Fury is...not nervous. Kai doesn’t know that he’s ever seen the man nervous. But definitely on the frustrated side, and the report he gets of how Barton’s Stark bodyguard stint is not exactly overflowing with details on what exactly caused Clint to divert from the plan.
The fact that O’Neill is also looking to veer more and more towards being Stark’s man than Fury’s is definitely not helping matters.
So, needless to say, when Kai is back in the States to reconvene with Clint, his official mission is to gain insight on Barton’s mindset. Unofficially? He just wants to know what could have possibly compromised his partner to this extent.
“Penny for your thoughts?” He slides into the chair across from Clint’s, a little smile on the corner of his lips.
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*****
The Stars Look Lovely
Magnus pressed the button on the remote, and soft music started to play through the speakers, filling the apartment with a relaxing vibe. He was at his mini bar mixing a second round of drinks for himself and Alec; after they day they’ve had, he could have really used many drinks.
That day, Magnus and Alec had went on a mission to find out what was causing the ley lines to make the Warlock’s magic go awry. Well, they couldn’t find out what caused it, but they could stop it.
Magnus handed one of the drinks to Alec, and they went out onto the balcony to enjoy some fresh air. He sat down on the sofa, and Alec followed soon after, wrapping his arm around Magnus’ shoulders.
“It’s beautiful out tonight,” Alec said softly, resting his head against Magnus’.
“It sure is,” Magnus replied. “There’s not a cloud in the sky; it makes the stars look lovely.”
There was a comfortable silence that followed, and Magnus took it all in. It’s been a while since Magnus was able to just relax in peace with Alec without there being some kind of disturbance to pull them away from it.
“Hey,” Alec said into his hair. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” Magnus said, pressing a kiss to Alec’s jaw. “I just feel drained from all the magic I used today.” He stretched his arms up ease the crick in his back, and he felt it pop. “Lorenzo is so gonna pay for this,” he said with a wince.
“Yeah, he was such an ass,” Alec replied.
Magnus hummed in agreement, and pulled Alec close.
“I have to say,” he said. “We work pretty well as team; we cleared those ley lines in no time.”
“Mhm, we sure do,” Alec said. “It’s just that we would have gotten it done a lot easier if I wasn't logged out if the system. You shouldn't have had to use so much of your magic like that.”
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. What matters is that we did it without anyone getting hurt. It could’ve very easily ended in disaster, you know?”
“I know it. I’m just happy you're okay,” Alec said, leaning down to kiss him on the lips.
“You too,” Magnus said, returning the kiss. He patted Alec on the chest. “Let’s try out these drinks, we’re supposed to be relaxing, remember?” He said with a joking smirk on his face.
Alec chuckled. “Of course,” he said, taking a sip of the cocktail Magnus gave him. Alec didn’t make disgusted faces anymore when drinking strong cocktails, so Magnus started making them stronger to see if he would like it; it turns out that he did. “This is great, Magnus. It’s better than the ones I made earlier.”
“Oh, they weren’t that bad,” Magnus said, hiding his smirk behind this glass. To be totally honest, they weren’t the greatest tasting cocktails, but he’s had worse.
“Oh please! Mine tasted like literal lighter fluid.”
“You're trying your best, let’s just put it at that.”
“Well, it’s a good thing that I have such a great teacher, then, isn’t it?” Alec said, smiling down at him.
“I sure hope so,” Magnus said softly as he wrapped his arms around Alec’s neck, and pulled him in for another kiss.
The two of them at sat out there until almost midnight, looking up at the beautiful stars shining down.
Loki opens his eyes, and finds himself in a clearing.
Flocks of birds overhead, and the sounds of animal life all around him. Streaks of sunlight that sneak through the trees, and warm but fresh air around him. He looks down at his hands—they’re clean. None of the blood and grime he remembers from the battle.
The battle.
Memory catches up to him, and Loki turns wide green eyes around the clearing, looking for the faces of his companions. For Steve, and Banner, and Thor, and the twins—they should be here.
Stark disappeared with Thanos’ ship's arrival in New York—following the enemy to their base, no doubt, but alive, he refuses to believe Stark is not alive—and they were all that was left to fight the second wave of the Mad Titan’s forces.
He remembers Steve, overcome by abominations far more monstrous and vicious than the chitauri, remembers their Wakandan allies falling around them. He remembers Banner, protected by Stark’s suit, toppling over beneath the weight of a swarm. Remembers Rhodey falling from the sky.
And the light of the bifrost cutting through the atmosphere. His brother turning the tide of the fight with a war cry fit for their father’s old battle stories.
They’d been so close to winning. Loki can’t remember what...—
The confused faces around him are calling out, but Loki pays them no mind, turning in place once, twice, taking in the landscape around them. Something is very wrong.
The clearing should be a mess of broken tree limbs and overturned earth. But it’s as if a battle had never taken place, only the lost souls of Wakandan warriors, and their king to show for what might have happened.
He sees no sign of Steve, or Thor, and it’s the thought that makes him push forward, through the trees and to the open field.
He calls for them, and gets no answer.
Not at first.
“—Loki!” Green eyes dart around before him to catch sight of Magnus, as panicked and off kilter as Loki himself feels. He must not be able to find Alec. He holds out a hand for the boy, whose magic is all but pouring out of him in a blood red cloud.
Magnus latches onto his forearm, and Loki meets that outpour of red fire with the frozen green of his own magic, distantly glad to see scarlet waves retreat.
“Something’s wrong.” The boy’s eyes are wide with fear, and Loki has to push down his answering terror. “We lost. Thanos got the last stone—we lost.”
“I know.” Loki swallows thickly, his eyes scanning the faces around them for any he might care to recognize.
“Then how are we back?” Barnes’ voice joins them, and Loki feels a petty surge of disappointment—why is he here? Why him and not Steve?— but he shoves it aside with a shake of his head. There’s a heavier sort of dread building in his gut.
“How long has it been?” There are no holes in the earth. The grass is a perfect blanket of green and scattered wild flowers.
“Five years.”
Stephen Strange’s presence is a translucent apparition in front of them, and Loki’s dread becomes a very real fear that fills his veins with ice.
“Be ready.”
Strange disappears, and a beat of silence follows his absence. To no one’s surprise, it’s Wilson who breaks it.
“...Ready for what?”
Before anyone can think to make a guess, the air splits in large sparkling circles, familiar magic that opens portals for the formidable force of Wakanda and the Avengers.
Portals that look into the destruction of a battlefield Loki expected to wake up to.
“My guess would be for that.” He snarks, but waits for no one to react before he’s walking through the nearest portal, daggers materializing on each of his hands, and his armor and helmet solidifying over him in a wave of green light.
If he doesn’t find who he expects (who he hopes for) on the other side — there will be hell to pay.
“Sergeant Drake! Sergeant Drake, sir!” A little voice calls from the booming, drunken chorus of voices in the pub, and Bennet Drake lifts tired eyes from his pint to see a wee one sneak through the sea of bodies to where he sits, quick as a street cat.
“What’s this now? You know you’re not allowed in here. Off with you.”
The boy ducks under a half-hearted swipe intended to grab his ratty jacket, and tugs on the sergeant’s sleeve.
“But I’ve a message for you, sir! For Inspector Reid too, it’s about the Opium Ghost, sir!”
That gets Bennet’s attention, and he can feel the much earned fog of liquor clear from his mind. They have been after the monster for almost a month now, and too many unfortunate souls have fallen prey to him at the Opium houses in the Chinatown streets of London.
It’s nearly driven Inspector Reid head first into the canal. Not another one—they’ve all dreaded in the privacy of their thoughts— not another Ripper.
“Oy!” He calls one of the lads from their division, and points at the door. “Get word to the Inspector. Tell ‘im there’s been another one.” And to boy, he asks, “Same house as the last one?”
The wee one nods, tugging on Bennet’s sleeve urgently. The sergeant gestures sharply at the young officer and gets his coat and hat, following the little stray cat out the door and through dark alleys to the Opium Den where the last victim was found.
This has been an odd case in more ways than one. Their little stray messengers being the most remarkable thing. Young street boys and girls who showed up at odd times, day and night, to warn them of the tragedies as soon as they took place. Even hand deliver evidence for their American doctor.
Reid suspects an anonymous benefactor, though Bennet knows he fears the motives of someone who’d sway children to do his bidding.
But the little ones look happy enough. Clean and warm despite the winter chill and their ratty clothes, and with a spark in their eyes, full of life.
“He’s in there.” The boy stops in front of an Opium house, the only one in Whitechapel, and as such, the only one their division can investigate. And of course, who should he find at the doorstep but their bloody own Yankee, waving at him obnoxiously from the gate.
“Lurkin’ about a drug house? Why am I not surprised?”
“Good to see you too, Sergeant.” Captain Homer fucking Jackson appears as always, drunk, unwashed and uncaring of the effect he has on the people around him. Bennet in particular. “Where’s Reid?”
“On his way.” The little boy yanks impatiently on Bennet’s sleeve and keeps him from adding more, and Jackson’s eyebrows arch up with amusement, but he seems to get the message.
The American gets his pistol from his holster, and nods at the Opium den. “Reid’ll catch up. Shall we?”
Bennet looks at the impatient little boy, and nods firmly, adjusting his hat, and getting his own pistol from his belt.
“Right.”
The wee one points to a window on the second floor, and tells them to hurry before skittering away into a dark alley.
Bennet meets Jackson’s eyes, and with a nod, they hurry into the building. The poor girls are visibly trying to hold onto their composure and attend to their oblivious customers, but an old Chinese woman stares at them with firm, dark eyes and waves them over to lead the way up a red stairwell and to a hallway. A series of doors that remind him all too much of Long Susan’s pleasure house.
Girls peer at them from some of those doors, and go back into hiding after a sharp word from the old woman. She walks with a limp, confident as a seasoned general, and both men follow her quietly, guns at the ready and attention like a live wire.
A door at the end of the hall opens, and Bennet raises his gun. Jackson’s hand darts up and grips his arm, and he shakes his head. It’s not a john who walks out of the room, though, but a girl. Beautiful. Her skin soft and golden, barely hidden with delicate silks held in place by a sash around her waist, her dark eyes shadowed with kohl, and her lips a rose red.
The old woman clucks affectionately, soft and loving as a mother where she was terse and unforgiving a moment before, and holds out wrinkled, calloused hands to the girl.
She smiles, beautiful and kind, and squeezes the old woman’s hands, before replying in a gentle voice.
A man’s voice.
Bennet freezes, surprised into lowering his weapon. Jackson whistles softly.
“Well, I’ll be. He’s prettier than the girls at Susan’s.” It’s a mutter close to Bennet’s ear, and he can’t be sure that the young man in silks heard, but his conversation with the old woman stops.
“He’s in there.” He doesn’t sound Chinese, his accent perfectly clear, and Bennet blinks again.
“Did he hurt you?” Jackson gets ahead of him, stepping around Bennet to study the beautiful boy with a doctor’s discerning gaze.
“He tried.” The young man smiles, and Jackson could swear there’s a catlike gleam in his eyes. A flash of gold that he will blame on the warm light of the lamps.
It made him even more beautiful, ethereal and magic, there and gone in a moment.
Jackson nods at him, and then at the woman, who waves them on with all her previous tartness before shuffling the beautiful boy down the hall.
The doctor stares (because hot damn), and a smack to the back of the head startles him into swearing. “—Jesus, Drake, what are you, his mother?”
Drake stares at him like he’s gone mad, and Jackson spreads his arms, waiting for an explanation for the smack, but the sergeant shoves past him and into the room without a word.
The doctor mutters under his breath and follows, gun at the ready again, and freezes, eyebrows rising up to his hairline.
“...Christ. Never cross a man in a silk dress.”
The Opium Ghost is a man (of course he is). Plain looking, not particularly large or strong. And his weapons of choice, all his instruments of death, are all helpfully pinned to his person, practically on display.
Syringes half full of opium, sewing needles threaded with colorful silk, and the medical blades he used to cut open his victims, all jabbed into his arms, his neck, his legs. His ankles and wrists are bound to the bed with shimmering silk.
And on his chest, in blue ink, a message for Inspector Reid:
Opium Ghost
“Sweet Jesus...” Bennet whispers, “Is he alive?”
Jackson rushes past him and crouches by the bed, fingers presses to the bastard’s neck, careful of the needle pinned there.
“—Holy shit.” He will take that as a yes.
As though intent on confirming this, the man jolts, suddenly wide awake, white eyed with panic like a spooked horse, his pupils wide as saucers.
“D-did you see him? The devil? The devil—“
“The angel in the silk dress? Yeah, we saw him, now quit moving or you’ll bleed out before I can get you on my table.”
“Please! God, please—get me out of here. The devil and his fuckin’ witch will find me here—”
“What’s he on about?” Bennet asks from the door, frowning at their pinned monster with thinly veiled patience. Jackson can see the urge to shoot him in his blue eyes. He can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed his mind.
“Maybe the boy wasn’t alone.” Jackson shrugs, checking the pincushioned killer’s pupils. “He’s high out of his mind.”
“He came out of the dark.” He mutters madly, eyes lost somewhere neither Drake nor Jackson can see “The witch’s eyes glowed bright, like a cat by a lamp, and the devil stepped out of the dark when he called for him. Tall and pale like the dead, he was. His eyes were so dark, and they promised terrible things—“
“Did he sound English?” A voice interrupts. And Drake and Jackson both turn to the door to find their Inspector Reid, staring intently at the madman on the bed. “This devil you speak of, the tall man, his accent—was he English?”
“He was the devil!” The Opium Ghost whimpers. “The fucking devil himself! And I am damned to a place worse than hell for what I’ve done.”
“Good.” Bennet quips, “God knows you deserve it.”
“But the man—“
“Who the fuck cares, Reid?” Jackson snaps, and the fact that Drake doesn’t glare at him for his lack of respect speaks to how much he agrees with the Yank. “You wanted the Opium Ghost, and you got him. Now’s not the time to be chasing fairytales.”
“With respect, sir—“ Bennet says before Reid can argue. “Jackson’s right.”
“See?” The doctor turns to the muttering madman on the bed, slapping his clammy cheek. “Hey—Pinhead. The witch and the devil, what did they curse you for, huh? What did you do?”
“The girls. The girls...” He’s dissolving into a sobbing mess right before their eyes. “I drugged them, I c—I cut them, I stitched them in colour. I’m damned for it, I didn’t know...” He whimpers. “I didn’t believe.”
“And now the devil’s come in person to deliver an invite to Hell? Must be a good spot he’s saving for ya.” Bennet finishes, like it’s something to be impressed by, and Jackson stifles a grin.
“Sergeant Drake.” Reid scolds with a heavy sigh, but seems to give up on questioning further about the elusive pale devil. “Let’s get this man back to Captain Jackson’s lab.”
Captain Homer Jackson stands outside the opium house, rolling a cigarette as the bustle of H Division’s best and brightest take the Opium Ghost out of the building, under Reid and Drake’s supervision.
The two men in question are talking to the Lady of the house, and before he can join them for his own questions, a dash of movement catches his attention.
The little boy who dragged Drake here skitters into the moonlight from the depths of an alley and to the end of the street, keeping out of sight from the busy men in blue.
Curious despite himself, Jackson follows, standing around the corner from where the boy runs towards two men.
The clouds part, and a sliver of moonlight allows him to recognize one of them as the beautiful young man they saw dressed in a Chinese dress. Now in trousers, a long silk shirt, and a dark coat.
Beside him stands a tall man, his skin pale and his bearing that of a noble.
Now, if Jackson had to guess, he’d say he’s looking at the Devil himself.
The little boy stops in front of them with a beaming, toothless grin, and the tall man crouches down in front of him, uncaring of the muck on the streets. His eyes are kind, a smile soft on his face, and it’s only then that Jackson sees how young the man is.
A bright coin glimmers in the night, and the boy holds out a small hand, bouncing in place. The second the gold touches his palm, Jackson could swear sunshine envelops the little tike in a soft glow.
“What the fuck?” He rubs his eyes, but when he looks again, the light is gone, and the boy is throwing skinny arms around his tall benefactor’s neck with a giggle, waving at the other young man before he runs off into the night with a chirp goodbye.
Would you look at that? The Devil and the Witch are Reid’s suspected benefactors. The two unknowns who have aided them in this investigation from the start.
But why remain hidden?
Before he can make any bewildered guesses, the smaller of the two men turns to his partner, features soft with what can only be love. And Jackson watches as the moonlit Devil reaches cradles his jaw in a graceful hand before leaning down to kiss him on the lips.
Oh.
Well, that makes more sense.
Jackson purses his lips, and glances over his shoulder at Reid and Drake.
His lawful friends may be more openminded than every other cop in the city, but Jackson knows Reid won’t take the interference of this pale Devil and his witch lightly. And that he won’t forgive it until he learns every detail.
Reid doesn’t need another ghost to chase.
The loving couple hidden in shadows and streaks of moonlight break away from their kiss, and before his very eyes, they disappear.
He blinks.
What the fuck?
“Or maybe I got a contact high from all the opium.” He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose, and looks again before turning back towards his friends.
Unbeknownst to him, the Devil and his Witch watch the American doctor grumbling to himself, eyes bright with amusement.
After a pause, Alec holds out a hand for Magnus to take.
steer - place a hand under their chin to make them look up.
It all happens very fast. One moment he’s following Butcher and MM into the last known location of a D-lister speedster…—Frenchie keeps snickering at the silly rhyme, muttering it under his breath any time MM explains the plan, which of course drives the man nuts, especially when Monsieur Charcuter joins in on the giggles—
He’s lost track again.
One minute they’re walking into the speedster’s hideout, guns in hand, clearing every room carefully before advancing deeper into the maze of tunnels underground. Frenchie wrinkles his nose at the smell, and he can see the other two hide their disgust as they move deeper into this fox hole.
And then, the next—
MM makes eye contact with him and Butcher to nod for the ‘all clear’. It’s the last he sees of the man before he’s flung to the side.
He hears Billy curse, calling out MM’s name, and sees a flash of blue and purple. Frenchie is standing far back enough to watch the speedster stop mockingly in front of Butcher, MM’s gun in his hand. His heart freezes in his chest. No, no, no, no—
‘Meep-meep.’
It’s a fucking cheesy thing to say, but it yanks him out of his panic, and it’s a good thing the Roadrunner fucker is as distracted as he is stupid. It gives Frenchie the chance to pull the trigger.
If the speedster had heard the gun go off, he might have had plenty of time to dive out of the way. But Frenchie equipped them all with silencers, and the asshole takes note of the bullet coming his way too late to move completely out of its path.
He stumbles back with a shrill curse, gawking at the bleeding hole in his shoulder with the spoiled indignation of every supe they’ve gone after.
“Merde—” Frenchie hisses, and white rimmed eyes are suddenly on him.
The next thing he feels is his skull cracking against the brick wall. An enraged yell that follows him to unconsciousness as everything goes black.
——
“Frenchie? Oi, Frenchie.” That voice seeps through the cloud of unconsciousness that clings to him. Samir furrows his brow, and the agony that grows sharply the more he awakens pulls a miserable groan from deep in his chest.
He opens his eyes to a nauseating blur of greens and yellows, and he realizes belatedly that he’s looking at Billy’s shirt.
“Here, mate—”
Calloused hands guide his chin gently upwards, and Frenchie breathes out loudly as his vision swims even more, nausea roiling in his stomach.
“I know, I know, it’s shite, but you gotta keep your eyes open, Frenchie. Eyes on me, yeah?” Billy’s voice is a soft rasp compared to any other time. None of the theatrics, or that high pitched maddening tone, or the mad smile that seeps into his words even when you’re not looking at the man.
Samir blinks owlishly, and his vision clears a little to let him see Billy.
“Monsieur Charcuter?” He croaks, a little smile he’s not sure makes it to his lips.
“The very same.” Billy’s smile is the crack in a mirror, blurred into something believable you might have caught out of the corner of your eye. “MM’s called some EMT bloke he knows. He’s got the supe cunt locked in his pretty cage in the van, so all that’s left is for you and me to wait here for a little bit, yeah?”
“We got him?” Samir’s relief is clouded in dizzy disbelief. Billy’s hands are still gently holding his chin.
“Yeah, we fucking got him, mate. Whatever you coated those bullets with fucking worked, he was down not a minute after he knocked you down.” There’s that smile still trying to tug on his lips, but Samir can’t feel whether it makes it there or not. “May have shot him a few more times meself, just to be sure—oi. You keep your head still, alright?”
The gentle touch on his chin is a little tighter, and Samir’s drifting focus finally takes note of the gleam of fear in dark eyes. At odds with the soft voice that’s been keeping him awake. Like he’s holding his head in place.
He swallows down another bout of nausea, breathing hard through his nose, and suddenly feels the wet warmth all over his nape.
Oh.
“How bad is it?” He’s distinctly aware of the way Billy’s adam’s apple bobs up and down.
“We’re not sure.” It’s more honesty than he expected, and it scares him. Samir exhales loudly through his nose, and closes his eyes. “So you’d better fucking stay awake until that EMT shows up. Keep your eyes on me, Frenchie, I’m not fucking about.”
Frenchie. A silly nickname that had taken root and burrowed deep in his heart to the point where Samir responded to it more naturally than any other alias he’s used over the years.
A silly nickname given to him by the ridiculous madman he would follow to the ends of the earth. A man who doesn’t know his real name.
“Frenchie.”
He blinks his eyes open, and for that second, Billy’s face is a perfectly sharp picture, nothing to hide the lines that have pinched the corner of his eyes with concern, or the way his brow furrows low over his eyes.
And then the black begins to close in again.
“I’m sorry, ma moitié.” He whispers, eyes fluttering under the weight of stubborn unconsciousness.
“Don’t be fucking sorry, just keep your eyes open. Frenchie.” Samir wonders idly what his name would sound like from those lips. Maybe…maybe it’s time he told him.
“Frenchie.”
The mad gleam in those eyes is still with him even as everything else goes dark. Two stars glaring down at him. Frenchie thinks he might be smiling as he loses the battle to stay awake.
Thinks he might have even opened his mouth to finally tell Billy his secret before everything falls away.
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(please) WRITE ME A FRENCHIE DRABBLE YOU FUCK (thank you)
Everything is fucked.
Frenchie was sure—he was so fucking sure that his hunch was right. But in the end, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
———
He tailed Lamplighter for hours, and the man was practically following the standard cliché children’s Christmas shopping list stops to a T. But Madam Mallory said he had no family on record, which meant maybe…maybe this was something that was kept very carefully from Vought records.
At least the records that Mallory had access to.
They’ve been on Lamplighter for so long, they even caught sight of his secret identity. And the man Frenchie followed from the shops to the suburbs…—he was just a sad man. A lonely man who lit up when he was let into that family home.
It was Christmas Eve.
It was Christmas Eve, and Frenchie was spying on a man spending the holiday with his family.
Madam Mallory was at some big party, apparently keeping her icy eyes on the Vought board of Directors. Butcher, and MM were close by as her security, and Frenchie? Frenchie was kept as far away from all involved as possible.
So when he caught sight of the man beneath the mask and hood of the Lamplighter through a window covered in Christmas lights, Frenchie had to wonder how Madam Mallory could be so sure that this man was a threat.
He must not be very nervous about the noose getting tighter if he was here, non? Which meant it was possible their theory was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Lamplighter who was dangerous, but someone else.
Maybe Frenchie was sitting here, tailing the wrong man, and the real monster was out there.
He should have called Billy. Should have called MM and bounced his theory off him. But they were both busy, and far from their latest safehouse. And it would only take fifteen minutes for Frenchie to get the notes and pictures that MM put together with the information they found.
Fifteen minutes, and he’d be right back here to keep an eye on Lamplighter.
Tapping away at the wheel, Frenchie made his choice, and turned the car back on to make the quick drive to the house.
There had to be something they missed. This just didn’t add up.
It’s barely seventeen minutes later, and he’s almost back at the Christmas lit house when he gets the harried radio calls from Billy and MM. Concerned demands for his location and his safety that are marred by confusion when he explains that he’s posted outside a home in the suburbs, and Lamplighter hasn’t moved all night.
Frenchie, he just torched Mallory’s house. How could he be in the fucking suburbs?
Frenchie stops the car, and looks at the house where, despite the Christmas decorations outside, all the lights inside are turned off. No sight of the woman, or the children, or Lamplighter himself through the window.
“No. No, no, no, no, no—he was right there.” He staggers out of the car to the confused calls from his friends, “I saw him just twenty minutes ago, he was right there.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, and he realizes that a moment into the deafening silence in his ears.
...What do you mean ‘twenty minutes ago’? Frenchie, man, tell me you didn’t leave your post. Tell me you were fucking on him the whole time.
“I had to check something, I was only gone fifteen minutes!”
Fifteen minutes.
He left Lamplighter out of his sight for fifteen minutes — and now Mallory’s house was on fire.
He can hear Billy’s curses in the background, and Frenchie’s stomach is full of lead. He swallows thickly, still shaking his head as he approaches the house, ready to storm in and look for Lamplighter himself. It’s MM who delivers his next orders.
Get back to the safehouse, Frenchie, we’re heading to Mallory’s right now.
“I have to check the house, what if he’s still there? Maybe—maybe they’re just asleep, huh? Maybe it’s not Lamplighter who burned it.”
Get back to the goddamn safehouse, Frenchie. We’ll meet you there.
“But I have make sure—”
No, you don’t have to do shit! You shouldn’t have lost sight of him in the fucking first place! Get back to the fucking house, goddamnit, you’ve done enough.
You’ve done enough.
Frenchie stands in the middle of the empty road with his heart at his feet, so nauseous he thinks he could throw up right there. He scrubs his head harshly, hissing curses under his breath like that might disguise the broken hitch in his voice.
He was so sure.
He was so fucking sure.
And now everything is fucked, and Frenchie drives back to the safehouse in a trance, ears ringing with the silence of a disconnected radio frequency, and a sharp edged rock in his stomach that’s slowly cutting him to ribbons.
It’s only when he steps into the empty warehouse that he remembers Mallory’s grandchildren were spending the holidays with her.
❛ Uh, I was just kind of in the middle of something here. ❜
Things are still…overwhelming.
Rafe’s heart is so loud and warm, it’s a wonder she never saw how much he cared before. Even after they both stopped trying to hide how they felt. During the blissful weeks before they landed in Zamaron hands.
Before the women who call themselves her people used their love to make her a damn Star Sapphire freak.
But joke’s on them—he got Rafe back, and they hauled ass out of there, and she’s not about to join their damn Corps.
It took a breakdown and some serious alone time, just the two of them, before she got some control of her new…powers? Gods, she hates that word. But now her and Rafe have rings to match, and Raven doesn’t feel like she’s drowning in a flood of emotions that aren’t hers every time they come across someone new.
Which is why they’re back on Earth for Tony and Peter’s Christmas party.
She should’ve known the ring wouldn’t care that she already knows all of Rafe’s family. And as they make it down the stairs, dressed to the nines in Earthen clothes, it’s like meeting them all over again.
Rafe kisses her hair, and she grips his hand, her anchor in a sea of emotions not her own.
There is so much love in the room, it’s…overwhelming.
It’s still the word that best describes her constant state of mind.
Fucking overwhelmed.
But this is Rafe’s winter solstice party. His Christmas. And when he asked if Raven would be okay, she’d sworn to him that she was just fine—which she is. She just has to sort through the emotions in the room so she can then purposely ignore them and enjoy the party.
First up is Max, waiting at the bottom of the stairs with Steven, who wisely keeps out of hitting range from Rafael, who’s giving him a less than subtle stink eye, even though he swore to her and Max that he’d behave. Raven glances up at him, and gets a wink for her trouble.
She smiles despite herself.
When Max pulls her into a hug, she feels warm. Like being wrapped in blankets by the fire. Steven and Max’s connection as Firestorm is unique — but she never quite understood the degree of it until now. All part of the same flame, the same warmth, every emotion mirrored in the other’s heart, perfectly in tune.
She’s never seen anything like it.
Max grins at her, sheepish and a little apologetic before he’s wrapped in a bear hug by his big brother, and their laughter is like silver bells in the air — a different kind of love, though still pure and absolute.
With a glance around the room, she meets the rest of the team’s eyes and gets warm greetings in return, though they all keep their distance.
Rafe told them, she realizes very suddenly, as he returns to her side and tries to look innocent. They’re all giving her time to sort through every heart in the room before getting closer.
“You didn’t have to do that.” She mutters at him, warmed by the gesture, and he kisses her hair.
“Yes, I did.”
She loves him so much she thinks her chest might crack open, and before he can sneak away to get them both a drink, she steals a hungry kiss that earns them a few hoots from the idiots in the room. The heat of lust follows him to the bar, and Raven needs a moment to force herself to look at the rest.
At Clark and Stiles, who are like an electrical storm on a clear day. Sunlight so bright she thinks she might go blind if she looks at Clark for too long, and the charged smell of ozone so strong she can feel the hair on her arms stand on end even from here.
At Peter and Tony, whose love is such a tangled web, they might as well be strung together. Never straying far from each other, even when they’re both pulled into different conversations. Like the string between them pulls taut and keeps them from moving further apart.
Laughter draws her eye from the “nerd crew” to Magnus, who seems completely taken with Alec. Alec, who’s usually stoic face is twisted into an almost childish scowl while he explains something to Max and Steven, his nose scrunched up. He’s pointing at them, she realizes — Magnus always seems very tickled by the gesture; hiding away his giggles when Alec aims a finger at him.
The blue flame of Magnus’ love is...all over Alec — which tells her all she needs to know about how they prepared for the party.
Rafe is using Peter's shoulder as an armrest, putting more and more of his weight on him until the poor boy stumbles with a laugh, and they start bickering with big grins on their faces.
It leaves her plenty of time to find the last of her boys.
Barry’s sitting at the bar with a drink he seems to have forgotten about, eyes lost somewhere between their warm reunion and laughter and the window. He’s happy—there’s warmth in his eyes, in his smile—, but there’s a bittersweet edge to it all that pierces her heart.
Having decided, she walks closer, all of her attention on deciphering Barry Allen’s shrouded heart. He’s easier to read now, with the glow of rose in her eyes. Easier to see who he misses. The icy vines that draw his eyes towards the snow outside.
Barry Allen is in love — and for some reason, he’s alone on Christmas.
Raven steps up beside him just as he’s reaching for the bottle, and snatches it out of his hand.
❛ Uh, I was just kind of in the middle of something here. ❜
He looks innocently bewildered as she stares at him, a playful gleam in his eyes, but his heart still cries out with longing, and she puts the bottle down only to pull him into a hug.
"Happy Solstice, Barry.” Before he can say anything, she holds out his phone (What? Assistant Space Cops can still have sticky fingers), a smile on her lips. “You should call them—whoever they are.”
Surprise is mingling with panic beside her, and Raven pretends not to notice as she pours herself a generous drink.
Men.
Raising her glass, she hops off her stool, long hair swaying behind her as she makes her way back towards Rafe.
“It’s Christmas.” Barry’s voice follows her, and she grins. “Not Solstice.”
