#the man that says repeatedly he wants to bulk up ??? goodbye | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amaranthinecanicular · 3 years

Text

and the name for your order is

The guy snarls his order, and Kirishima is glad because clearly he's an unrepentant dick to everyone, not just Amajiki. It's easier to come to terms with than he thought it would be. “And your name?” he says, plucking a cup from the stack and uncapping the marker with his teeth.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” says the customer.

“Oh no,” says Kirishima, because oh no, he likes this guy. It's one of those sudden revelations that takes him by the throat and shakes him down. Who wants to know, he says, as though it wasn't obvious. Who wants to know. So absurdly aggressive it ends up amusing instead of intimidating. Endearing, even.

[My belated @fyeahbnha secret santa gift for @pointy-hat-witch! Please enjoy, and happy holidays!!!]

[Alternatively read on ao3.]

OCTOBER

Fat Gum’s Café has a new customer.

Well. Not new, exactly. He's been showing up for the last two weeks or so but only on days Kirishima wasn’t working. The news shared by his coworkers more closely resemble war stories than work gossip, ranging exclusively from horrible to terrible.

“He’s the scariest person I’ve ever met in my life,” says Amajiki.

“He’s like a sentient piece of crap rolled up in a garbage can and set on fire,” says Kaminari.

“He makes Give me a mocha double espresso sound like an order of execution,” says Amajiki.

“He’s rude and violent and he has no honor,” says Tetsutetsu.

“If he’s not actually a demon sent from the depths of hell to torture me specifically I would be very surprised,” says Amajiki. Most of the stories are from Amajiki.

Kirishima is dying to meet him, in part to defend his friends’ honor and in part to put a face to the legend. Luckily, the start of the new quarter means new classes at new times, and that means new work hours. What was originally a Tuesday-Thursday-Friday-Sunday schedule shifts to a Monday-Wednesday-Saturday schedule. Kirishima feels bad about that. He likes the coffee shop, likes his coworkers, likes his boss. If he could ace his tests and help out at Fat Gum’s every day he would, but he can't. His grades are dragging.

On the bright side, he meets their local celebrity, like, immediately.

It’s his first Saturday on the job. He knows it’s about to go down when he finds Amajiki attempting to assimilate himself into the storage closet.

“He's back,” says Amajiki, doing an excellent impression of coffee grounds quaking in fear. “If I have to deal with him again I'll die, I'll just die. Tell Mirio and Hadou I said goodbye. I'm sorry, Kirishima-kun, I can't do it.”

Poor guy. Amajiki is convinced this dude is terrorizing him deliberately, which Kirishima sincerely hopes isn't true. Anyone who would go out of their way to frighten serious, hardworking, anxious Amajiki must be a monster.

As if to punctuate this point, someone out at the front begins to brutalize the counter bell. To be fair, they really shouldn't leave it unmanned.

“Don't sweat it, senpai,” Kirishima says. He doesn't give Amajiki the manly clap to the shoulder that he wants to—Amajiki isn't so good with physical contact from anyone other than Togata or Hadou. “I'll handle the problem customer.”

Amajiki peeks at Kirishima through coffee filters and the dark wedge of his fringe. “You—you mean it?”

“Sure do. I like a challenge.”

He flashes his brightest smile. Amajiki squints a little at the force of it.

Kirishima is honestly surprised that the poor bell isn’t dented by the time he comes to its rescue.

“About fucking time,” says the problem customer. He's got riotous blond hair and a scowl on his face like it's been carved there. There's a grenade logo sprayed on his baggy black tee, which makes sense, because one look at this guy brings to mind the word explosive.

“How may I help you, sir?” says Kirishima, with deliberate pep. Impossibly, impressively, the scowl cuts deeper. Like an attack—like he's never not on the offensive. That's fine. Kirishima’s smile will be his armor.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” says the customer.

Kirishima spits the cap out of his mouth. “I want to know. For your order, man.”

The problem customer narrows his eyes as though to peer through Kirishima’s question to the ulterior motives behind it, which is insane, since there are no ulterior motives to be found in the absolutely routine procedure of a coffee shop. Cheerfully oblivious seems to be getting under his skin, so Kirishima leans into it. “What if I forget who asked for the mocha double espresso?”

The customer rolls his eyes. He rolls his eyes violently. “Right, because I'm real fucking forgettable.”

“You could be.” The look he gets for that is entirely worth breaking the Customer Is Always Right creed. “We get a lot of traffic, man, it’s nothing personal.”

The customer braces himself on the counter and leans into Kirishima’s space. Instinct hooks in his spine and tries to reel him back a step or two, but he hardens his resolve into stone and ties it to his feet, weighs himself down, refuses to budge.

“You'll remember me,” the customer says. A promise like a threat, and for the first time in the duration of this exchange Kirishima feels seen by him. Acknowledged. It's the same feeling as scoring well on a test, or making a sad friend laugh. Hard-won and worth it. Kirishima can't stop the grin from breaking onto his face so he doesn't try to.

“Sure I will. I like you.”

And the look he gets for that, well, that's priceless.

“So that name?”

“Fuck off.”

The guy recovers fast, that's for sure. Kirishima watches him skulk to the serving counter where he roots himself like a particularly irritable tree and barks at anyone who gets too close. The next customer gets an extra punch in her punch card for the wait, and when the guy's order is up, Kirishima is ready with a sharpie in hand. Amajiki has ventured back out to help with orders, steadfastly avoiding anything problem-customer-related, but he blanches when he sees what Kirishima is scribbling on the cup. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Should I be getting you help?”

“Trust me,” Kirishima says. He caps the coffee and walks it to its rightful owner. “One mocha double espresso for Mr. Unforgettable.”

The guy snatches the cup. He stomps off without another word.

Thirty seconds later he stomps right back.

“Blasty McSplode?”

Amajiki ducks under the counter. Kirishima, in the process of taking another order, smiles wide enough to cramp his cheeks.

“Hey! Back already?”

“Blasty Mc-Fucking-Splode?”

“You wouldn't give me your name. I had to take a stab at it myself. Was I close?”

“I'll show you taking a stab—”

Blasty rants and raves for a full minute, splashing mocha just about everywhere, until finally Fat Gum himself ambles out of his office to gently shoo him from the shop. Kirishima waves at him around Fat Gum’s bulk. Blasty waves his middle finger in response. When Fat Gum comes back in he raises an eyebrow at Kirishima, which, yeah, he definitely deserves, but he also passes a heavy hand through his carefully gelled hair to show that he's not really mad. Kirishima fixes his hair as best he can while Amajiki climbs out from under the counter.

“I can't believe he didn't kill you for that,” he says, his voice buffed by awe.

Kirishima gives the next customer's punch card an extra punch too. Hell, he gives her two extra punches. Why not? He's in a great mood.

Two days later Blasty stalks in and Kirishima can't believe his good fortune. He calls out a greeting from across the cafe and gets a glare in response, but that glare holds, a few seconds of extended eye contact, long enough to stay in Kirishima’s belly after it's ended and flutter there.

Blasty growls his order. Kirishima asks for his name. Blasty tells him to go die and Kirishima scribbles Lord Explosion Murder on the cup. He's rewarded with a snort of amusement.

“Did you see that?” he gushes to Kaminari, after Blasty has left. “He totally laughed! He liked it!”

“I saw it I saw it ow stop hitting me!” Kaminari rubs the place on his shoulder that Kirishima had been slapping repeatedly. “I dunno, man. That sounded more like a scoff to me.”

Nah, he's pretty sure he was amused.

The next time he comes in, after the requisite exchange (“Your name for the order?” “Eat a dick,” “Cool cool I think I'd get fired if I wrote that but cool,”) Kirishima writes King Explosion Murder on the side of the cup.

“Better,” Blasty huffs.

Kirishima feels like cloud-walking for the rest of the day. Kaminari isn’t on shift, but when Kirishima texts him, he texts back: “I stand corrected. When are you asking him out?”

“All in due time,” Kirishima promises his phone.

NOVEMBER

Blasty’s schedule:

He shows up Monday mornings, rumpled by sleep and grouchier than usual, before he heads off to class. Wednesday evenings he drinks and studies until closing time. Saturday afternoons he sits at the window with a bento. Coincidentally these are the three days and times that Kirishima is on duty. And it must be coincidental, because if it's not then that means that Blasty memorized his schedule and molded his life accordingly, learned to fit him in, looks forward to seeing him three days out of the week. Kirishima may be an optimist, but he's not delusional. He knows how dangerous a daydream like that can be.

He’s probably just here because it’s a good place to study. And there must be an exam coming up, because lately he’s been showing up with even more books than usual, and suitcases under his eyes instead of bags. He’s crabbier, too, which Kirishima didn’t think was possible and is honestly impressed by. By this point he has unofficially become the only one willing to serve him, but this wild-eyed evolution of Problem Customer into Demon Customer From Hell just clinches it.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Kirishima says, when he brings over Blasty’s third espresso in as many hours. It’s Saturday, usually Blasty’s day to sit and gaze out the window with one of his more pensive death glares, but today he’s entombed himself in a mountain of notes and textbooks. Kirishima nudges aside a few notebooks to make room for the cup.

“Maybe you should go fuck yourself with a rake,” says Blasty, without looking up from the violent strokes of his pen. “Touch my stuff again and I’ll kill you myself, shitty hair.”

Watching from behind the counter, Amajiki wheezes with secondhand horror. Kirishima peers at the crowded table. “Hey, where’s your bento?”

Blasty slams his pen down. “Was I not clear enough, you moron? Fuck off! Leave me alone!”

Kirishima raises his hands in surrender. Blasty’s mouth opens as if to say something else, but nothing comes out. Maybe he’s realized he’s gone a step too far. They stare at each other for a beat, and then his jaw snaps shut. He jerks his head back to his books and Kirishima retreats to the counter.

“He can’t speak to you like that,” Amajiki says, suddenly stern. He’s always braver on someone else’s account. “I’ll tell Fat Gum, he’ll understand. We don’t have to serve him. You don’t have to take his abuse.”

“The guy’s under a lot of stress,” Kirishima says. It’s overindulgent even for him, but when he glances over his shoulder he sees Blasty wrench his gaze away. “And I think he feels bad.”

Amajiki obviously doesn’t think so, but he says nothing more, which Kirishima appreciates. By closing time Blasty is the only customer left in the shop, still hunched over his books and writing furiously. Kirishima has given him his space, and he hasn’t asked for another coffee. Amajiki is still angry enough to go tell him they’re closing—he’ll even be properly intimidating about it—but Kirishima stops him.

“I’ll lock up,” he offers. Amajiki’s look of disapproval is a blow to Kirishima’s pride, but he stands firm. So Fatgum leaves, and Amajiki leaves, with a sigh and a firm promise that he’ll be on standby if Kirishima needs anything, and then the place is empty and it’s just him, Blasty, and the scritching sound of his pen.

Kirishima takes his time. He cleans up and Blasty keeps studying. He locks the doors and Blasty keeps studying. He sits down at a table across the cafe and gets some of his own homework done, and Blasty keeps studying. Then he goes back to the machines, knowing he’ll have to clean them again, and whips up a special drink. When he’s done, he writes FIGHT ON! where the name should go.

“I don't want your fucking charity,” Blasty says as he sets it down.

“You’ve accepted it so far,” Kirishima points out blandly, gesturing to the very obviously closed cafe. Before Blasty can bite his head off, he continues, “Anyway, don't think of it as charity. Think of it as…an investment.”

“Investment in what?” His eyes are narrowed and very red, both in the iris and the bloodshot sclera.

Kirishima weighs the pros and cons of his next move and decides to go for it. He hazards a wink. “In my future best customer.”

Blasty is unimpressed. Like, fatally unimpressed. Like, it's impressive how unimpressed he looks. Aggressively deadpan. He has to practice that look in the mirror.

But he takes the cup, and when Kirishima peeks at him later, he's smirking at the sharpie message.

Monday morning sees Blasty quiet and terse, but civil. Civil for him, anyway. Kaminari is disturbed.

“What did you do?” he hisses once Blasty bulls out of the shop.

“Nothing.” Even if he barely met Kirishima’s eyes. Not promising.

“Did you fight?”

“No.”

“Did he turn you down?”

“No. Dude, nothing happened.”

Kaminari raises his hands. For a minute they work in silence.

“So if you didn’t get turned down, are you gonna ask him out soon?”

Kirishima hands off an order, and then lets his customer service smile drop. “Now isn’t a good time. I’ve got to give him some space.”

“Okay, but what about all your fortune favors the manly stuff? Isn’t that the reason you got this far in the first place?”

“How far is that? I still don’t know his name.” He can feel Kaminari’s eyes on him, and he tries to rally. Picks up his smile and pastes it back on. “Hey, enough about me. How’s it going with you and Shinsou?”

Kaminari lights up. For the next twenty minutes he regales Kirishima—and the whole cafe—with his loud and maudlin romantic woes, all he’s so hot the bags under his eyes should not be so hot and his dry sense of humor is so hard to read and I think he’s flirting with me but I thought that with Jirou and she and Momo still won’t let me live it down.

Kirishima listens and laughs and offers advice, and he does his job, and he doesn’t think about his grumpy favorite customer even once. Really he doesn’t.

When Blasty comes in on Wednesday, he looks well rested. Kirishima waves before getting back to orders. This is apparently not good enough for Blasty, because he scowls at the people in line and then stalks over to the serving counter and proceeds to glare daggers, like he expects Kirishima to just up and abandon his work to attend to him. Like, yeah, he wants to, but it wouldn’t be right. Even if Blasty scares other customers away from the counter. And even if Kirishima is getting steadily more distracted the longer he stares.

On the third order he messes up, Tetsutetsu intervenes.

“Go on,” he sighs, nudging Kirishima aside as the next customer steps up. “Make it fast, bro.”

Kirishima promises him a meat bun after work and hurries over. “Hey. You’re looking better. Did you ace the test?”

“Obviously.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

There’s a stalled moment. Kirishima taps his fingers on the counter. Blasty is visibly grinding his molars.

“Cool, so I’m gonna get back to work, I’ll make you your regular—”

“Last week,” Blasty starts. He bites out each word. “Last week, I was.” He stops, lips pressed tight and bloodless.

“An asshole,” Kirishima supplies.

Blasty hums low in his throat. Or he growls. Either way it’s as close to an admission as Kirishima is going to get, and it clearly took a hilarious amount of self restraint for even that much.

Blasty clears his throat and says, “That drink you made. What was in it?”

Kirishima is a little thrown by the shift. “Xoaxacl chocolate, a little chili powder. I thought you might like an extra kick.”

“It wasn’t half bad.” There’s color along the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take one of those.”

Maybe Kirishima had been more upset by Blasty’s behavior on Saturday than he thought, because now he feels loads lighter, any old hurts dissipating like clouds under the sun. He smiles, and Blasty blinks a lot, the color spreading to his cheeks and his ears and down his throat.

“One special order, comin’ right up!”

Kirishima turns around and reaches for a cup and marker. And then, behind him: “Bakugou Katsuki.”

He pauses. “Sorry?”

Blasty is rubbing roughly at his mouth. His whole face is glowing. “You heard me.”

“Bakugou,” says Kirishima, trying the taste on his tongue. Bakugou, full of plosives and hard consonants. “I love it. It suits you.”

Bakugou’s eyes snap wide, then narrow just as fast. “Why the fuck should I care what you think of my name? It doesn't need your approval, dipshit.”

When Kirishima is finished making his drink, Bakugou snatches it from his hand and whirls on his heel, a dramatic spray of foam following him out. Kirishima tingles where their fingers touched.

Then he watches Bakugou take a deep pull, and he has to go clean the latte machine before he’s murdered by the lethal and lovely line of Bakugou’s throat.

DECEMBER

“Y’know, I still don’t know what you study.”

“Probably because it’s none of your business.”

“Right. Except how it kind of is literally my business, since I let you study here, in my place of work, after we’ve closed.”

This has become their ritual. On Saturdays Bakugou stay past closing, sometimes doing schoolwork, sometimes helping clean up, sometimes just chatting. He never stays past nine thirty—Kirishima has learned that he likes to turn in before ten every night, which is bizarrely adorable—but it doesn’t matter. Any amount of time with him is always going to feel like a blessing, and it’s never going to feel like enough.

“You’re not doing me any favors, shitty hair, get that thought out of your empty skull this instant.”

“Sure, sure.”

Kirishima finishes cleaning up. Once the last table is wiped down he sits heavily across from Bakugou, happy to finally be off his feet. His eyes feel swollen, too big for his skull. His grades have yet to pick up despite the extra hours of studying he’s been putting in. He presses his knuckles into his eyes for a moment of relief.

“I’m a med student.”

He blinks the colorless starbursts from his eyes. Bakugou, across from him, comes into focus: his head is still down, his gaze still fixed on his book. Sometimes he wears glasses, thick dark frames that Kirishima loves, and today is one of those days. He grins.

“No shit! You’re going to be a doctor?”

“A surgeon.” Some color rises in his ears; he looks pleased. Maybe because of how awed Kirishima sounds. But why wouldn’t he? Anyone working to help people is worthy of admiration, and manly as hell.

“Dude, that’s awesome. I’m studying to be a nurse.”

The corner of Bakugou’s mouth twitches upward. “Nurses are badass.”

“I think so. You a doctor, me a nurse. I bet we’d make a good team.”

Bakugou scoffs, even as pink starts to pool in his collarbones. Kirishima still doesn’t get why certain things make him flush, but he’s happy to learn. He rests his cheek in his hand and tries not to smile too dopily. “Y’know, for a med student you sure drink a lot of coffee. You know too much of this stuff is terrible for you, right?”

“I’m going to tell your boss you said that and get you fired.”

“That’s really not how it works.”

Bakugou’s glare is magnified by the glasses. He takes a long, aggressive sip of his drink—the strength it takes Kirishima not to burst out laughing is Herculean, truly, with the slurping and the deliberate eye contact and all, because only Bakugou could turn coffee into an intimidation tactic. Then he says, “Whatever. I'm invincible.”

Kirishima bursts out laughing. Bakugou grumbles beneath his breath, but his threats delight Kirishima more than they intimidate; Kirishima’s laughter seems to confound Bakugou more than it enrages. They're good for each other, is his sudden thought, and it thrills him.

He’s a little teary and a little breathless by the time he gets himself under control. Through the blurry smudge of his eyelashes he sees Bakugou. Then he’s breathless all over again.

Bakugou’s face—Kirishima wouldn’t say it softens. But there is a softness there, in his unsmiling mouth, in his brow, stern but smooth. He’s just—watching him, steadily. Intent.

“Hey,” Kirishima says, and it’s easy, it’s so easy. “Make sure you come in on Christmas, alright? I get out early, and I want to ask you something.”

And maybe he expects Bakugou to fluster, or to scowl, or to demand to hear his question then and there. He doesn’t.

“Fine,” he says, and he just keeps watching. Like he wouldn’t mind watching Kirishima forever.

Maybe Kirishima’s projecting a little.

Bakugou would probably tear him a new one for spreading the news around, but Kirishima is too excited to keep it to himself.

“I’m happy for you,” says Amajiki, sounding worried but sincere.

“Congrats, man,” says Tetsutetsu, and then they have a celebratory arm wrestling match.

Kaminari is a little more suspicious. “So you haven’t asked him out yet?”

He’s standing on a stepladder, hanging Christmas decorations while Kirishima mans the counter. Bakugou has already stopped by for his morning coffee, and it’s been a slow morning since. The few people trickling in have been couples, sharing hot chocolate and slices of cake. Kirishima has spent an inordinate amount of time daydreaming about similar situations. In his head it’s usually a little less cozy and a little more explosive, but he likes it better that way.

“Technically no.” He tops the latte he’s working on with extra foam. “I asked him to come by on Christmas, and I’m going to ask him out then. I’ve got a plan.”

Kaminari doesn’t need to know how nebulous said plan is. At the moment it includes things like Step One: Bribe With Spicy Food (Addendum: Can Christmas Cake Be Spicy?), Step Two: Sweep Bakugou Off His Feet, Step C: Profess Manly Adoration, Step N: Kiss Just Like, Wow, A Whole Bunch. The truth is he’s always been more of an in the moment kind of guy. But he likes Bakugou—he really, really likes Bakugou. He doesn’t want to screw everything up with an impulsive word or action. And if that means taking precautions he wouldn’t usually bother with, he’ll take them.

“I dunno, man,” says Kaminari. “Midoriya and Momo are all about plans. You…not so much.”

Kirishima decides Kaminari knows him too well. “Any progress with Shinsou?”

That does the trick. Kaminari brightens like the bunch of LED Christmas lights in his arms. He practically swoons, the stepladder protesting beneath him. “Dude, you have no idea. I took a leaf out of your book, just asked him straight out, and lemme tell you I knew Hitoshi was hot but I’ve never seen anyone blush so cute in my whole damn life—”

He swoons a little too hard, arms wheeling, and Kirishima barely vaults the counter in time to catch him. There’s some polite applause from the handful of patrons in the shop. Kirishima and Kaminari bow, and then Fat Gum tells them to quit fooling and get back to work.

Kirishima does not spend the rest of his shift thinking about how Kaminari called Shinsou Hitoshi. And he definitely does not think about calling Bakugou by his first name on Christmas.

He does, however, scrawl Katsuki on no less than three to-go cups.

Kirishima does not see Bakugou on Christmas. He does not see much of anyone, or anything, on Christmas. He can barely see his own hand in front of his face, which could be the delirium brought on by the fever or the copious amount of sweat rolling into his eyes, which is also brought on by the fever.

As badly as he wants to push through the pain, not even he is hardheaded enough to try and drag his sorry carcass to work. It’s hard enough to drag his sorry carcass to the bathroom and back. He tries to text his coworkers (Tamaki? Kaminari? Tetsutetsu? He can’t recall who’s working today, so he texts all of them) and asks them to apologize to Bakugou, but the characters are swimming in his vision and he’s pretty sure the result is gibberish. Which means it’s over. He’s going to be laid up in bed for weeks, he’s going to fail his finals, and come next semester he’ll have a new class schedule, and he’ll never see Bakugou again. He’s blown it. Romance is dead.

Someone’s knocking on the door. He doesn’t answer it right away—it takes a minute for him to peel the rhythm of the pounding door from the pounding in his head. It takes a minute longer for him to stumble up and open it.

“You look like shit,” says Bakugou. He’s standing there looking like god’s gift to the earth, even scowling, even bundled in hat and scarf and mask, even laden down with groceries. Kirishima is pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

“Well? Are you letting me in or what?”

Kirishima lets him in. Bakugou toes out of his boots and then he plants himself in the middle of the room, jerking his head this way and that, taking it all in: the kitchenette-slash-living room, the card table turned dining table, the clashing red and hot pink interior design. “This place is a shitshow,” he declares. “No roommate?”

“She’s spending Christmas with friends.” More specifically, Mina had left last night with the implication that if Kirishima’s date went well he was free to come back to the apartment. There was a lot of obnoxious winking and innuendos. It was sweet of her, if a little mortifying and inappropriate, and in the end entirely wasted when he woke up with the mother of all migraines.

Bakugou drops the groceries on the table and starts shucking his outerwear. The hat, the scarf, the puffy coat. Kirishima sways in place and watches him. He’s wearing a red button down, and beneath that a black tee with the Punisher logo on it. It’s just a little bit dressier than his everyday attire. Is this what he would have worn on their date? If Kirishima had ever gotten to ask him properly? He sighs, forlorn.

Bakugou turns back to him, and they stare at each other. They keep staring at each other until Bakugou reaches past him to close the door, which was still hanging open over his shoulder. Whoops.

“God damn, you’re out of it. Get back to bed, loser.”

He cuffs him over the head, except it’s less of a cuff and more of a ruffle, exasperated and fond. So Kirishima totters back to bed. Hallucination or not, he’s happy to see Bakugou one last time.

When he wakes up, it’s to the rich, earthy kinds of aromas he associates with home cooking, if not necessarily his home. His first thought is that Mina came home early, but she’s just as useless in the kitchen as he is. So either a burglar broke in to cook for him or he wasn’t having an incredibly vivid fever dream, as he’d previously assumed. Which means Bakugou is really, actually, truly in his home.

The door to his bedroom bangs open while he’s wrestling with the sweat-soaked sheets. Bakugou is armed to the teeth with soup, water, tea, pills, and towel, all laid out and puffing steam on a serving tray that Kirishima doesn’t remember owning. He raises an eyebrow at Kirishima’s ogling and knees him in the side.

“Sit up. You have to eat and rehydrate.”

The tray lands on Kirishima’s lap, and then the water and the pills are pushed into his hands. While he’s downing both, Bakugou makes a sour face at the state of his room, and bustles out to change the bedside wastebasket for a clean bag. Kirishima would be more humiliated if he weren’t so happy to see him at all.

When Bakugou comes back he’s got a thermometer in one hand and the card table’s folding chair under an arm. He kicks the chair open, spins it around, and slings one leg over the side. He brandishes the thermometer like a weapon of war.

“Open.”

The thermometer jabs under Kirishima’s tongue. He winces only a little, and his voice comes out nasally and muffled and a little wondering. “I can’t believe you’re really real.”

“What else would I be?”

“I don’t know, a dream? A near death hallucination?”

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Shut up until I get your temperature.”

A few seconds later the thermometer chirps. Bakugou snaps it up and glares at it, and then something in his face relaxes.

“Barely a fever. You’ll live, moron.”

Kirishima asks, “How’d you know where I live?”

“Your dumbass coworker said you were sick. I threatened him bodily harm until he gave me your address.” Like it’s so obvious. Which, yeah, maybe it is. Probably Kaminari, who is both susceptible to Bakugou’s intimidation tactics and has been pushing for them to get together. When Bakugou snaps open the damp towel and starts mopping at Kirishima’s sweaty face, grumbling beneath his breath, he decides that he’s grateful.

For the first time he’s realizing how silly his fever induced fears were. He might be down for the count for a few days, but he won’t miss his finals, even if he might fail them. And even if his schedule falls out of sync with Bakugou’s, it’s not like he’ll be gone forever. They have a mutual friend in Midoriya, as Kirishima learned recently. Or else he could just loiter around the cafe until they learn each other’s new schedules. This doesn’t have to be the end at all. Bakugou proved that by coming here.

“Sorry, Bakugou,” he croaks. “I really wanted to be there with you today. Was looking forward to it all week.”

Bakugou dismisses him with a roll of his eyes. He folds his arms across the back of the chair and rests his chin on them. “So? What happened?”

“End of the semester. Bad grades. Finals.” He waves a vague hand to encompass the studying and the stress and the lack of sleep. It probably didn’t help that he ran himself into the ground trying to justify a night off with Bakugou, though he doubts that comes across with his flappy wrist.

“Guess it all caught up to me.” He spoons some soup into his mouth. “Oh my god, this is delicious. You made this?”

“I’m great at everything, obviously.” His mask twists with a frown. “You’re having trouble in school?”

“’M not a genius like you.”

“It’s not about being a genius, it’s about studying habits. You need someone to quiz you, keep you on task.” A pause, nearly short enough to be casual. “I’ll do it.”

Kirishima lowers the bowl he had been tipping over for the last of the broth. “You?”

“What, you think I can’t? I’ll be the best damn tutor you’ve ever seen, shitty hair.” Another pause. This one is more thoughtful.

“What?” says Kirishima.

Bakugou shakes his head. His voice has dropped to a low rumble in his chest. “Never seen you with your hair down. You should chuck all your gel, it’s not so shitty like this.”

“Didn’t think I’d have company to put it up for. I’d have to flip upside down to do it right, I probably would have passed out and died.”

Bakugou snorts. “You’d think a nurse would take better care of himself.”

Kirishima snorts back, with a little more phlegm. “You’d think a doctor would have better bedside manner.”

All of a sudden Bakugou’s scowl is a little less—scowly, than it usually is. More searching. More intense. Their eyes meet for a second too long and it’s like someone is pouring nitroglycerin down the column of Kirishima’s spine.

“Sounds like you want to know more about my bedside manner.”

He’s smirking, and there are so many things—so many things—that Kirishima could say to that. Things that would be smart or things that would be manly or things that would be safe. So many things.

His fever speaks for him. “Well, if you’re offering.”

The smirk falls away and that intensity comes roaring back. Kirishima’s insides ignite. Bakugou rises slowly and doesn’t once blink, and his chair scrapes on the floor, and Kirishima has the thought I hope that doesn’t scratch the wood—

Then Bakugou is kissing him. The rough weave of his mask and the heat of his mouth behind it, like a brand. His open eyes. His hand cradling the curve of Kirishima’s skull. It’s overwhelming and it’s nothing at all, less of a kiss than a touch, less of a touch than a promise. Kirishima clutches at him because he’ll fall away otherwise, he’s hungry and dizzy and unmoored, and he’s got one hand clenched in Bakugou’s shirt and one in his hair and it’s soft, how is it so soft? His heart lurches in his chest.

No no no, not his heart. “Bakugou, back up, I—oh shit—”

He pulls away and flops over the side of the bed, unable to see if his hail mary aim for the wastebasket came through. Only once he’s done tossing his guts does he register the steadying arm around his shoulders. The hand pushing back his hair. It’s warm and square and dry, with callouses on every finger.

“You’re disgusting,” Bakugou says from somewhere above him. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You’re the one who just kissed a sick man. What does that make you?”

“Magnanimous as fuck.”

Kirishima laughs. It hurts every part of him, but it’s good. It’s really good.

“I really like you, Bakugou. Like a lot.”

It comes out so easy, just like that day in the cafe. He’s still half upside down and his mouth is still sour. Bakugou’s hand is still in his hair. Through the damp red locks that escape his grip Kirishima can see him, and for the first time since they met, he looks starry-eyed. It is the most amazing feeling in the world, even when Bakugou blinks the stars away and glowers.

“Is that why you wanted me to come by the cafe today? I already knew that, dipshit.”

His voice is dismissive and mocking, but his hand is still in Kirishima’s hair, and his collarbones have flooded pink. It’s just like Bakugou to flirt and kiss him within an inch of his life only to get shy about a little sincerity.

“Yeah. That’s all I wanted to say. I was hoping we could go out and, I don’t know, look at Christmas lights. Bake a cake together. Pelt each other with snowballs or something. I like you a lot.”

Bakugou helps him sit up. At his urging Kirishima rinses his mouth with water and then sips some of the tea. It’s lemony and sweet.

Bakugou demands, “What took you so long? I don’t like idiots who beat around the bush, Kirishima. Didn’t think you were like that.”

Kirishima. He doesn’t think he ever wants anyone else to say his name. “Yeah, Kaminari said the same thing. But I didn’t want to mess things up with you.”

“So you decided to be a dumbass? How’d that work out for you?”

He mulls it over. “The guy I like is seeing me half dead, so that’s embarrassing. On the other hand, the guy I like is taking care of me while I’m sick, which is pretty sweet. Net gain, I think.” He’s heartened by the amused squint of Bakugou’s eyes. “So? Want to go out with me?”

For a long moment, Bakugou doesn’t say anything. He just watches, steady, intent, and his hand weaves slow, thoughtless paths through Kirishima’s hair. Kirishima has never been in love before, but he thinks this must be it. He can’t imagine anything else hurting quite so sweetly.

“I’m not dating anyone while I’m still in school,” Bakugou says. “That would be fucking stupid.”

“Okay. After med school is residency, right? You think you’ll be dating then?”

Bakugou’s expression isn’t starry-eyed anymore, but it’s pretty damn close.

He says, “Stick around and find out.”

JANUARY

A new semester means a new schedule, and Kirishima’s does not match up with Bakugou’s even once. It’s a little bit of a bummer, sure, but he’ll survive.

The last customer of the day leaves the cafe two minutes to closing. Kirishima sighs, cracks his neck, and starts prepping the last drink of the day. He sets it on the counter and then he starts wiping down tables, and when the clock strikes the hour, Kaminari goes to lock the doors.

They burst open before he gets there and Kaminari jumps two feet in the air and falls flat on his back. In strides Bakugou, and Kirishima’s heart flutters even as he stands back and cackles at Kaminari for a solid thirty seconds.

“Kirishima,” Kaminari whines from the floor, “your boyfriend’s being mean to me!”

Bakugou kicks at him. “We’re not dating.”

“Ha! Sure, and I’m not dating an insomniac with a fine ass—okay okay you’re not dating, quit kicking me!”

He does, but only after Kirishima scolds him and entices him away with a drink. He grabs it off the counter and passes it to Bakugou. Then he snatches it back.

“Forgot the name, just a sec!”

“You already know my name,” Bakugou groans, but he follows Kirishima behind the counter with barely a frown. “Hurry up, shitty hair, I don’t have all night to tutor your ass.”

“Tutor your ass,” Kaminari laughs from the floor. Bakugou growls.

Kirishima finds the marker and uncaps it. Before he can start to write, Bakugou threads their fingers together and squeezes hard.

“I can’t write your name with my left hand, Bakugou.”

Bakugou hooks his chin over Kirishima’s shoulder. “Sounds like a you problem.”

Well, Kirishima likes a challenge. The final result is messy, but legible. He garnishes it with a heart. “Here.”

“Stupid,” Bakugou huffs, but he accepts the cup and takes a swig. Then he yanks Kirishima toward the exit, where Kaminari is finally peeling himself off the floor.

“We’re still on for Saturday, right?” he asks, dusting himself off. “Double--”

“If you say double date, I’ll set you on fire,” says Bakugou. “And only if shitty hair here passes his test with flying colors.”

Kaminari endeavors to look contrite--his face wasn’t really built for it--but when Bakugou’s back is turned, he shoots Kirishima a subtle thumbs up and mouths double date. Kirishima returns the favor.

Out on the street it’s cold and biting. Bakugou hisses, and takes another gulp of his drink. Kirishima watches him glance at the name on the side of the cup again. If he pointed out the color in his cheeks he knows Bakugou would say it was the cold, or the heat of the drink, and then he’d punch him for good measure. But Kirishima can see his smile, hard-won and worth it. He can see how he passes a thumb over the shaky black characters, over and over: Katsuki.

#fyeahbnhasecretsanta #my hero academia #kiribaku #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #boku no hero academia #shinkami #in the background mostly #kaminari denki #amajiki tamaki #tetsutetsu tetsutetsu #fat gum #bnha fic #ran's writing #pointy-hat-witch #fyeahbnha #coffeeshop au #university au

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mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

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Tribute to What Almost Was

Dean/Cas 1.6k fic

(ao3 link)

When Cas died, Dean spread his ashes in a field he believed Cas would have liked.

Here's how that went.

He doesn’t know why he lit the joint. He can’t explain why, when he caught sight of the dealer half-hidden by gas station shadows, palming a dime bag into their buyer’s hand with a jerky handshake, Dean diverted from his path back to Baby. He didn’t remember flashing his fake badge or barking at the pair to face the wall and place their hands on the wall behind them, but he must have because he stood there, watching panic briefly flitting across their faces, eyes screaming for them to flee and legs that refused to listen, before complying. Dean pushed a plastic bag stuffed with jerky and candy and energy drinks he bought up his arm, then, freeing his hands to search their pockets. He stole their weed – evidence, he gruffly explained – and set them loose with a vague warning. Dean’s latest acquisition joined his other purchases, tucked safely inside. He continued on with his mission, climbing into Baby and driving the rest of the way towards his destination. These events replayed in the smoke off his first drag, joint dangling from Dean’s limp fingers. He still doesn’t know why he lit it.

Dean glances at his watch, then above to see the sun shining in a clear, blue sky.

A few more minutes, he reasons, bringing the joint back to his lips for another drag. He shifts the jar in his lap, moving Cas so the bits of ash that fall from him toking won’t mix with the bits of ash he gathered long after Cas’s body burned atop the pyre.

Dean studies his angel, raising the glass jar to almost eye-level. If he imagines hard enough, Dean can discern features from the cinders and clumps. He tries picturing Cas in his glory, in the moments between battles, in times where Dean’s heart skipped. Visions of the other man, his eyes aglow and jaw unhinged by agony, are what appears. Their freshness overpowers his better memories.

Sighing, Dean sets Cas aside to appreciate the scenery again.

His gaze barely lingers on the windmill slowly spinning near the edge of the clearing, already too familiar with its shape. Dean pays closer attention to the surrounding plant life, instead. With the hand not currently holding his quickly dwindling joint, Dean runs his fingers down a blade of the tall, reedy grass. He loops it around his finger and then releases it. He repeats this a few more times until he discovers a new distraction. Dean reaches out, a caricature of the First Man, as he tries meeting the thin branch of a wild, overgrown bramble halfway. A soft, hollow laugh ekes out past Dean’s lips when his fingertip brushes against a leaf. Dean sucks in more smoke as his watery eyes bounce around the treetops, stopping only because he feels the joint’s nub burning him.

Dean squeezes the ends of the joint, snuffing it. He brought just the one with him.

He glances at his watch, then above to find the sun’s shuffled further along in its journey.

Dean’s waited all he can.

Slowly, Dean rises to his feet. The glass jar is heavy in his hands, like it was when he first grabbed it out of Kelly’s cabinets, except it’s Cas making the bulk of its weight and not the jam he tirelessly scooped out of it.

He stands, fingers laced together on the jar’s surface. Dean bows his head, looking past the hole and at the remnants of his best friend, and is suddenly struck with the need to speak. He tries but can’t utter a single syllable. Those words stay stuck in his throat, colliding into each other; prevented from becoming real, from being spoken now that it’s too late.

Where words fail, Dean’s actions act as a substitute. He shrugs free from his jacket, one arm at a time, refusing to let go of Cas. Dean drops his jacket to the side, overshirt joining it as he slides that off, too. He unloops his belt, buckle hitting the piled fabric with a soft thwack. Dean steps on his laces, unlooping them without using his hands and kicking his boots far into the field. His socks find their way onto the growing heap of Dean’s clothes, followed by Dean’s t-shirt, jeans and boxer briefs. Finally unburdened of his clothes, Dean breathes deeply, then sinks to his knees.

He feels vulnerable, exposed and defenseless. It’s the closest he’s come to recreating the thrill of being caught by Cas’s searching gaze. His angel’s eyes were able to peel away the walls and layers of bullshit Dean had built, defenses Dean thought impenetrable that failed innumerably when set against Cas. Cas saw through all, into Dean’s soul and, somehow, stayed. Cas chose Dean repeatedly, and he’ll never hear how much that meant to him, how much Cas meant to him.

Dean stripped to avoid voicing his thoughts, since he couldn’t. For some odd reason, he overcomes his impasse. Words begin tumbling out of his mouth, filling the silent emptiness of the field. “Y’know, Cas… I always wanted to do this with you,” he says, “never thought it’d… it’d be like this.” He hiccups with laughter, thick and wet. A tear drips down, heading for his chin but interrupted as Dean shudders for breath. It stains the corner of his mouth, forcing it from the false smile and into a more appropriate, more natural, glower.

“I’m not just talkin’ bout the being naked thing,” he whispers, “When I first passed this here patch of land, I immediately thought of you, about how you’d like it. How you might look if I brought you here. How I pictured it you’d… you get this wrinkle between your brows,” Dean taps at his forehead, his eyes screwed shut, “and your head’d tilt like it usually does when you’re confused” – he mimics Cas by skewing his head to the side – “and you’d ask me why we’re here. And I’d go on about how it might not be the beach, but it’s a little slice of heaven where we can exist outside of the raging shitstorm our lives were, without enemies, without battles. A place us soldiers can go and… not be that, y’know? Some peace… for the both of us.” Despite his eyes being closed, tears continue to fall. “Then, while you were taking all that in, I’d grab your hand real smooth like, tell you I love…” He chokes on it. Dean pushes against his fear, straining. “Telling you I love you, and how loving you makes life feel like being in this field all the time. That, in spite of our pasts, we can have peace and we can be together – we can be Dean and we can be Cas, together, because I’ve never thought I could love anyone like this until you showed me it was possible, Cas and –“

He stutters to a halt, grip on the jar slipping. Dean places it over his heart, winding his arms around it. “I’m sorry I never took you here ‘till now,” he says, “I was always too afraid. Because after telling you all that, the next thing I’d see was you pulling your hand out of mine, and your face… you’d smile, but it’d be sadder, because you’d have to explain how you don’t feel the same. Angel stuff that I’d tune out since all I’d hear is the echo of my heart shattering.” Dean cries into his shoulder, muffling his next few sentences. “I held it in. Kept it, and this, from you. And now you won’t know about either…”

Dean clears his throat, uncurling from his position. He rests on his heels, tilting his face towards the sun to let it dry his tears. The sun warms him, allows him to carry on with his goodbye. “I still want you to have this peace. You deserve it… deserve a lot more than what you got, that’s for sure. You deserved a better life, one clear from all the bullshit that I seem to attract… one where you were with someone who could love you proudly, in the open, the way you deserved.”

A strong gust of wind cuts through the field, cueing Dean to upend the jar in his hands. Ashes pour out its lip. The wind carries Cas and scatters him, leaving Dean with an empty jar in his hands.

He’s not done.

Dean roots around his jacket pocket, uncovering the mixtape he made Cas. He pocketed it, refusing to let it burn with the rest of his angel. However, holding it in his hands then, Dean knew he could never listen to it, nor any of those songs contained within, anymore. He saved the mixtape for this moment. Dean digs a small grave for his ‘Top Traxx’, placing it inside and covering his work with a sweep of his hands.

“I won’t ever forget you, Cas,” Dean releases his words to the wind, too, “I can’t. I’ll love you until I can join you, and then some.”

It’s like a weight was lifted off his chest. In doing so, however, Dean reveals a hollowness he doubts will ever be filled.

He glances at his watch, then above to steal a peek at the sun before he leaves Cas’s field.

Dean gathers his things methodically; he steps into his boxer briefs and jeans, hooks his belt closed tight, and throws on his tee and overshirt. He drapes his jacket over his arm, tucks his socks into his boots and carries them in the crook of his fingers. Dean ambles barefoot towards Baby, not in much of a rush to be elsewhere.

He’ll have to go back to the Bunker at some point, Sam probably worried since Dean is out much longer than he promised. But Sam also has other worries he can preoccupy himself for a few more hours.

Dean does, too. He can finish off the weed he stole. Then, after smoking all of it, he can decide on what to do next.

It’s not a perfect plan, but it works for him.

#supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #dean spreading cas's ashes #because everyone else is doing it lol

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imjustthemechanic · 3 years

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The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck

They find the plane - and Miss Lake definitely knows something she’s not telling yet.

Peggy would not have expected dogsled to be a very comfortable way to travel, and it was not – to somebody used to the solid bulk of aeroplanes and automobiles, this comparatively rickety contraption felt like it would be shaken to bits underneath her. The wind was bitter on her face and the cold bit into her fingers and toes, numbing them. Yet they covered the ground remarkably quickly, and there was the exuberance of the dogs, who were doing what they’d been born to do and clearly having a marvelous time at it.

Lake was certainly enjoying herself, laughing and calling out “mush!” as she tried to make their sled pull ahead of Howard and Jason’s. It was enough to make Peggy rather resent her. Who was she to be having fun while they were searching for a dead man? Lake herself ought to be in New York tracking down Dottie, and then on her way to prison. She had no right to consider this a holiday.

“Do you know why it’s called mushing?” she leaned down to shout in Peggy’s ear, over the whistle of the wind.

“I don’t!” Peggy replied. “Why?”

“Because when the French settlers learned it from the Iroquois, they would order their dogs to marche!” said Lake. “And the English are terrible at French, so they pronounced it mush, and that’s what it’s been ever since!”

It also took far longer to get to the site by sled than it had by plane. As mile upon mile of icy wasteland rolled by, Peggy began to wonder if they were going in the wrong direction. They need only start out off-course by a few minutes of arc and they would miss the place by miles. But Howard and Jason had their map and their compass and they would stop repeatedly to check. Peggy had to have faith in them.

The first sign that they were on the right track was when they came to the open path in the ice that the narwhals had been using yesterday. There were none there today, though from a distance they spotted the tall black fin of an orca. They had to make a bit of a detour to find a place where it closed over enough for the dogs and sleds to cross, and Peggy didn’t dare look down as they passed over.

“Unicorns are supposed to like beautiful young virgins,” said Lake cheerfully.

“Is that why they left?” asked Peggy. She was not a virgin, and no longer particularly young, either, nor would she have flattered herself by saying she was beautiful… and regardless of her age or charms, Peggy was quite certain Lake did not meet the unicorn’s standards, either.

Lake giggled. “No, I was thinking of them leading the way to Captain America!”

“I see.” Steve had certainly been young and beautiful… even before Erskine’s serum he’d had the most angelic face. His virginity was none of Lake’s business, though, so Peggy did not comment on it.

“This should be it coming up!” said Howard.

The sun was behind them, with their own long shadows stretching ahead across the snow, and the landscape beyond blindingly white. It was impossible to make out any detail. Even the point where the snow met the sky was a little uncertain. Peggy tried cupping her hands around her face to block out as much light as possible but that really did nothing… and then there it was. The flash of sunlight on exposed metal.

“There!” she exclaimed. “A little to the south!”

As they drew closer, they found themselves approaching a tiny rocky island sticking out of the ice, no bigger than a block of Manhattan. There was not a single sign of life there, not even a bird or a patch of moss. Against the harsh sunlight, the exposed rocks looked black as coal… but not all of them, Peggy realized, were rocks. Some of them were too flat, or had ragged edges that did not look like they were made of stone, and then there was that thing the sun kept shining on.

She couldn’t take it anymore. They were still a hundred yards off when Peggy threw aside the blanket covering her legs, rolled off the sled, and ran ahead. As she moved the reflection pulsed rhythmically off slats of unpainted metal, and she realized what she was seeing… the immense fan of one of the Valkyrie’s jet engines, caught on the rocks and half-covered in snow. Every time her angle changed, a different surface caught the sunlight.

The barking of the dogs and the shouting of her companions faded into the background as Peggy climbed the icy rocks to start brushing snow off the engine housing. Under the soft layer that had most recently fallen was more that had hardened into rough ice. Peggy beat this with her fist to crack it, and when her mittens couldn’t get a grip on the edges she took them off and used her bare fingers. Pieces came away, revealing the metal underneath painted matte black, but with a symbol picked out in a higher gloss. She couldn’t uncover very much of it… but it was enough to see the end of a tentacle.

“Peg!” Howard called out from below. “What have you got?”

She blinked away tears, and looked to see the sleds come to a half at the foot of the rocky slope she’d just climbed. Lake was kneeling in the snow reassuring the animals, while Howard and Jason looked expectantly up at Peggy.

“This is it!” she said. “It has to be. This is the Valkyrie… at least part of it!”

“I told you so!” Lake declared – but she didn’t sound mocking or gloating. She was as delighted as they were. She kissed a dog’s nose and told it what a very good girl it was, and then grabbed a shovel off the sled, paused to take in the position of the sun, and paced out a distance across uneven ice to the west of the shattered engine.

She had described seeing Steve’s body in the ice. She must know exactly where he was.

Peggy tried to slide back down the slope, but lost her footing and tumbled, coming to rest in a heap among the rocks. Jason helped her up, and she murmured a thank you before seizing an ice pick and running after Lake. The men joined them moments later, and they all set to work on the layers of snow.

The ice here was far thicker than it had been on the engine, and cutting through it was back-breaking. Despite the cold, all four of them were soon removing hats and mittens as they sweated with the exertion. Peggy could see in Howard’s eyes that he wanted to take a break, but when she offered him one, he refused. He was stubborn enough to keep working as long as everybody else did. Peggy certainly wasn’t going to stop yet, and Lake was digging like a woman possessed.

“Aha!” Howard said, and grabbed Jason’s write to stop him digging. “Look! Look at that! Peggy, move, you’re casting a shadow.”

She moved to the side, and the sunlight fell on the ice below them. It was cloudy and cracked, and very difficult to see anything through but a vague white haze. When Howard pointed it out, however, Peggy saw it – a smear of red.

That reinvigorated everybody. They resumed their work, more carefully now, since they didn’t want to chop right through and damage the body they’d come here to find. But the time they simply had to stop, they could see enough to know that Steve’s body was there exactly as Lake had described it – lying on his back against the top of the plane, eyes closed, his shield on his left arm and some small object clutched in his right hand. His legs were not visible yet, but there was no sign that he was anything but entirely whole.

As the sun passed overhead, clouds blew in and the wind became bitter. They made camp in the old polar bear den beneath the Valkyrie’s torn-off wing, which hadn’t had any bears in it for a very long time and was surprisingly warm even before they got a little stove lit to warm up coffee and supper. There, it was time to discuss what they were going to do next.

“Somebody needs to go back to the plane and radio Stark Industries with our location,” said Howard. “They can send more helpers and better transportation. Something that can land on the ice,” he added, with a nod to Lake. “Guess that better be me.” He looked at the opening of the den, and Peggy could see that he didn’t want to leave. After so long searching for Steve, and having finally found him, he was afraid that if he took his eyes off the crash site, it would vanish.

“I’ll go,” said Jason. “It can’t be Miss Lake because she’ll never come back, and you two have more invested in this than I do. People at the company know who I am and they’ll know the message is from you.”

“Perfect!” Howard grinned, relieved. “You can give them Peggy’s coordinates, they’re close enough to let them find the place, and we’ll wave them in. Tell them we need something that can land on ice but that can lift… I’m gonna say at least two to four tons. It’ll depend on how much of the ice we can get off him. And we’ll need a ship with a big freezer on board. We don’t want him thawing out before we can get him embalmed.”

Peggy nodded, glad Howard had thought of that because she couldn’t bear to. She didn’t feel quite so terrible as she’d feared she might, but the initial triumph of actually finding the wreck had worn off, and she felt drained, as if she could curl up in here and sleep for a hundred years like Rip Van Winkle. There was a part of her that was sad she could no longer fantasize about Steve’s miraculous return, but mostly she was just relieved. This time it really was over, and she would never have to say goodbye to him again.

That was exactly what Daniel had said, wasn’t it? That as long as Peggy didn’t know for sure where Steve was, he would always haunt her. Now at long last, she could truly lay him to rest and move on.

Jason tipped the last of his coffee down his throat and stuffed a piece of tinned pork roast in his mouth. “You want me to come back after I’ve delivered the message, or stay in Resolute with the plane?” he asked.

“Better stay there,” Howard replied. “If they can’t find us they’ll find you, and you can lead them back out here.”

“Got it.” Jason crawled towards the den exit.

“You’re going right now?” asked Peggy.

“The sooner I get there, the less time you have to spend out here in the middle of nowhere,” Jason pointed out.

“And the sooner you get a real meal again,” said Howard.

“Exactly.” Jason smiled. “Good luck.”

“You as well,” Peggy managed.

It was about twenty minutes later, after Jason had no doubt vanished from view, that Howard reached into his own backpack and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. “Damn,” he said. “I was so caught up I forgot I brought this… doesn’t seem right to open it when we’re not all here.”

“Save it for when we’ve got Steve on the ship home,” Peggy decided.

“Then there’ll be more people who want some,” Howard complained.

“You can share,” said Peggy. “For now… it’ll probably take a couple of days at least for your people to get here, so we just need to hunker down.” It would have made more sense, really, for them all to return to Resolute, but she did not suggest that. She didn’t want to leave any more than Howard did. “It’ll give us time to think about other things.” Things Peggy wasn’t sure she wanted to think about quite yet, but which needed to be dealt with.

“Yeah.” Howard stared thoughtfully at their little camp stove. “He wouldn’t have wanted anybody trying to take him apart and see how he worked.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Peggy agreed. Whatever else he’d been, Steve was, above all, a human being, and they needed to remember him as that, not as the subject of an experiment.

“So we’ll make sure nobody can,” Howard said. “We’ll have to cremate him… we’ll have a public viewing first, because everybody will want to come pay their respects, but after that… and we’ll scatter his ashes at Ebbet’s Field.”

“Where the Brooklyn Dodgers play,” Peggy said with a nod, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “That’s perfect… that’s exactly what he’d want.”

Howard looked at the bottle again, then tucked it back in his bag and raised his tin coffee cup instead. “To Steve.”

“To Steve,” said Peggy, tapping hers against it.

“To Captain America,” Lake agreed with a glance at Peggy.

Peggy sipped her coffee, then looked at Lake. Their uninvited guide had been full of energy earlier, probably working harder than any of them despite being the smallest. Since they’d stopped work for the day, however, she’d said very little. As Jason was leaving she’d gone out to bring the rest of the dogs into the den with them, so that the animals’ body heat could help keep the space warm, but other than that she’d been quiet and still, as if thinking deeply about something.

“What about you?” Peggy asked her.

“What about me?” Lake said.

“Well, what are you planning to do next?”

“I’ve got an extensive to-do list.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Peggy swallowed hard to get all of her pride down in one lump before saying, “thank you. For leading me to him.”

Lake shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet.”

“Oh, no?” asked Peggy.

“No. You’ll know when.” She gave Peggy a weak but apparently sincere smile. “Trust me.”

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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gra-sonas · 5 years

Text

There Was Only One Bed

Pairing: Malex, Alex Manes/Michael Guerin

Words: 3.3K | Rating: PG | On AO3

This fic’s been written for my dearest @insidious-intent as a gift for the Cosmic Love Exchange 2019 over at @goodvibesinroswell.

Dear Inigo, the day you reblogged this screenshot of a recent CNN headline, was the day you were assigned to me as my Cosmic Love Buddy. I squealed, ngl. Not only because you basically delivered the perfect prompt to my doorstep, but because you are one of my closest friends I was lucky enough to meet through RNM, and now I got to make a gift for you. Lucky me!

You are a delight, darling, an invaluable beta reader not only for myself, but also many other writers, you’re the queen of sass, a thirstyfirst order Malex and Vlamburn enthusiast, and a wonderful friend. ILU! This is for you, bb. ♥

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“Professor Guerin, Sir, I’m very sorry, but the last flight back to Albuquerque has departed half an hour ago, there won’t be another flight until tomorrow around noon.”

Michael nearly drops his head on the desk and sighs. He’s tired and hungry and wants nothing more than a warm meal and a bed.

“Okay, is there a hotel where I can stay for the night?”

“There’s a hotel close to the airport. I’ll see what I can do, but due to delays and some cancelled flights, we had to organize overnight stays for several passengers. Please take a seat, Professor, I’ll let you know when I have more details.”

Michael runs a hand through his hair, messing up his mop of curls further.

“Thanks, Susan. I’ll sit down over there and wait.”

Michael gestures at the seating area near the check-in desk, grabs the handle of his trolley and walks over. Only one other passenger is sitting there, a black backpack placed between his feet. The man looks equally tired and disheveled as Michael feels, the strands of his dark hair sticking up every which way, like he’s run his fingers through his hair repeatedly. There's a dried coffee stain prominent on his vanilla-colored hoodie, as if he's spilled the contents of an entire cup all over himself. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and brown boots, and a crutch is leaning against the empty seat to his right.

Michael slowly approaches the man.

“Uhm, hi. Are you also here to wait for hotel information?”

The stranger looks up and Michael feels a pang of something deep down. The man could easily be a model and grace the cover of GQ magazine, he’s that level of gorgeous. When the stranger smiles at him, Michael’s stomach drops even further. He knows he’s in trouble the second he locks eyes with the man.

“Yeah, apparently there are no flights back to Albuquerque until tomorrow. I’m just so lucky.”

The stranger looks down at himself to inspect the coffee stain. Then he looks back up at Michael, rubs at his eyes and dishevels his hair even further by running his hands through them. He's clearly tired and his clothes are rumpled, but he still looks absolutely stunning.

“Long day?” Michael asks.

The stranger scoffs.

“The longest day of my life. And I’ve served three tours.”

“Thank you for your service, Private.”

Michael bites his lip when he realizes that what he said might offend the veteran. He’s also sure that his remark came out a lot more flirty than intended, curse his tired brain. When the stranger laughs, he’s relieved.

“I’m Air Force actually, that would make me an Airman. And it’s Captain, if you don’t mind.”

“Captain, of course. Please forgive my ignorance, I’m not overly familiar with military ranks and stuff. So, you’re Top Gun, that sounds cool.”

The man laughs again, and Michael can’t take his eyes off of him.

“That’s usually the assumption. And while I know my way around military airplanes, I’m more of a desk criminal these days. I’m no longer fit for combat duty.”

He bends down and knocks against his right lower leg. It makes a sound as if the man’s knocked on metal and the crutch makes a lot more sense all of a sudden. Michael tries his best not to blush, even though he’s mortified and worried that he may not only have offended a veteran, but a disabled veteran. He likes the man, why won't his brain let him hold a normal conversation without blurting out inappropriate remarks? When the man smiles at him, Michael feels a little less like an ass.

“Captain...?”

“Manes, Alex Manes. Please, call me Alex.”

Michael grabs the outstretched hand of Captain Alex Manes and shakes it.

“Guerin, Michael. Well, Professor Guerin actually. But please, call me Michael.”

They smile at each other and there’s a spark. A spark of recognition, of longing, of belonging even, Michael almost gasps. Then he sees that Alex’s pupils are blown wide, like he can feel it too. Michael swallows around an invisible lump in his throat, his and Alex’s hands still clasping at each other.

He lets go of Alex’s hand reluctantly, instantly missing the warmth and comforting firmness of it.

Michael takes a seat beside Alex.

“So, Professor Guerin. What are you teaching?”

Michael smiles.

“Quantum mechanics and astrophysics.”

“Nice! So, if my career makes me Maverick, what does that make you? Bruce Banner?”

Michael laughs.

“I don’t have the bulk to pull off Bruce, at least not when he’s hulked out. I’m probably more like Mork.”

“Meaning you're a little awkward, a little inappropriate, yet very funny, and telekinetic?”

Alex raises a questioning brow at Michael.

Michael’s stomach twists. If only the gorgeous man across from him knew that he is indeed telekinetic. And an alien. Just like Mork. Oddly enough Michael doesn’t want to lie. He winks at Alex.

“Well, I can’t spill all my secrets on our first date, Captain.”

Alex’s brow climbs impossibly higher on his forehead.

“I wasn’t aware that this is a date, Professor.”

Michael blushes and drops his head into his open hands.

“I’m sorry, my brain-to-mouth filter seems to be defective when I’m tired.”

“Oh, don’t apologize, we can make it a date if you want. Let's see, I have half a bottle of water and a dry cheese sandwich. And I’ve downloaded season three of Stranger Things to my phone. You up for Netflix and Chill?”

Michael snorts.

“You do know what the chill actually means, right?”

Alex smirks.

“Well, I can’t spill all my secrets on our first date either.”

Michael laughs out loud at this. Then he opens the front compartment of his trolley and rummages around in it.

“Oh, I like you, Captain. I like you a lot. Let’s see. I have a bottle of lukewarm ice tea, an apple and a bag of nuts. I haven’t had a chance to watch season three of Stranger Things yet, so I’m up for it. After dinner?”

They look at each other and grin so hard, it almost hurts.

They eat half a sandwich and a handful of nuts each, then they take turns taking bites from the apple while handing the water bottle back and forth. Neither of them's in the mood for lukewarm ice tea and Michael puts it back into his trolley.

They skip the chill part of their ‘date’ and keep a conversation going instead, sharing random facts about themselves, talking about their jobs, and for all that Michael understands, they are flirting as if they were on a real date. He’s never felt so at ease with another person, so relaxed and calm. At the same time, he’s on edge, feeling a pull towards Alex, an indescribable urge to plaster himself all over the man.

Unconsciously, he’s been edging closer throughout their conversation, reducing the distance between himself and Alex inch by inch.

When he’s close enough to catch a whiff of Alex’s cologne, he almost moans, it smells so good. He must be so tired that he feels like he can barely control himself anymore, wanting nothing more than to drop his head on Alex’s shoulder and snuggle up to him. He wants to bury his nose in the crook of Alex's neck and stay there forever, surrounded and soothed by Alex's steady pulse and irresistible scent.

Alex seems oblivious to Michael’s inner turmoil, animatedly telling an anecdote from a time at base camp when he was just 18 years old. Michael tries his best to follow the story, but all he can focus on is the way Alex’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his elegant hands gesticulate (Alex is wearing a silver ring on his right middle finger, whenever he gestures, it catches the light from the ceiling lights and it’s mesmerizing).

Alex is also wearing an earring - a simple silver hoop – in his left ear. Michael wants to lean over and catch it between his lips. His cock twitches at the idea.

When a young man heads over from the service desk, Michael tries to focus on what he has to say.

“Captain Manes, Professor Guerin?”

“That would be us,” Alex replies and gestures between them.

“My name is Thomas and I’d like to apologize that it took so long. Susan’s told me that you were hoping we could book accommodation at the airport hotel for you, and I’m happy to inform you, that we were able to secure a room for you. There’s a taxi waiting outside in front of the terminal, it will bring you right over.”

Alex and Michael look at each other in relief. As entertaining as their conversation’s been, they are both tired. Michael gets up first and nods at Thomas.

“Thanks for your help, Thomas, we really appreciate it.”

He turns around to Alex and gestures at his backpack.

“Do you have any more luggage?”

Alex shakes his head.

“Only this one.”

“Good, let’s head over to our carriage then, my Lord.”

He bows down in a mock curtsy, offering Alex his hand in the process. Alex blinks for a second, then laughs and grabs the offered hand and slowly pulls himself into a standing position.

“Thanks, Professor, you are too kind.”

Thomas clears his throat.

“Goodnight, gentlemen. Please be back at the airport around ten tomorrow morning.”

Alex and Michael bid their goodbyes to the man, grab their luggage and Alex also his crutch, then they walk over to the exit. Alex leans on his crutch heavily, like he's tired and in pain. Michael closes his eyes for a moment and wishes he had Max’s healing abilities. His telekinesis is fun and often helpful, but right now he’d rather be able to take away Alex's pain.

When they exit the terminal, their taxi driver is waiting for them. They put their luggage in the trunk and without being prompted, Michael takes Alex’s crutch once Alex sits in the passenger seat. Alex smiles at him warmly.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“My pleasure, Captain.”

He places the crutch in the trunk and takes a seat behind Alex. The drive over to the hotel is short, yet they tip the taxi driver generously. Michael gets their belongings out of the trunk and they enter the hotel.

A young woman behind the reception desk smiles at them.

“Good evening, gentlemen, my name’s Natalie, and you must be Professor Manes and Captain Guerin?”

“It’s the other way around, but yes, this is Captain Manes, and I’m Professor Guerin.”

The woman blushes.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I got things mixed up.”

Michael smiles at her.

“No problem. If you could please just lead us to our rooms, we’re both tired and would like to get some sleep.”

Natalie nods and walks around the desk.

“My pleasure, gentlemen, please follow me.”

By unspoken agreement, Michael takes Alex’s backpack and hoists it over one shoulder, then grabs the handle of his trolley.

“After you, Captain.”

Alex smiles at him thankfully and follows the woman to an elevator with slow, measured steps, leaning on his crutch. When the doors open, they all step inside and Natalie pushes the button for the third floor. When they arrive, the doors open and they step into a hallway. Natalie turns left and they follow her down a corridor until she stops in front of a door with the number 345.

She turns to them.

“You are lucky, we are fully booked and this is our last free room.”

Alex and Michael look at each other, then they look at her.

“Uhm, there must be a mistake. We are not together. I mean, we don’t travel together. I mean, we didn’t even know each other until an hour ago. We need a second room.”

Michael looks at her with wide eyes. She shakes her head.

“I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but there are no other free rooms. This is the last one.”

She opens the door with a keycard and turns the lights on.

They step into the room behind her. It’s a small room. A wardrobe and small desk with a flatscreen TV mounted on the wall above to the left, a bathroom and a bed to the right. One bed. It’s a king size but, but still, just one bed. Michael sighs.

Natalie looks flustered.

“I’m terribly sorry, I wish I could offer you something else, but this is all we have.”

Alex and Michael look at each other for a moment, searching for something in each other’s eyes. When they both seem to find what they were looking for in the other man's eyes, they nod at each other with a tilt of their heads and turn back to Natalie. It’s Alex who speaks for them.

“It’s okay, Natalie. We’ll take the room. It’s only one night, a couple of hours in fact. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Michael chimes in.

“Natalie, would you have another blanket, though? More towels would also be great. And is there a vending machine somewhere. And ice?”

Natalie nods.

“Yes, of course, Sir. I can bring the extra blanket and towels to you. The vending and ice machines are at the other end of the corridor.”

“You know what? Why don’t I come with you and spare you the way back up here? It'd give Captain Manes some space and time to get ready for bed.”

Alex smiles at Michael, a huge THANKS written across his face.

The young woman nods.

“Of course, Sir, please follow me. Good night, Captain Manes.”

“Good night, Natalie. And thank you, Michael.”

Michael grabs Alex’s shoulder and squeezes it for a moment.

“It’s okay. I’ll be back in about 15 minutes. Hope you won’t be asleep by then, Captain.”

Alex winks at Michael, then his voice drops an octave.

“I’ll eagerly await your return, Professor.”

Liquid hot desire runs down Michael’s spine. He licks his lips and when Alex smirks, he knows that Alex has noticed his reaction. He shakes his head and turns to leave the room.

“I’ll be back in a few.”

Michael follows Natalie out into the corridor where she hands him the keycard to the room. He closes the door behind him.

When he returns to the room about 20 minutes later, he’s carrying an extra blanket, towels and a cushion under his left arm, he's also holding two water bottles in his left hand. In his other hand he carries an insulated bucket with a lid. It's filled with ice. He’s holding the keycard between his fingers and hopes that he won’t drop everything in his attempt to open the door.

He holds the card close to the magnetic field and enters the room with all items still in his hands.

Alex is already in bed, occupying the right side. His head is propped up on a cushion and he’s holding a tablet in his left hand. He looks up at Michael and Michael nearly drops everything there and then, because Alex is wearing glasses and no shirt.

Michael can't help himself.

“Holy shit, did GQ call? I’m sure they want their cover model back.”

Alex laughs and a questioning eyebrow becomes visible above the thick rim of his black framed glasses.

“Didn't take you for someone who's reading GQ, Professor.”

Michael doesn’t know how to react to that. To any of it. Alex looks insanely attractive, and he keeps calling Michael Professor, which does things to Michael. He’s definitely too tired to handle the situation with dignity, so he quickly places the water bottles and the ice bucket on the desk, takes the towels in his now empty right hand and drops the blanket and cushion in a pile on the left side of the bed.

“I... I’ll better go and take a shower. A cold one. Jesus Fucking Christ.”

He all but flees into the bathroom and only dares to breathe, when the door is closed behind him. Then he remembers the ice bucket and why he brought it. Shit! He looks at himself in the mirror and moans. He looks like a mad man, his curls a messy halo around his head, his pupils blown impossibly wide. He turns on the cold water, washes his hands and splashes some water on his face. Then he grabs a towel and rubs at his face. He takes a deep steadying breath, then takes a clean towel, opens the door behind him and returns to the bed room.

Alex looks up at him, questioningly. Michael grabs the ice bucket and pulls a ziploc bag out of the pocket of his dress pants. He holds both items up.

“Uhm, I’m not sure if this is ok, but I noticed that you were in pain earlier, and I thought that maybe you’d like to put ice on your leg?”

He feels terribly shy all of a sudden, his face probably tomato red from blushing so hard. He closes his eyes, the ice bucket and ziploc still clutched in his outstretched hands. What if Alex finally takes offense at something he says? What if he gets angry? Michael tries not to panic but breathing seems impossibly hard all of a sudden.

“Michael, please look at me.”

Alex’s voice is quiet and soft. Michael blinks his eyes open.

Alex looks at him with kind eyes, puts his tablet away and shuffles over further into the middle of the bed. Then he pats the empty space beside him. When Michael steps closer, he notices the prosthetic leg leaning against the nightstand. He quickly averts his gaze and looks at Alex instead, then he sits down on the bed.

“You are right, I’m in pain, have been all afternoon. You noticed and now you’re bringing me ice. It's remarkable, really. I’ve... I’ve never met someone quite like you. You're one of a kind, Michael Guerin.”

Alex’s voice sounds amused, a smile plays on his lips. Michael blinks at Alex’s words, and once again, he can’t help himself, he doesn’t want to lie.

“Well, technically there are at least two others of my kind.”

Alex tilts his head in surprise.

“Are you telling me you’re a triplet, Professor?”

Michael smiles and winks at Alex.

“I guess you could say that, yes.”

“Do the other two look as gorgeous as you?”

Michael snorts.

“Oh, they wish. But no, we’re not identical triplets, maybe not even biological triplets. I.. It’s a longer story. Too long and complicated to tell tonight.”

Alex smiles at Michael seductively, his voice smooth and inviting when he speaks.

“Good thing that I’m not in the mood for a bedtime story then. I have something more chill in mind, if you’re up for it?”

Alex slowly takes the ice bucket and the ziploc bag from Michael's hands and places them on the nightstand. Then he takes Michael’s head between his hands and pulls him closer in slow increments, giving Michael plenty of time and opportunity to indicate that he's not up for chill. But Michael doesn't want an out, he wants the opposite. He twists around further to face Alex properly. Alex slides his hands into Michael's curls and pulls him in until their lips meet in a kiss.

It’s tender at first, just a press of lips. Then Michael opens his mouth, then Alex does too, and then they’re not coming up for air for a long, long time, their tongues and lips too eager to explore and conquer. Michael never makes it back into the bathroom for a cold shower...

They're up for hours and when they finally fall asleep in the wee hours of the next morning, utterly sated and wrapped around each other, they sleep so deep, they miss the flight to Albuquerque at noon.

When they wake up, they extend their stay in room 345 for another night.

#malex #malex fic #goodvibesinroswell #cosmic love exchange 2019 #cosmicloveexchange #alex guerin #michael guerin #there was only one bed #for inigo with love #roswell new mexico #rnm fic #my fic

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