Dabi freezes the moment they step through the gates, and he watches Hawks’ figure make its way up the stairs.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” he says, but the wind catches his words and throws them away. He doesn’t know anyone here, aside from Shouto - not that he’d recognize Dabi, not like this. Would he?

He can’t decide which he’d prefer.

But everyone else at this event, they’re all strangers aside from Hawks. Not that he has trouble socializing, but these people...Hawks had called them family, and the sudden, overwhelming pressure to impress drops onto his shoulders.

“Coming?” Hawks calls from the door, and Dabi runs a hand through his hair and takes a step forward. He can hardly turn back now, especially not after being the one to suggest he come along. Hawks sticks a hand out as Dabi climbs the stairs, and he takes it.

He expects Hawks to knock, so he’s mildly surprised when he just pushes the door open and drags Dabi inside. As quickly as he can, he lets his gaze sweep the space he can see: the sofa looks well-worn, blankets drape the cushions, and he can see a few people bustling around the kitchen with bright grins. On the other side, a long dining table extends for ages, and a few people sit around it with various drinks in hand.

He’s not exactly sure what he anticipated, but the place feels lived in, nothing like the sterile house he’d inhabited for so many years, nor like the apartment he barely does much more than sleep in. No, this place is a home, at least for someone.

“Hawks!” A green-haired kid bounds up to Hawks with a bright grin on his face. “You made it! Aizawa’s gonna be- well, you know him. But Mic’ll be really excited to see you!” He glances over at Dabi, then, and - somehow - his smile widens even further. “Dabi, right?” he asks, and Dabi’s brows lift just a bit.

Sure, he knew Hawks had mentioned he’d be coming, but he hadn’t expected anyone to really remember. Or know his name.

“Yep,” he shrugs, then glances over to find Hawks grinning at him. Maybe this was worthwhile, just to make Hawks happy. And…

He glances around over the kid’s head, searching for a familiar face. But he doesn’t see it, at least not right away, and he’s distracted by the green-haired kid sticking his hand out.

“Midoriya Izuku,” he says, and Dabi glances over at Hawks again before shaking it. Hawks seems utterly over the damn moon, and he wonders if he’s gonna have to hide his own grin all night. He hadn’t expected Hawks to be this pleased, and it’s making his chest feel all fluttery.

“I’m sure Hawks will introduce you to everyone, but we’re really glad you could come too!” Someone shouts ‘Midoriya’ from somewhere upstairs, and the kid’s head whips around. “One sec!” he calls back, then flashes another smile at Hawks and Dabi. “Anyway, it was really nice to meet you!” He throws a quick wave over his shoulder when some girl with pink hair shouts his name again from the top of the stairs.

“Are they all like that?” Dabi mumbles as he leans into Hawks’ side. Hawks just laughs, then drags him into the kitchen. He’s admittedly grateful for the fact that Hawks hasn’t let go of his hand - he’s a bit overwhelmed by all the people. This is what they’d consider a ‘small dinner party’? Not to mention there are evidently still some people elsewhere in the house.

“Hawks!” He seems to get an equally enthusiastic greeting from a girl with black hair tied up in a ponytail, and a vague flash of a memory creeps into his head. Right at the same time, her gaze lands on Dabi, and it darkens. “What the hell is he doing here?”

All at once, Hawks starts rambling about how Dabi’s not like that, his friend was the asshole, and so on, and god these kids must really trust him - the girl gives him a narrow-eyed glare, but doesn’t say any more than that, and Dabi almost feels bad. He’d apologize, but he doubts she or her friend - oh, that pink-haired girl at the top of the stairs…right - would want to hear it from him anyway.

Dabi suddenly feels like he’d like to go back to his apartment and curl up under the covers, but Hawks’ grip tightens on his hand as if he’s read his mind.

“I mean,” some guy with yellow hair waves a knife around like it’s any other utensil besides one that could literally cause extreme bodily harm, then points it at Dabi. “He wasn’t really much of an asshole.” Dabi’s not sure if that’s meant to be a compliment or not.

“He didn’t exactly help though,” ponytail girl says back.

“I dunno, if Hawks has been dating him for the past, what, six months?” Yellow-hair turns to Hawks and Dabi, and Dabi’s eyes widen.

“Almost seven?” Hawks says, and Dabi turns to stare at him - he’s got a perfectly neutral expression, and if Dabi didn’t literally know better, he’d probably believe him.

“Yeah, I mean he can’t be a bad guy, Hawks wouldn’t be dating him if he was.” Yellow-hair shrugs and turns back to whatever he’d been chopping, and Ponytail makes some kind of grumbling sound, then grabs a stack of plates and finds somewhere else to be.

Dabi’s admittedly still reeling from finding out he’s been dating Hawks for nearly seven months now. How the time flies.

Hawks drags him from the kitchen and into a hallway, one apparently empty of anyone to overhear them.

“I feel like I should’ve mentioned-” Hawks starts, and Dabi lifts his brows.

“What, that we’ve been dating for over half a year?” He shakes his head - what the hell was he thinking?

“Well it sorta snowballed…” Hawks seems to be finding anywhere to look except at Dabi. “They were sorta...well, it sounded weird to just be like ‘let me bring my brand new boyfriend’, so I said we’d been dating for a while, and they were all like ‘oh, well how long?’ and-”

“And you said six months.” Dabi shakes his head. In a way, he understands - it was kind of strange to bring him after being together- “Boyfriend?” He hadn’t really thought much about it, but he hadn’t really had much time to.

“I- uh, I mean...if you want?” Dabi exhales a breath of laughter at Hawks’ sudden lack of confidence.

“I mean, we have been dating for almost seven months now...” Dabi tilts his head, letting a smirk touch his lips. Hawks’ mouth twists up into a grin, one that looks a little like a smirk as well. But Dabi can see the genuine smile behind it.

His boyfriend. Fuck, Dabi had better live up to the part.

------

Hawks drags him around the party, introducing him to everyone - not that he seems to need the introduction, the immediate reaction to his hand in Hawks’ is apparently ‘oh, so you’re Dabi!’. He’s long since forgotten names, if he’s honest, but all the kids seem to have different hair colors, so he’s just differentiating them that way in his head.

In spite of his excuse for tagging along, Hawks ends up doing most of the talking, fielding all the questions about how they met. He’s spinning it wildly, though, making claims that Dabi was the one flustered by Hawks’ flirting, that he’d been clumsy and nearly spilled his drink everywhere, that Hawks had been the one to suggest they go out on a date. He’s also definitely making it sound less risque.

Although, to be fair, if he sees these people more as family than friends, he’s probably not about to divulge the details of their hook-up.

Dabi plays along, though, happy to pretend he’d been the lovesick fool at the start. Mostly because he sort of had been - and still is. Every now and then, he’ll catch himself just staring at Hawks as he spins a tale about their first meeting, or some date they’ve supposedly been on, or something else entirely. He’s entrancing.

He can almost feel the loss when Hawks excuses himself to grab another drink.

“Just so you know, Dabi,” Dabi turns to find Yellow Hair staring at him, eyes narrowed, “if you do anything to hurt Hawks…” he leaves the threat dangling in the air, and Dabi’s not sure if he should take it as a joke or actually come up with a response to that.

Out of nowhere, though, someone bursts out laughing, and Dabi turns to find a guy sitting on the sofa, his arm around Red Hair - he’d met that kid earlier, he thinks - and a brow quirked.

“He said the same thing to me, don’t take him too seriously,” he advises, and Red Hair frowns.

“Wait, seriously Denki? Did you threaten Bakugou?” Dabi’s brows quirk up, suddenly caught in the middle of this family feud. Yellow Hair sputters out some nonsensical response and tips his drink back, and Dabi’s eternally grateful for Hawks’ return. He does much better hanging onto Hawks’ arm than he does as the center of attention.

“Who’s threatening you?” Hawks chimes in, handing Dabi another drink - he must’ve made them, Dabi hasn’t seen anyone else with any kind of cocktail. This Bakugou kid waves a hand at Yellow Hair, and Hawks raises his brows.

“Yeah okay, Kaminari, you’re not fooling anyone. Sorry, but Bakugou here would beat you to a pulp in a matter of seconds.” He tips his drink back, like he has the empirical evidence to back up his claim, and Bakugou coughs out a laugh.

The guy beside him giggles as well, but he hides it behind a sip of his own drink, and Kaminari’s left with his mouth wide open, glancing between them all. A purple-haired kid walks in - he’s pretty sure he’s met this one - and stops in the doorway.

“Whatever it is,” he says, eyes fixed on Kaminari, “count me out.”

“No no no,” Kaminari stomps over, dragging on the guy’s arm, “tell them I could beat Bakugou in a fight, I totally could!” Dabi watches with amusement as Purple Hair’s face shifts from one emotion to the next. He finally looks over at Kaminari.

“Bakugou would probably rip you in half, if he were really trying,” the guy says, and the whole room breaks into laughter. Dabi finds himself smiling at the banter.

Which is why it takes him more than a few seconds to notice the person climbing down the stairs, head dipped as he says something to that Midoriya kid who’d greeted them at the door.

The second he does, though, the whole world fades into nothing around him.

Shouto looks...well, he still has the scar. Which he’d definitely had before Dabi left, but a fresh wave of anger bubbles up in his chest - Dabi hadn’t been able to protect him, then. But Shouto seems okay now, at least. Midoriya’s hand rests on the small of his back, and he leans into the kid’s side. Dabi’s heart thuds in his chest, a steady rhythm of Shouto’s okay Shouto’s okay Shouto’s okay.

Half of him wants to run over and sweep Shouto into a hug, apologize for leaving, for everything, say all the things he’d never heard as a kid, that he was loved and accepted and valued. The other half demands he stay utterly still, give no indication he knows Shouto at all.

This was stupid - what right does he have to barge in here, into the place Shouto’s made into a home, and dredge up old memories, bring things back from the dead? He’s probably buried them, made peace with them, and here Dabi is, threatening that peace. Threatening the stability Shouto has built for himself.

“Hey, I’m gonna, uh,” Dabi hikes a thumb over his shoulder, not really sure where he plans on going but needing to escape for just a minute. Hawks’ eyes widen, like he’s about to ask something, and Dabi shakes his head, hoping it’s enough to stave off a question. Hawks squeezes his hand and lets it go without a word, and Dabi slips through the kitchen and back toward that hall he and Hawks had been in earlier.

He’d really meant to just stand there for a while, piecing his thoughts back together into something coherent, something that’d help him get through the rest of this without breaking down. Until he notices a door at the end of the hall with an inset window, and he makes the split-second decision to go outside instead. Besides, it’s far less likely anyone will find him awkwardly standing out there and try to make small talk when they’re all bunched together out of sight of the door.

The cool air feels nice after the warmth of so many bodies, and it helps clear his head of whatever’s been stuffed in there.

It also brings him a sense of clarity around Shouto - he shouldn’t have come here, it’d been wrong to try to insert himself back into Shouto’s life. Dabi had made the decision to leave, to break all ties with his family, and he has no right to go back on that just because his brother happens to live in the same area now.

And he doesn’t have the right to steal Shouto’s family from him. Dabi’s long since broken away from his past, changed his name and his look and his identity, and he has no idea if Shouto’s done the same. But it isn’t his place to bring that all to light again, or to make his friends - his new family - doubt him.

Dabi focuses on his breathing, on the slow inhalation and exhalation of the night air. Clouds block out most of the stars, but a few shine through little cracks, and the moon makes an appearance after a few minutes of sitting in silence.

He wonders if he should text Hawks, tell him he’s not feeling well or some other half-assed excuse to get out of here. He’d been right from the moment he stepped through the gate - this was a mistake.

“I’m not surprised you’re out here.” The voice behind Dabi startles him, and he turns to find Shouto standing in the doorway. His head feels like a mix of cotton balls and ‘this was a mistake this was a mistake this was a mistake’ running on repeat. “I also like to get outside whenever it’s too much.”

Dabi watches his gaze flick up to the sky, his arms crossed over his chest. All the words he’d thought he’d say, everything he wanted to tell Shouto, it all blows away in the cool evening breeze.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Shouto says, but his eyes never drop back to Dabi, “but you shouldn’t be.” He inhales, exhales. “Father found me, he might be looking for you as well.”

Dabi’s eyes widen, then they narrow. How dare that bastard- if he destroyed Shouto’s peace, he’ll have hell to pay for it. Touya didn’t know how to fight back, but Dabi sure as fuck does.

“Don’t go after him,” Shouto says - Dabi wonders if Shouto’s always been this way, cold and emotionless, or if he has Enji to blame for yet another thing. “It’s what he wants.”

Dabi swallows the protest that’d been building in his throat - of course it is. His father wants what he’d had for so many years: control over them, control over their whole family. But with him and Shouto both gone, he no longer has that. And Dabi will be damned if he gives that bastard the satisfaction.

“You’re happy,” Dabi says - the first words he’s said to his brother in years, in so many damn years. Shouto tilts his head, then closes his eyes, and Dabi wonders if he’s crossed some boundary - he’s his brother, but are they really siblings any longer? Were they ever, in any way that really mattered?

He’d never stood up for Shouto, never stood in the way of his father’s heartless brutality, never held his brother’s hand when things felt impossible, when Shouto had to be feeling so alone. No, he’d run away instead, found an escape that never really felt much like an escape. And he’d left Shouto alone, or nearly as good as alone.

“I think so,” Shouto says, finally, and Dabi exhales. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness - he can’t, he could never forgive himself, and he would never expect Shouto to do so. But knowing that he’s happy, or he’s somewhere near that...that’s enough.

“Are you, Touya?”


Alucard rolls onto his back and exposes his belly In an attempt to cheer up his lady companion. He is met with a blank stare, although her eyes are on him, he can tell her mind is somewhere else. After a few seconds of whimpering to get her attention, he rolls onto his side and his body slumps in defeat. 	“Damn, usually rolling around like a new puppy is a guaranteed way to get her to smile”. He almost shakes his head at his own foolish behavior. He knows he is acting way out of character, but he almost can’t help it seeing her act like this. Every passing second he can almost hear her heart shatter into continuously smaller pieces. He almost prefers earlier when she was crying, now she looks so empty. Like if her tears carried away all her emotions with them. 	Emphasis on almost. Truthfully, he can barely deal with his own emotions of being left behind by Sypha and Trevor on a daily basis, and now he has to deal with this? He turns to look at her blank expression, poor thing she looks like she hasn’t slept in days. A twinge of guilt creeps up on him as he thinks of his earlier selfish thinking. 	Sleep. Maybe he can help her with that if he can’t make her smile. He curls his large frame around her in a protective circle with his head in her lap. He almost rethinks this move until he feels her hand on his head. If he wasn’t in his wolf form currently his cheeks would definitely be turning pink because of her touch. He starts to scold himself mentally for making such a big deal about her small sign of affection, but his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of her voice.	“I am sorry. I am probably bumming you out. Maybe I should go back home? I don’t want to ruin your mood. Which would be a real shame considering how nice it is today.” You can’t help but sigh as you say this. You start to get up but you grunt as you feel the wolf put his whole body weight on you. You frown as you look down at him and scoff as you notice his golden orbs for eyes are shooting daggers at you. “Fine! You are so stubborn”. Though you don’t want to admit it, you are glad he doesn't want you to leave. You feel so safe and comfortable with him surrounding you like this and you are so damn tired.	Alucard can’t help but feel a bit sad as he watches her already start to fall asleep. Being alone with her thoughts clearly has taken a toll on her. He feels a mix of anger and frustration start to bubble up inside him as he recalls her saying that when the search party went looking for the missing boys all they found was one of the boy’s severed hands gripped tightly around a bloody pocket knife. Ever since his friend’s left, he has always patrolled around the area taking care of whatever night creatures he ran into. What is strange, is he has not seen any signs of even one wandering these parts in a while, yet this tragedy has happened. He can’t help but feel at least somewhat responsible. To make it worse, his neglect has hurt his friend.	Friend? He hesitates at the thought of considering her a friend, but then again he is currently snuggled up to her. You would have to at least be friends to be doing something like this. There is just no avoiding it. He puts his paws over his head in frustration, but his theatrics are quickly interrupted by a small snore.	He looks up at her to find her finally asleep. It’s good she stopped fighting it, she needs rest. She looks so peaceful now. The face that was minutes ago tormented by dark thoughts, is now peacefully unaware of the world. Looking at her sleep like this makes him realize that she is a very pretty young maiden. Because of the unfortunate circumstances of their first encounter he knows she has a nice figure, but he never  really had a chance to take in her facial features until now. Afterall, he was raised to never stare at a lady like that, it is rude and could understandably make a maiden uncomfortable. However, with his head in her lap like this it is not like he can look at much else right now. 	Something about her face makes her seem so approachable. If he didn’t know her already, he could walk up to her and just know somehow that she is a good person. Something about her seems so innocent, he can’t help but want to protect her. 	His eyes widen at that thought and he tries to think about something else but her sleeping face brings his mind right back to that subject. His heart starts to beat a little faster and he can feel butterflies start to form in his stomach. In an attempt to distract himself he tries to think about how he can perhaps patrol the woods more often to try and find what is probably a night creature causing all this harm. They aren’t very smart, so maybe he just needs to be out more often to find it. 	Suddenly he hears a small whimper escape from her lips. He looks up to find her still asleep. He almost starts to wonder if he is hearing things when she whimpers again. This time her body twitches some. She must be having a nightmare. He thinks back to when he used to have nightmares as a child. He tried so hard to be independent and not bother his parents when they happened but sometimes he just needed someone's touch to calm him down. His heart aches some as he recalls his mom holding him and whispering into his ear until he fell back asleep. Maybe his companion needs the same. But, would it even be appropriate for him to touch her like that? Especially, since she is not even conscious to consent to such a thing. Plus, it is not like he ever held Sypha when she was upset. But then again, at least Trevor was there to do that for her. No one is here but him in this situation. 	His thoughts are interrupted by her mumbling panicked nonsense in her sleep. She then grabs a chunk of his fur and pulls on it. Alucard can’t help but yelp loudly and scramble away from her grip. He looks at her, expecting her to have been awoken by his noises and his movement, but somehow she was still asleep and with a chunk of his fur in her hand nonetheless.. Her sleeping face is now twisted up in discomfort. She almost looks like she is in pain. He almost wants to wake her, but he thinks twice since sometimes waking someone in the middle of having sleep terrors could result in them waking up panicked and lead to them maybe hurting themselves. 	“Fuck it.” He mutters as he shifts into his human form. He frowns when he hears her whimper again. He approaches her slowly and kneels down in front of her sleeping form that is leaned against her favorite tree. He gently puts her hands in his. She whimpers again and her body twitches at his touch. He hesitates, but then puts his forehead to hers and whispers, “Shhh, it is ok. You are safe. I am here. I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you.”	He is pleased when he sees her body relax. His thoughts about his mother comforting him almost makes him want to hold her the same way. If that helped comfort him, why wouldn’t it help her? But he decides against it, it seems a bit much for someone who is just a friend. Instead he sits next to her and carefully places her head on his shoulder. 	Maybe he should take this opportunity to nap as well?  After all, he will have a lot of patrolling to do tonight.


Professor Severus Snape couldn’t have anticipated the chaos of the day ahead.  Indeed, he’d challenge anyone--Sybil Trelawney be damned--to foresee the literal fireworks and shite show that was to come.

Waking at his normal half-past five, Severus stretched before throwing off the bedcovers.  Just as an Ukranian Ironbelly was compelled to breathe fire, Severus always woke at dawn. After decades of poor sleep, taxed by constant insomnia and stress, his body didn’t allow for lie-ins however much he wished for them.  He had grown to accept this part about himself over the past seven years following the end of the War. It was just too difficult after four decades of abuse, be it kin, peer, or workplace, to convince his body that things were safer--better--now and he could risk sleeping in.

During his morning routine, his body went on autopilot and his mind cleared: showering for exactly eleven minutes, shaving with a sharp straight razor, and finally dressing in freshly pressed black wool trousers with a crisp white long-sleeved shirt.  After making himself presentable, Severus enjoyed his first cup of self-brewed black coffee in his sitting room while he riffled through correspondence. He had found the private--silent--first dose of caffeine necessary to better prepare for the theatrics of Hogwarts’ youths.  Unknowingly to Severus, no matter how much stimulant he’d consume this morning it wouldn’t be enough.

At exactly a quarter to seven Severus tucked in his shirt, buttoned on his dark wool frock coat, and then shrugged on his outer robe.  He rolled the tightness out of his shoulders. After slipping his letters in a pocket, Severus hid his wand in a sleeve. Regarding his reflection in the purposefully silent mirror, Severus adjusted the buttons at his neckline one final time.  He deftly flicked his inky hair over his shoulders, and smoothed some errant folds on his robe. Severus passed his daily inspection. Methodically neat, and put-together, he looked every bit the part of a respectable Potions Master. On his way out, Severus adjusted his cuffs until both coat and shirt aligned perfectly and pinned them in place.  Old habits die hard; this daily discipline had given him an inch of control during the worst of his past, when he had very little autonomy to speak of.

The Bloody Baron stopped him on his way up the stairwell to the main floor to warn him that he had overheard a group of plotting third-year snakelets in the toilets.  Apparently, they were planning a spot of revenge over an inconsequential matter with some Gryffindors. While the choice to hold court in a toilet was idiotic and conspicuous, it didn’t seem to be serious enough to follow-up on before breakfast--no bloodletting or petrifying had been spoken of--so Severus thanked his informant and proceeded to the Great Hall.

 I’ll have to deal with that sticky wicket soon or risk falling behind on the House Cup,  Severus thought.   I’d really like to win that bet against Minerva that we can capture it two years in a row.

He was pleased to find that he was the first to arrive for the day, even entering prior to Burchard--a prefect, allergic to tomatoes--who seemed curiously hellbent on memorizing the entire Library’s collection on Divination as of late.  The silence of the empty room was meditative, and the only thing that echoed in the space as he approached the High Table were his footsteps. Indeed, Severus had found that his mood was infinitely improved if he didn’t arrive to the Great Hall when it was already at full capacity with the volume cranked up to eleven.  On those rare mornings when he was tardy, he would fleetingly desire to cast a  Mimblewimble on the entire jabbering lot. If nothing else, the fantasy of shutting up the masses was incredibly emotionally satisfying.

A cup of steaming coffee, and two pieces of toast with a side of butter materialized in front of him as Severus took his seat.  As the rich, dark liquid passed his lips he felt himself relax, and his shoulders dropped away from his neck.  The blend is superb today.  If tea could be said to taste better when prepared without magic, the opposite could be said about coffee.  Severus was half-convinced it was the way the Elves crushed the beans. When he was asked to return shortly after the War he had attempted to make a footnote in his contract that he would be privy to the method.  Unfortunately, the Elf Matron had turned out to be quite a ruthless negotiator and Severus had to drop the matter lest he be cut off from his main source of hydration entirely.

Severus pulled out his correspondence from the day before and began to write out a few replies so they could go out with the morning mail.  Pleasingly, in contrast to a decade ago, his letters were of nothing pressing; an apothecary inquiry, a dry reply to Lucius about Draco’s career ambitions, an altogether different and more supportive note to his godson, and a settling of his tab from the Three Broomsticks.

 Draco may do better away from the Manor for a while, Severus thought as he finished his letter to the younger man.  He wrote a quick postscript that he had an Alchemical contact on the continent if his godson wished to be connected.  Merlin knew that Lucius could be a bit pompously overbearing at the best of times. Separating the Malfoy men may ease relations until Lucius could pull his head from his arse.

Something unusual near the back of the Hall caught Severus’ attention.  He turned his head and observed how the colors from the stained glass flickered across the grey stone floor.   Is that a rare streak of February sunshine peeking through the east windows? Yes, I do believe it is.  Above him, the charmed ceiling had the promise of a hint of blue sky, despite the cold, wet weather that was more familiar to this particular spoke on the Wheel between Winter and Spring.  Severus allowed himself a contented sigh. Things were good. Slowly, the room’s population rose as students and professors rambled to their seats. As he signed the bill to Rosmerta with a flourish Severus felt someone settle next to him at the High Table.

Looking absolutely drained, Professor Granger muttered with a frown, “Good morning, Severus.”   Immediately, a plate of two decadent chocolate waffles topped with whipped cream, and a small pitcher of syrup popped into existence in front of her.  “Oh, put your eyebrow down,” she scolded him as she observed his reaction.

“Indulging this morning, are we?” Severus asked as he folded his letter and placed it with the others in front of his place setting.   Is she hormonal or merely trying to pre-emptively up her chocolate intake ahead of the mid-February hedonism? If it’s the former, I dare not ask more.  I like my bollocks attached to my body.

“I had the first half of the overnight patrols last night, if you must know.”

“Ah.”   That explains it.  The only other duty that was more undesirable than night rounds was manually mucking out the blast-ended skrewt pen when Hagrid fell ill or was otherwise indisposed.  Severus watched with morbid fascination as she poured syrup over her plate. At first, Granger was paying careful attention to fill each pocket of her waffles equally.  Then with a sigh she dumped the rest of the pitcher’s contents over the entire stack.

“It was awful,” Hermione continued, stabbing her first bite with enough force that the fork scratched against the plate.  “Seven students out of bed! Three of them were in that alcove behind Julio Furtado’s tapestry.” Before Severus could process that completely she barrelled onward, “I swear it’s the weather.  The students are so cooped up that they’re actually willing to do anything to escape the monotony. Even if that means scandalizing a seventeenth-century weaving of a man with his prized braguette.”

Remembering the proud stance of the Portuguese wizard in the tapestry in question, Severus replied sarcastically, “Minerva thought the wall hanging would horrify the wee bairns.  That’s why it’s hanging so far off the beaten path on the fifth floor.”

“On the contrary,” Granger said with a sniff.  “It only seemed to inspire them last night.” Almost like an afterthought she muttered, “Pomona really has her hands full this year with her sixth years.”

In an effort to steer the discussion away from the sexual exploits of the rutting badgers, and recalling the earlier glimmer of actual sun, he said, “It looks like the weather is taking an unusual, pleasant turn.  Perhaps today will grant us a reprieve from the idiocy of our charges.”

She hummed in reply as she slipped the fork into her mouth.  The pair fell into a comfortable silence as they finished their breakfast.  Severus began to reflect on his friendship with the woman at his side. Hermione had been the Arithmancy Professor for the last five years.  When Vector wished to return for good to her family’s villa in Italy, her successor was clear; there was no one more qualified. Former War Heroine and Cursebreaker, Granger outshone all other candidates.  Indeed, her professorship has been an overall success; there have been more students enrolled in NEWT level Arithmancy courses than when Severus first joined the staff.

Time had truly worked its magic for the two Order of Merlin recipients; there was little that would add animosity in their relationship now beyond Pre-War house prejudices.  As this was Hermione’s first year as Gryffindor’s Head of House, Severus had tested those waters more purposefully as of late. Minerva proved to be a loyalist to the very end of her tenure as Head; he needed to know where Hermione stood in her convictions to better craft his arguments at any meetings where he’d have to defend his Slytherins.  The first time he took more than ten House Points from one of her students this year she didn’t later demand an explanation from him. When she came across Severus ranting at Walsh--second-year, loves toffee--who had pushed Jenkins--first-year, often homesick--in a corridor, Granger didn’t try to gaslight him and switch the narrative painting her student as the victim.  How easy it would have been for her to come to her cubs’ defense at the cost of all others, feeling like she had something to prove. Yet, Hermione had not questioned any of the point deductions or detentions given out by anyone.

After being on the receiving end of the nasty literal fanged bite of reality, a period of self-introspection followed and Severus realized that he didn’t want to follow the antiquated way of thinking regarding house divisions and bigotry any longer.  It bred nothing but ignorance. At best, the world was grey. Placing children together for socialization within a found family was all fine and good. However, people couldn’t--nor shouldn’t--be exclusively cloven to the tidy stereotypical bullshite expelled by the Sorting Hat.  While it had seemed that Hermione agreed with him through her actions, time would tell if she really didn’t play favorites or respect old party lines.

His musings were interrupted when the hatch on the ceiling opened with a loud creak.  Through the opening, the morning’s Owl Post began to flutter into the Hall. If Severus were more observant of the student body rather than being distracted by his thoughts about the woman beside him he might have noticed the calm before the storm.  Indeed, he might have observed how four students from Slytherin had strategically placed themselves along the edges of the room. In retrospect, one couldn’t blame the Hufflepuffs; as they were fellow dungeon dwellers the two houses could be surprisingly chummy at times.  But perhaps, in this one instance, the badgers should have been a tad more suspicious of the two interlopers at either end of their table.

Unfortunately, as with everyone, Severus was completely blindsided when his third-years released several Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-bangs into the air, impeccably timed to the entrance of the avian post carriers.  The resulting boom of several Whiz-bangs colliding was closely followed by the parliament of owls dropping their letters and packages en masse and fleeing back into the hatch to get out of the line of fire.

In her haste to mitigate the disaster, the Headmistress attempted to vanish the fireworks immediately before they did any more damage.  Regrettably, Minerva had forgotten that these specific pyrotechnics were charmed to multiply when hit with  Evanesco.  She swore and the fireworks obliged by mockingly spelling out  TALLYWASHER over the Ravenclaw table.  Severus tried to keep a running tally of the many infractions his students had just earned and how many House Points were now at a loss, but he found himself distracted. And how could he not be?  The gold sparklers danced across the room and hit the flying, flaming pink pigs, which then caused stars to shoot off into the corners of the Great Hall.

Severus slowly rose from his seat.  Putting aside the obvious fallout of this mess--floo calls home, detentions, probations, and the very great chance that this stunt had cost them the House Cup this year--it really was a spectacular show.  In a pinch of nostalgia, the pyrotechnics reminded him of the joyous Bonfire Night celebrations when he was a child. They had been chaotically massive displays, at least until the mills had closed; there wasn’t much joy for many in Cokeworth after that.  If there was any justice in the world, the chance for merriment--for proper fireworks--would only increase for these children in front of him, students who had grown up in the shadow of the War. Severus found comfort in that hopeful feeling; that his and so many others’ sacrifices had been worthwhile.  His gaze softened as it followed the jets of light crossing the Hall, exploding into new variations when they collided. Yellow daisy chains broke off to become bubbles, pink hearts curved under white hopping rabbits. The student body, however, was either mesmerized or terrorized at the anarchy reigning around them.

Filius lifted his wand to attempt to stall things but Minerva stopped him with a raised hand.  She didn’t want a repeat of her earlier mistake. By the pinched look on the Headmistress’ face, it was clear that Slytherin’s hourglass was going to be quite depleted before the first block of the day.  Despite the obvious rule-breaking, more than a few teachers seemed to be in awe. The last time these fireworks were deployed in the Castle, the majority of the staff weren’t witnesses to it as the pink-clad autocratic hag Umbridge had locked the Great Hall down for her draconian exams.  Professor Sinistra looked on in amazement, hands clasped at her chest. Likewise stunned, Sybill was in a trance, but the bright reflections on her eyeglasses hindered Severus from getting a more accurate read on her reaction. Filch, though, appeared to be absolutely disgusted. Severus was surprised.  One would think Argus would be gleeful at the prospect of more detentions but perhaps the caretaker hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.

As the combustible reactions finally started to naturally wind down, the prank’s purpose soon became apparent.  The reason behind Filch’s offended reaction became more clear. The Gryffindor table, located directly under the main hatch of the owlery, was unfortunately where a hundred frightened owls literally had the shit scared out of them.  The table and its occupants were covered in bird droppings. Only a few students had donned hats to stave off the morning chill, and the rest now had white sticky head coverings. The entire house was still as they took in the appearance of their peers.  A diminutive first-year gingerly reached up to her hair and recoiled her hand in horror. Their plates of food--once oatmeal, crepes, and fresh fruit--were coated with a glossy patina of shite. A smelly plume of ordure was thick in the air.

Severus turned slowly to Hermione.  This act of public hooliganism was unacceptable and Severus was fully expecting her to aggressively come to her cubs’ defense.  But to his surprise, her shock didn’t ebb into a Dumbledorian disappointment or righteous anger. Hermione instead broke into a fit of laughter.  The explosion of mirth didn’t truly last for more than a few heartbeats and she managed to hide it behind a hand, but Severus witnessed it all the same.  In that instant, he found her to be absolutely beautiful.

Hermione’s brief moment of amusement, of finding humor in an act of desecration against her House, caused an odd feeling to unfurl in Severus’ chest.  He suddenly felt a fondness for her that had leapt beyond simple friendship.  What is happening...

However, the pyrotechnics then truly ceased, and incensed yelling immediately broke out amongst the tables.  Severus would have to analyze this newfound feeling at another time; there were more pressing matters to attend to.  Hardening his expression, he thought, I need to set this mess to rights.

But his new feelings overtook his sense of responsibility again almost immediately.  “A reprieve from idiocy, you said?” Hermione murmured low as she touched his arm commiseratingly.  She turned to hurry down the dais to her panicked and filthy charges.

Severus was once again stunned.  How easy it would have been for Hermione to stab him with a sharp word about her suspicions regarding Slytherins and their innate desire to always play the villain.  There was no better proof of her turning away from past prejudices and house allegiances. She truly was no longer the girl from her youth who demanded immediate justice without knowing the full story.  Recalling a conversation from earlier this morning, Severus thought,  I need to track the Bloody Baron down, he’ll know what precipitated this action.

He felt Minerva moving behind him, already on the warpath; just because Hermione showed leniency, he couldn’t--wouldn’t--expect it from the Headmistress.  Beyond House loyalties, she had an institution to run and Merlin knew she abhorred theatrics such as these. He would too if he was still responsible for the paperwork.  As Severus descended the dais behind Minerva he spared a glance over at Hermione.

With the help of the Ravenclaw prefects she was  Scourgifing each individual pupil.  Hermione had just finished with the small first-year from earlier, the one who had been horrified by her hair.  The girl--Morris; Muggleborn, proficient at ballet--pointed aggressively at one of the guilty third-year Slytherins that had been rounded up by Minerva.  Hermione gently placed her hand on Morris’ arm and lowered it. With a shake of her head, she cupped her student’s face and whispered something with a smile.  Whatever she had said had the desired effect; Morris visibly relaxed. Hermione looked up at that moment, and caught Severus’ gaze as he walked down the length of the room.  Her smile didn’t falter in the least. If anything, it finally reached her eyes.

 Oh.

Severus suddenly felt lightheaded, and he knew he couldn’t blame it on the residual effects of the flashing or booming Whiz-bangs.  He felt anxious and frustrated over his students’ behaviors, true. But there was something else tumbling in his chest; the fondness that had been sparked earlier was now a fully flickering flame.  Severus was unable to deny it. The realization was too steady, and only growing exponentially with every interaction.

 I fancy Hermione Granger.


✪★ Ch. 8 ★✪

When Steve calls Bruce, he gets Tony instead. It’s the second time in as many calls that Tony’s inserted himself between Steve and the person he’d been trying to reach, which has Steve wondering if Tony’s been screening for him. If, in his own stunted way, this is Tony trying to show that he cares.

Steve knows Tony still feels guilty about the first and only time he’d come face to face with James—even if Tony would go on a coffee strike before admitting to it. And while Steve still doesn’t know exactly what was said, Tony’s genuine attempts to make up for it means it must have been pretty bad.

“Brucie bear is sciencing at the moment, mon Capitaine,” Tony says. “But your favorite billionaire genius is happy to be of service in the meantime. What can I do you for?”

Steve explains the situation as succinctly as he can manage.

“My people came across some pretty nasty stuff when they were doing cleanup,” Tony says, once Steve’s finished. “Bruce and I have been analyzing the samples so we know most of the compounds in that lab were still in the experimental stages but... The stuff they were cooking up, Steve, was— Well, it was biohazardous for sure but  also: the way they were designed to interact with the human body? It’s inhumane, Cap. Cruel. If your boy was exposed to any of that…”

“He got knocked through one of the refrigeration units,” Steve says, limbs going shaky with dread. “His back was all cut up from the glass. Based on what he’s going through now, I’m pretty sure he was exposed to whatever toxins were stored in there.”

“Shit.” Tony blows out a breath. “Well  shit. Let me see if I can find out which stuff he fell into. Call you back.”

Tony hangs up and Steve spends the subsequent wait pacing the room, stomach churning unpleasantly. Thankfully, the wait isn’t very long, Steve’s phone buzzing in his hand less than ten minutes later.

Turns out Tony’s clean-up crew had gathered samples of all the substances Hydra had left behind, thoroughly sanitizing the place of any and all remaining evidence once they were done. The substances within the crushed refrigeration unit where James’ blood had been found and collected had been inventoried along with everything else.

“We think Barnes was exposed to a variant of super-virus,” Tony tells Steve, getting straight to the point. “This one apparently acts as a carrier for different types of pathogens, while initially presenting itself as something relatively harmless. So, like, a person might get diagnosed with an ordinary cold, right? No big deal, not really a cause for alarm. So that person goes home, unsuspecting and then, bam. Suddenly the virus releases what it’s  really  been carrying, something far deadlier than any cold, and no one saw it coming because it was hidden inside the ‘harmless’ cold virus.”

Steve sinks onto the edge of the bed across from James, gazing at his flushed face, his shivering form.

“What does this mean for B—for. For James,” he asks, lowly.

“It’s dangerous,” Tony says. “Scratch that,  highly  dangerous for a normal human. No surprise: Hydra scientists are evil assholes. But for someone with the serum, someone like you and Barnes, we’re thinking it’s probably not as big a deal. The only reason he even contracted it is because it was directly introduced to his bloodstream.”

Relief, almost painful in its intensity, washes over Steve, and he slumps forward, bringing up a hand to cradle his forehead as he exhales a long, steady breath. There’s a faint sound of shuffling over the phone followed by an indignant squawk from Tony, and then Bruce is on the line. His voice is calmly reassuring as he informs Steve that James’ fever likely means the serum’s already fighting the virus in his system, that it shouldn’t be too long before he comes out on the other side.

“It’s horrible,” Bruce states, “But I’m pretty sure Hydra used Barnes as a guinea pig for these viruses. There were some notations about an enhanced test subject in the files Tony’s team recovered. And it makes sense that they’d use him. With someone enhanced, Hydra would have had a better chance of testing their deadly pathogens on a subject they wouldn’t have to worry about dying on them.”

 Of course.  Steve grinds his teeth. Of course they’d used James as their test subject. Just when Steve thinks he’s learned everything Hydra put the Soldier through, some new, horrific gem of information pops up.

“There’s a silver lining in all of this, Steve,” Bruce says. “Barnes survived. Which means he will again.”

Steve slowly unclenches his jaw, anxiety beginning to recede even as the bitter sorrow of learning yet another cruelty James had been subject to rises in its place.

Still, James is okay. He’ll be okay, Steve reminds himself. That’s what matters. He’s strong. He’s made it through countless tortures; he’ll make it through this virus just the same. He’ll make it through, and Steve won’t lose him, again, so soon after he’s gotten him back.

“You’re right,” he manages. “Thank you, Bruce.”

Bruce tells Steve about the plan to reach out to Cho and Strange, and any other medical professionals they can be sure aren’t Hydra, with the goal of formulating cures for the biohazardous horrors Hydra’d cooked up in that lab. About how familiarizing themselves with Hydra virology has made top priority.

“If these viruses somehow got released, they could wreak havoc on the human population,” Bruce says, and Steve feels a wash of pride, of  gratitude  that there are people like Bruce, Cho, and Strange—counterparts to the evil of Hydra, willing to help rather than hurt.

“You should work on keeping Barnes hydrated, and have him rest as much as possible,” Bruce says before they end the call. “Typically, fever in adults is okay so long as it doesn’t go above 103 degrees, but keep an eye on him just in case. If he seems like he’s getting worse, let us know right away. I’ll be near the phone. So will Tony.”

-

 The Asset shivers convulsively, teeth chattering as the body is pummeled by a powerful current of freezing, pressurized water.

‘Hurry up with that, the chair’s waiting.’

 Fire spills across its back.

‘Отказ требует дисциплины, Солдат.’

 The Asset lies prone on scorching desert sand, waiting for its target, the scope of its rifle hot against its face. Heat beats down on the body, steady and unrelenting. The lips are cracked, tongue swollen. It’s going on hour four and the target has yet to appear. Grit has snuck into the Asset’s tac gear, coarse and unforgiving, rubbing deeper into raw skin with every minuscule movement.

 Every breath hurts, whistling hot and dry through its parched throat. The rapid flutter of its heart tattoos against its sternum, each beat accommodated by a pounding rhythm of agony within its head; nausea in its belly. The view across the dunes wavers dizzyingly, bright, bright sun constant, piercing, neverending—

Something ice-cold touches his forehead and the Soldier rolls, landing in a crouch on carpeted floor, limbs shaky and alarmingly weak.

There is a sound above him, a voice speaking nonsense syllables and the Soldier recoils, pitching backward to press himself into the cramped corner where bed frame and wall meet, making himself as small a target as possible.

Fire explodes across his back as his body meets the wall and a raw, grating sound slips from between his lips before the Soldier clenches his jaw tight, muffling any further expression of pain. The Soldier— The Asset—  It is not allowed—

“James.”

The Soldier jerks, startled from his spiraling thoughts. His breath hisses sharply through his teeth—too fast, too loud—

He tilts his chin, a tiny movement just enough to part the strands of hair falling over his face. A man—tall, blond hair—stands beside the bed the Soldier must have been lying on before—

Before this.

The Soldier darts a surreptitious glance around the room and recognizes nothing. He doesn’t know where he is.

He must be— Had he been on mission? His back spasms in renewed pain and,  no.  Pain like this indicates disciplinary correction. Punishment. Had he passed out in the middle of it? That’s happened before.

The man—handler?—watches him, eyes calculating, and the Soldier keeps perfectly still, anxiety ratcheting higher with every silent heartbeat that passes.

“Don’t be afraid,” the man tells him. “Please. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The Soldier stares. Pain is inevitable. The only unknown variables are how soon and how much. His back throbs, underscoring the point. The Soldier is already hurt. Why would the man bother with such an obvious lie?

Unless the man's words are meant to convey that he won't hurt the Soldier  any more.

Sometimes,  rarely, pain and punishments can be mitigated by compliance.

The Soldier forces tense muscles to relax, working to appear unafraid, as directed, and parts dry lips to relay the expected response: “Я-Я готов ответить.”

Perhaps, the Soldier dares, his compliance will be enough. Perhaps the body will not be subjected to further pain at this time.

But the man’s expression falls, clearly disappointed, and the Soldier realizes with dismay that he’s somehow managed to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. Dread coils sour in his belly.

He waits—prey caught in a hunter’s snare—for the man to act.

The man doesn’t move toward him, as expected. He doesn’t move at all. But his expression is still unhappy as he says, “James it’s—it’s me. Don’t you know me?”

The Soldier swallows, dry throat clicking in tandem with the loud pounding of his heart. It’s clear what the blond man  wants  him to say, and the Soldier could lie. He could. But if he gets  caught  in the lie…

There is no right answer to the question, and the Soldier is bitterly, painfully aware of this as he opens his mouth. Rasps, “I—please. I’m. Sorry. S-sorry—”

 ‘Shut your fucking mouth, Soldier. Weapons don’t  beg.  And I’ll cut out that tongue again if that’s what it takes to teach you.’

The Soldier’s jaw snaps closed so fast his teeth clip his tongue, blood filling his mouth as his too-fast breathing goes shallow, the rapid beat of his heart growing even louder in his ears. His fists are clenched and—clenched fists are a sign of aggression. He forces his fingers to uncurl, clutching tightly at his raised knees instead.

The blond man lifts a hand and the Soldier flinches, barely registering the words spilling quickly from the other’s mouth,

“It’s fine James, it’s okay. You’re  okay.”

-

It’s Winter all over again. Locked inside the containment room in the tower, spiraling into a panic attack brought on by Steve’s mere presence.

Except this time there is no glass window for Steve to retreat behind, and no way he’s going to leave James alone in his current state; weak and afraid and—Steve fears—likely to bolt given half the opportunity.

He lowers himself to the floor, slowly. Puts himself at eye level so that he’s no longer looming over James, trying to curtail, as much as he can, the threat of simply being. Luminous eyes track him from behind dark hair, James’ breathing coming quick and erratic.

Steve wants so very badly to move closer. To touch and soothe away this terror the way he could have, and  had, seventy-some years ago in the wake of Zola-fueled nightmares. But this isn’t Bucky. Not in the same way. James has been broken much more thoroughly than Bucky’d ever been. The knowledge of that, the helplessness it engenders, makes Steve violently angry.

Watching James, knowing that Hydra had done this to him, to Bucky,  purposely—that they’d broken him down piece by piece, made him like this,  seen  him like this, lost and terrified and defenseless, and had  hurt him anyway—stokes the fury burning deep in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

He forces himself to swallow it down, to bury it deeper because, right now, he absolutely  cannot  let that anger rise to the surface. Right now, James’ needs take precedence.

So Steve checks himself. Says, voice steady, expression open and hands to himself, “Hey.”

James, attention unwavering, says nothing, but his breathing is still too fast, and so Steve decides to start there.

“Hey, buddy I need you to breathe with me, okay? Nice and slow, in and out. Like this, see?”

Steve slows his breathing, making it deep and even, and James, ever obedient, matches him breath for breath.

Gradually his breathing begins to ease, and Steve offers a small, encouraging smile counting it as a win, a single step in the right direction. “That’s great, pal. Really well done.”

James watches him, all guarded focus and carefully bridled fear, and Steve knows the next step out of the dark pit James had woken up in is to help James ground himself before this fragile moment of calm has a chance to break apart.

He sifts through his memories, thinks back with bittersweet emotion on the sort of practice he’s had in this area.

After Azzano, Bucky’d been plagued by nightmares to such a degree that it wasn’t all that rare to find him mumbling his name, rank, and serial number, blank-eyed and shell-shocked and unable to slough it off as easily as he did during the daylight hours.

Back then, physical touch tended to be the best way to bring Bucky around. How that touch was delivered, though, was entirely dependent upon Bucky.

When he was in a calmer frame of mind, Bucky’d allow Steve to touch him. Simple touches—a hand combing through his hair, arms around him in a loose hug, gentle fingers down his back. These went a long way toward soothing Bucky when he was fresh out of a nightmare.

More often, Bucky preferred to control the touching. He’d pull Steve close, run his hands over Steve’s frame, press his face into the join between neck and shoulder and breathe him in until the shakes subsided and the remnants of his nightmares cleared from his eyes. Times like that, Steve kept his hands to himself, allowing Bucky to take comfort where he would, not touching until Bucky let him know it was okay.

With James, Steve has no doubt that touch is completely off the table. He won’t seek it out, and Steve doesn’t even consider taking the initiative himself.

But, Steve remembers, there had been once or twice where it was the same with Bucky.  During those times, when Bucky would cower away, lost and confused and not seeing Steve at all, touch was out of the question.

It had come down to talking, then. Or more accurately,  Steve  talking, while Bucky—curled up and wild-eyed and looking much the same as James does now—listened.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve begins, same as he always had. “You were born March tenth, nineteen seventeen, to George and Winifred Barnes. Today is Tuesday. It’s 0100 hours. You’re in a motel, and besides us, there is no one else in the room.”

James is watching him avidly now, and Steve continues, relaying as much information as he can, filling in blanks which have doubtlessly played part in provoking James’ anxiety.

“We’ve been tracking down coded messages, but you were injured yesterday and exposed to a toxin. That’s why you’re not feeling well. Your body needs rest so that you can heal. I— I’m Steve. I’m not your handler, and I’m not— I won’t hurt you. Not ever.”

As he speaks, something shifts in those blue eyes, and when he’s finished Steve thinks he can tell that he’s talking to James again, rather than Winter, or the Soldier. “You know me?”

James dips his head in a tiny movement, still wary but at least no longer panicking, and Steve offers another small encouraging smile. “Good, that’s—” Steve releases a short breath, a huff of relief. “That’s good to hear, pal.”

He gets to his feet, putting space between them, not wanting James to feel crowded against the wall. It’s reflex to offer James a hand, something he’s done for Bucky throughout their entire lives.

James studies the hand with the tiniest of frowns—as if Steve has presented some sort of test, something with terrible repercussions should he make the wrong decision—and Steve feels a tangled mix of sorrow, anger, and stupidity, even though offering had been done on autopilot, unthinkingly.

He’s about to pull back, to stuff his hand in his pocket and apologize, when James cautiously extends his own hand, the left one, smooth metal digits sliding across Steve’s palm.

Steve’s heart misses a beat.

It picks up again as he tugs James to his feet, a hard-hitting, rhythmic thud against his sternum.

James, unaware of Steve’s emotional state, sways where he stands, and Steve reluctantly releases his hand, feeling a little like he’s tearing himself away as he forces himself to retreat, to turn to the tangled sheets on James’ bed.

James has managed to show a bit of trust, and Steve is grateful for it.  But, Steve reminds himself,  that certainly doesn’t mean he’s in any kind of state to give more. And it doesn’t change the fact that he still doesn’t truly  know  Steve. Now, when he’s sick and vulnerable, is not the time for Steve to weigh him down with intemperate pining.

Steve takes a moment to pull himself together, straightening the bed as he does so, pulling the top sheet out of the way to make it easy for James to settle back onto the mattress. James does, too weak to do much of anything else. He sits shivering and miserable at the head of the bed.

“Here,” Steve says, proffering the sheet, and James takes it, tugging it over himself and gripping it tight.

Steve goes to the kitchen next, returning with a glass of water which James drinks avidly. His eyes are already drooping by the time the glass is empty, and Steve takes it before it can slip from shaky fingers.

He steps purposefully back from the bed after that, turning around and and moving away. He’s halfway to the kitchen when he hears the rustle of cloth, the sound of James lying down, and knows he’d read the situation right; James is more willing to lie down when Steve isn’t hovering over him.

He takes his time refilling the glass. Putters about the kitchen. Allows James whatever time he needs to fall back asleep.

-


Scott had texted the wolves, even Derek. Scott hoped Derek did not bring his pack.  However, Scott felt he had no choice but to include Derek as it did involve his family. Also, Scot knew that sooner or later, Derek would find out about Theo, his new pack member. Scott texted for everyone to meet at the edge of preserve near the old Hale house burnt out remains.

When he arrived, Derek wore his traditional ‘something stinks,’ diva frown. That was the first thing Scott noticed. Derek's dark jeans, well-worn Henley, and leather jacket were so consistent, Scott wondered if the man ever bought new clothes. The older wolf had dragged along his mismatch pack of Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. Isaac wore his clearly new clothes with a cocky smile that Scott felt made him look smarmy, if possibly—secretly—a bit hot, but not really. It reminded him too much of Jackson for Scott to be too open or comfortable about his possible hint of attraction to Issac. Erica stood with her hands on hips in impatience, matching in some unsettling way with her perfectly polished red lips and nails. She wore an impractical leather mini skirt and a too-tight t-shirt. At least her leather jacket seemed somewhat reasonable. Boyd had his arm snaked around her in a possessive hold with his silent intimidation turned up to thirty billion in his dead eyes and dark clothes.

Totally over the odd pack of misfits, Scott found himself puffing out his chest in pride at Theo’s understated blue jeans and black t-shirt. The clothes subtly highlighted his muscles without having an air of bragging.

Derek spoke first, annoying Scott further, “What the hell are we doing here?”

Scott stood a bit taller, seemingly trying to assert dominance over the situation, as he said, “Look, it was supposed to be just you, but whatever. Stiles says Peter is missing. Deaton backed him up saying last he knew Peter was having control issues and was last seen entering the preserve. Thought, being his blood relative, you may want to be included.”

Derek growled low.

Scott assumed the growling was at his own not noticing that Peter had gone missing. Scott knew Derek could not possibly have known already since Scott only found out about an hour ago. He continued, “I figured you could join our efforts to look for him so we can take him to Deaton. He’ll  make sure Peter’s okay. I had assumed it would be just you, but I guess they can look too. I think we should—”

Derek rudely cut him off, saying, “Fine. Boyd and Erica. You go together, I’ll take Issac. You, Scott, can take whoever that is—“motioning toward Theo—“and… where is Stiles?”

Scott barely suppressed his own growl. He took a deep breath to tamp down the frustration he felt, and then spoke, “Stiles is researching. He is looking into some stuff about the preserve. I agree on the break down. And this is Theo. He’s my beta, from the lacrosse team.”

Theo stood a bit straighter. His muscles even relaxed a bit at being introduced, it seemed.

Scott smiled at Theo with pride. Scott could make betas, too. He was perhaps even better at it.

Derek nodded stiffly at the information provided.

Scott nodded as well and motioned to Theo for him to follow as Scott left the other pack, so he could start the search first.

---------------------------------------------------

Derek and his pack stayed still and silent, waiting for Scott and Theo to be out of hearing range. He spoke quietly though, just in case: “Okay, if you find Peter, text me. Do not approach.  Will deal with him myself. Got it?”

Isaac’s brow furrowed, but he simply said, “Okay.”

Boyd gave a nod, looking to Erica lovingly before pulling Erica away. He took her into the preserve from a different direction than Scott and his ‘buddy’ had gone.

Derek took Isaac with him to go into the preserve from a different angle than the others with the hope of his pack getting to Peter before Scott.

---------------------------------------------------

Months before…

After he had driven Lydia to meet with the others and save Jackson, Stiles had to face the lack of a shit that anyone gave for him. He also saw that Peter was back. He could not contain his own anger at being left out of so much all the time. In that moment, Stiles decided he was his own person, and if he had to face things like Gerard’s torture without anyone seeming to notice, then his choices from here on out didn’t have to be noticed either.

Everyone was distracted by everything else going on. After the heartbreak and tears involved in the process, Lydia was able to save Jackson. Then, there was dealing with Gerard. He was killed due to Scott. He had secretly dosed Gerard with Wolf’s Bane earlier in the evening, so Scott knowingly forced Derek to bite the elderly creep for him to die of bite rejection. Of course, being the humble jerk he was, Scott didn’t bother to tell anyone that. However, he also was in a fight with Allison who was drinking Gerard’s Kool-Aid, so who really knew anymore what Scott was thinking.

Instead of giving people drives home or even sticking around to address the chaos of the aftermath, Stiles slipped around and grabbed Peter by the arm. When Peter looked to him, Stiles put a finger to his lips, signaling for Peter to be quiet.

Peter stayed quiet but had an insanely annoying smirk on his face.

Stiles tugged him around to his jeep while the others were a mix of relief, betrayal, and pride. Stiles motioned for Peter to get into the jeep while moving to the driver’s side. Stiles did not even consider the man refusing as he had cooperated so far.

Starting the jeep up, Stiles heard Peter get into his jeep. Stiles didn’t look over to him until a few blocks away when he had to stop at a red light.

Before Stiles could speak, Peter did, saying, “Whisking me off to ravish me?”

Stiles growled in a way that could nearly put a wolf to shame. He then said, “No. We’re going to rescue Erica and Boyd from Gerard’s men.”

That made Peter growl, all smirking playfulness replaced with an unnerving amount of teeth in his serial killer smile. He then spoke around his wolf fangs as they dropped, “Well, maybe I am not as sane as I told Derek I was.”