace Speckles fer the last few years, y’ken? Only it didnae work.”

“They got their clones, but th’ colors weren’t the same. Tabbies instead o’ calicos, different patches, stripes. Couldn’t control th' patterns fer a wink. But they figured the temperament had tae be there, aye?

“Turns out they got different personalities, too. They lived a different way-- some were shy instead of outgoing, some of them scratched up stuff old Speckles would never.” She wrests the sandwich from the cat and hands the grey ball of fur over to Kaine with a shrug of her shoulders.

Road to El Dorado

“Like an extra from Grease.” 

I hate you. I hate you so much.