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duhragonball · 5 years

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Dragon Ball Z 201

Last episode, Gohan started attending high school in Satan City, but Satan City is riddled with crime, and Gohan’s afraid if he beats up too many criminals with his super powers, it’ll make his social life awkward. I really don’t understand why he’s so worried. Everyone thinks Mr. Satan has super powers, and he seems to do all right.

Anyway, he goes to Capsule Corp. to consult Bulma on the problem, and she mulls it over while smoking a cigarette. This is one of those little details that you don’t really think about much, but it’s something that you just don’t see in modern anime. I’m pretty sure Bulma’s only smoking here as a callback to her father, Dr. Brief, who often smoked and had a similar hairstyle back in the day. I mean, he still does, it’s not like he died or anything. My point is that you never see Bulma smoking in the 2010′s, even though those episodes and movies are set only a few years after this one.

I’m pretty sure that’s because Japanese television adopted stricter rules between 1993 and 2010. Did this scene make it into Dragon Ball Kai? I bet it didn’t. The only recent example of a smoking anime character is Jotaro Kujo from JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, and they obscured it with shadow every time he lit up. Then again, Lisa Lisa smoked in full view, so maybe it’s just because Jotaro was a minor? Nonetheless, I feel like smoking has been heavily de-emphasized in media throughout my lifetime. It used to be commonplace, and now it seems like creators will avoid smoking altogether. I don’t know if it’s because they just don’t want to use it, or if there’s external pressure to avoid it. It’s a good thing, either way. I remember watching an “I Love Lucy” episode once where the four main characters all just sort of stopped talking so they could light up and get their cigarettes started, like that was a perfectly acceptable use of airtime.

Bulma’s solution is to make Gohan a disguise that he can change into at the push of a button. Gohan is amazed that such a thing is even possible, but she says she can knock it out in two hours.

While she works on that, Gohan goes to hang out with Trunks. Not the one from the future, but the baby we last saw in Episode 193.

Trunks just started training with Vegeta, who feels he’s old enough to learn from him. So naturally he puts in an appearance and chastises Gohan for losing his edge in peacetime.

This episode was a big deal to me when I first watched it in 2001. By then, I was invested enough in DBZ that I couldn’t wait for Cartoon Network to air the post-Cell Games stuff, so I started buying the tapes. I think this episode would have been on the third one I got, and it serves as our first look at the cast seven years after the Cell Games. Until now, all we’ve seen are Chi-Chi, Gohan, and Mr. Satan.

Also, I was genuinely fascinated to see what Vegeta would say or do in a scene like this. He and Gohan never interacted much in the first place, and he was a huge dick during most of that time, and the last time we saw Vegeta, he seemed to be at a crossroads. He declared that he’d never fight again, but what would he do instead? In this episode, we finally get a semblance of an answer. He’s been living here, with Bulma, training the whole time, and now he’s planning to train Trunks. As far as Gohan is concerned, he seems to regard him with a certain degree of respect, warning him that he can’t afford to get flabby.

Later, Bulma finishes Gohan’s super-suit, which includes gloves and boots from Vegeta’s wardrobe.

Gohan’s thrilled with it, but Trunks isn’t. Earlier, he asked if Bulma could make him a costume, but now he’s taking it back.

On his way home, Gohan passes through Satan City again and decides to give the outfit a test run when he spots a reckless driver. Look, if I had a muscle-car that was bright yellow and the number 69 on it, I’d drive like a madman too. This is why I’m not cut out to be a judge.

The guys ask Gohan who he is, since his ridiculous outfit doesn’t tell them anything, and he pauses to consider what his superhero name should be. At last he settles on “The Great Saiyaman,” and he does this elaborate pose to emphasize it.

Hearing this, the two men laugh hysterically, until Gohan gets upset and stomps the roadhard enough to break the pavement. They quickly apologize and promise to drive safely. Score one for justice.

Gohan returns home and Chi-Chi hates his outfit. Is it really that much different from what anyone else in this show has worn so far? I mean, Chi-Chi used to wear a cape and a helmet herself. Does she just think Gohan’s suit doesn’t show enough bare skin?

But Goten loves the Great Saiyaman outfit, so that’s something. Wait, who?

As Gohan flies to school the next day, the narrator fills us in. Basically Goku got Chi-Chi pregnant right before he went off to fight Cell, so nine months later she gave birth to this kid and named him Goten. Of course, if you’re only watching the anime, you would have already seen the boy by now, because he’s all over the new opening credits.

With his new costume, Gohan can just fly to school under his own power, land on the roof, and change back to his normal outfit with the touch of a button on his watch. He says this will save him from having to use Kinto’un to make his commute, but why was he ever using it in the first place? It’s not like he could let people see that either, right? Or did Gohan think Kinto’un wouldn’t be that big a deal?

In class, a couple of students are already talking about the new superhero, although they get his name wrong. I guess “Tireman” does sound a lot like “Saiyaman” if you pronounce it “SIGH-a-man”, like they do in Japanese. I don’t know why the dub changed it from “SIGH-an” to “SAY-an,” but whatever.

Anyway, Gohan angrily corrects them on the proper name, and then he has to make up some story to explain how he would know this. The story here is that Gohan’s so wrapped up in playing a superhero that he keeps forgetting why he wanted the secret identity in the first place. What does he care if people get the name wrong? As long as they’re not calling him “Son Gohan”, it works.

Later, Videl gets a call on her wristwatch, because everyone has a magic watch, apparently. There’s a hostage situation on a tour bus, so she has to excuse herself from class to go deal with it.

Gohan doesn’t understand, so Sharpner explains that Videl assists the authorities in crises like these. She’s basically following in the footsteps of her father, Mr. Satan, and Sharpner assures Gohan that she’s about as strong as her dad is, so she’s more than capable of handling these situations.

But Gohan doesn’t buy that, because the last time he saw Mr. Satan, he got beat by Cell in one hit. Okay, yeah, but Perfect Cell is a long way from a gang of busjackers, you know. I’m not sure Gohan fully appreciates that distinction, though the irony still shines through. It seemed harmless at the time to allow Mr. Satan to take credit for defeating Cell. Gohan clearly never waned the accolade. He’s worried about people finding out he foiled that bank robbery in the last episode. But Mr. Satan’s faux heroism has now inspired Videl to try to become an actual hero, and she might not be as lucky as her father.

So Gohan excuses himself to go to the restroom and decides to back up Videl as Great Saiyaman........ except he doesn’t know where the bus terminal is.

Meanwhile, at the bus terminal... HAHAHAHAHAHA WHAT IS WITH THIS GUY? Why is he covering his entire face with his bandit mask? How does he see what he’s doing? What’s with the chicken hat? This is insane, and it’s great.

The bus they’ve taken over is full of old people, who seem unconcerned about being used as hostages. I think the deal here is that these guys just got done robbing a bank, then fled to this bus when the cops came after them, and now they’re hoping to use the bus to escape.

I feel like this is some sort of anime trope, with senior citizen tourists being completely unworried about what’s going on around them. I’m mostly thinking of that episode of Hellsing Ultmate where Alucard and Father Anderson were about to throw down in a museum until Seras led a tour group between them to defuse the situation.

Anyway, this lackadaisical attitude irritates the crooks, but they still pose for a photo when asked.

Then Videl arrives in the air vehicle she uses for these situations.

So basically, Videl doesn’t have super powers OR a costume, and she just flies into a situation and starts whooping ass whenever she gets a call on her watch. What exactly is she doing that the cops couldn’t have done? I mean, at least they had guns.

So Videl jumps on the bus and crashes through the wndow and starts opening up a can of whoop-ass on these guys. She’s basically Batman without the suit, which is pretty awesome.

Then one of the old people takes a photo of her, and she blushes. Awwww.

Unfortunately, Videl was so busy kicking butt that she failed to notice no one was driving the bus as it rolled off a cliff. But Gohan’s here in time to catch it, and everything’s okay.

And I guess this puts Videl’s character into perspective. A lot of critics point out that she never really got any development as a fighter. When she appears in video games, they usually have Gohan or Great Saiyaman show up to help her as part of her finishing move. I think a lot of fans, especially female ones, wanted to see Videl train until she got strong enough to hang with the Z-Fighters, and it just never happened.

But, I mean, this is her second appearance, and the debut of the idea of Videl as a crimefighting heroine, and she’s already gotten in over her head. She’s not nearly as goofy as Mr. Satan, but she’s more like him than the audience might care to admit. As impressive as she was on that bus, she nearly got herself killed.

Gohan introduces himself as the Great Saiyaman and she’s as put off by his costume and poses as everyone else so far. Then Gohan addresses her by name and flies off.

Videl’s all like “How does he know my name?” But doesn’t everyone in town know Videl? The people on the bus recognized her. The crooks recognized her, which was why they opened fire as soon as she landed on the bus. Why wouldn’t a new superhero know her?

So Gohan’s pretty pleased with himself, and the narrator assures us that Gohan’s secret won’t be exposed, right? Right? You’re shaking your head, why is that?

#dragon ball #2019dbliveblog #great saiyaman saga #gohan #videl #vegeta #bulma #trunks #chi chi #goten #erasa #sharpner #mr satan #cell #perfect cell

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ohblackdiamond · 5 years

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the end of the world tour (kiss/endgame crossover, r) (part 3/4)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

In this chapter: Training continues, sans Rocky montage. Peter gets some answers courtesy Gene and, maybe, Ace. Prepare the preparations.

Or, four washed-up former rockstar superheroes don the spandex of old in a last-ditch effort to save an already half-gone world. They just need a little support from a billionaire who’s not too keen on KISS interrupting his private life. Somewhat Endgame compliant.

Two days later, the visitors started to arrive.

Peter couldn’t exactly call them fans. He didn’t think they were fans, exactly—he didn’t think more than half of the younger ones even exactly knew who KISS was. But they started to creep up to the yard, phones in hand, eager for even the barest hint of superheroism.

The other guys were eating it up. Even Ace, who wasn’t quite as introverted as Paul but still relished his time alone, started showing the visitors around the backyard like it was some kind of grand tour (unsurprisingly, the only sacrosanct portion was his spaceship, roped off as if it were the Venus de Milo—“’m sorry, you can’t touch it, but if you wanna stand over there and take a picture, you can”). He only looked mildly taken aback when a couple of the visitors got brave enough to go from sneaking around the yard to actually knocking at the front door.

“Don’t let them in,” Pete snapped, watching Ace get up on automatic to answer. Ace only offered him a lazy shrug.

“Why not?”

“You know why not. We’ll never get rid of them.”

“They ain’t gonna stay, Peter,” Ace started, interrupted by Paul hurriedly half-tripping down the stairs, having to grab onto the railing. The six-inch, star-encrusted heels of his Alive outfit seemed to be giving him trouble.

“Don’t answer it yet!” he called out, looking from Ace to Peter. “Don’t answer until you’re in costume!”

“Paul, you vain bastard—”

“I’m not being vain! You’ll ruin the mystique!”

“What’s the point? They all know we’re old!”

“That’s not what I mean! Ace, how the hell is anyone gonna have any faith in us saving the world if you answer the door like that ?”

Ace shot a brief, amused look Peter’s way just before a puff of blue smoke obscured him from sight. A second later, Ace emerged, in the facepaint and a purple, velvet onesie.

Paul looked as if he were about to have an aneurysm.

“ No ! That’s not even one of our outfits! How did you—”

“Don’t have to be. You can do any outfit you wanna.” Ace paused. “C’mon, Paulie, you didn’t just think we were stuck with the tour shit, did you? What kinda superhero only gets six costumes?”

The rapping from the other side of the door continued.

“Oh, come on, are you telling me if I want my black leather overalls back, all I have to do is—”

“I dunno if I’d recommend ’em, Paulie, but—” Ace stopped again, yanking open the door. “Hey, how you doing?”

The kid at the door—he couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, by Peter’s reckoning—seemed to mostly be his dwarfed by his own mass of curly red hair, his face plastered with freckles. He just stared at the three of them, mouth a small round o of surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d open it!”

Paul was mumbling under his breath, gesticulating to Peter with about as much subtlety as a conductor during Handel’s “Messiah.” Transform , he was mouthing. Peter ignored him.

“Well, we don’t always, but…” Ace trailed, grinning. “How’d you hear about us, huh?”

The redheaded kid shrugged.

“Somebody at school said you were supposed to be fixing everything.”

“Yeah?” Ace’s expression didn’t shift a single centimeter.

“Uh-huh. They said you were gonna be the Avengers’ secret weapon and they’d pulled you out of the freezer like Captain America.”

Peter glanced over at Paul, who was still standing halfway down the staircase. From Paul’s expression, it was patently clear that the sheer amount of interviews, meet and greets, and impromptu hobknobbing he’d endured over the last forty years was all that was keeping him straight-faced.

“We didn’t get pulled out of the freezer,” Paul managed after a moment.

“I guess he didn’t,” said the kid, pointing to Peter. Before Peter could respond, but not before Paul and Ace started to snort, he continued. “Are you, though? Are you guys really gonna do it?”

“We—”

“I got a sister,” and the kid wasn’t looking at either of them now. Peter waited, expectant, a rock forming somewhere in his gut. He knew the story before the kid could tell it. He was sure of it. Just as sure of it, just as uselessly sure of it as he ever had been during their cancer ward visits. The kids all hoping just because KISS had come by, that maybe everything was going to be all right, even as they lay there hooked up to IVs and a half-dozen machines. Even as they lay there dying. The kid swallowed. “She… wouldn’t be coming back even if you did save everybody.”

“I’m sorry.” It was Paul. He’d said it before Peter could. He wasn’t looking the kid in the eye, either, Peter noticed. Just staring at the door directly behind him. Peter’s gut was lurching. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t disappeared from existence. She’d died before.

The kid didn’t say anything for a few seconds that seemed to stretch and pull like taffy. Ace’s lips were pursed so tight the black of his lipstick seemed barely-there. The cloistered existences they’d led the last five years, trying so hard to avoid pain when it enveloped everything around them. Everything past them. Consumed in their own grief, unable or unwilling or both to really acknowledge the real human toll of it for fear it would break them. Everyone on Earth had lost someone. Some had lost everyone. And some just watched as the ones left behind followed after.

Peter was almost starting to get it. Some of it. For Gene and Paul and Ace, FER probably hadn’t only been an exercise in talisman abuse and easy lays. Stupid as it was, hedonistic and disastrous as it was, trying to make a life in a dying world… it must have warmed them. It must have made them feel good for more than just the afterglow.

“I’m gonna see her again someday.” The kid finally glanced up from the floor. “Not for a long time. But I will.” An exhale. “You’re gonna try, right? You’re gonna try to fix everything.”

“We’re gonna try,” Peter said, throat feeling warm and thick and too-heavy.

“Okay.” And he was starting to smile, dimples pushing into the freckles on his face. “That’s good.” He hesitated. “Oh, uh…”

“Yeah?”

And he pushed his phone forward.

“Could I get a selfie? The kids at school won’t believe me unless I get a selfie.”

It might have been the most questionable selfie Peter had been a part of in his life.

“I told you to get in costume,” Paul mumbled as he held up the phone for the picture, putting his free arm behind Peter’s shoulder on idle default, “but no —”

Begrudgingly, with that utterly inevitable puff of green smoke signaling everything, Peter got into costume. Well. He got into the cat-embroidered jacket and cutout leotard he’d worn when it was too cold to go sleeveless. The kid’s eyes went buggy. Paul looked deeply offended. Ace just snickered.

“None of us match at all,” Paul said flatly.

“I don’t care. Take the picture.”

“Fine.” Paul was still fiddling with the angle, unsurprisingly, tilting his head as he stared at the camera. Peter waited for about fifteen seconds—fifteen seconds too long for Ace, who snatched the phone from Paul and snapped the picture before he could grab it back. Paul looked as if he were about to snag it back, or at least argue, but instead he just let Ace hand the phone back to the kid—after leaning over to inspect the selfie first.

“It pass inspection, Paul?” Ace lilted.

“It’s good enough,” Paul muttered, before turning his attention back to the visitor. “Anything else you’d like? Autographs? Posters?”

The kid nodded shyly, and Paul immediately scrambled for merchandise. For once, Peter was profoundly grateful Gene was gone on an errand run. The man might have tried to sell the poor kid some of those KISS-branded air guitar strings he still had in the basement.

Things quieted down faster than Peter had expected them to. A few weeks of buzzing activity, a few weeks of impromptu, free meet-and-greets, and then the visitors retreated again. Fickle. No attention span. No second tidal wave of KISSteria overwhelming their half-gone world. Peter found he didn’t really mind. Workouts and training were a lot easier to focus on without being stared at or recorded.

He’d spent an hour or so downstairs, fiddling absentmindedly at the piano, digging through old memorabilia and guitars, before coming back up to the main floor to start on dinner. His assigned day again. Gene was the only one hanging around the kitchen by the time Peter got there.

“Where’re Ace and Paul?”

“Trying to fix the spaceship.”

“They getting anywhere with it?”

“I doubt it. Ace didn’t get out the blowtorch.”

Peter snorted in reply.

“Three more months, he said. S’like how he used to say his next album was coming out in the spring. Only it was ten springs in a row, the lazy bastard.”

Gene shrugged.

“I can’t remember the last time he asked one of us to help with it.”

“I wouldn’t want us helping with it. C’mon, Gene, none of us have any business fooling with that shit when we barely know how to top off the oil tank in the car.”

“What’s gotten you so pissed-off this late in the afternoon?”

“You know what.”

“Peter, I really don’t—”

“Things are getting screwed-up again,” Peter said dryly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The connection bullshit’s back just like it used to be. Don’t you feel it?”

It was a moot question. Of course Gene could feel it. That weird bleeding in of everyone’s emotional states into a messy, almost indistinguishable puddle. Getting so in-tune it got creepy, borderline empathic. It was the one thing about their crimefighting days that Peter hadn’t missed much at all.

“I’m feeling it.”

“Somebody’s keyed-up as hell. And it’s not me, so it’s got to be either you or Paul or Ace…”

“It’s probably Paul.”

“Paul’s always anxious! What’s he got to be so nerved-out about?” Peter groused, yanking the trash bag out of the garbage can, tying it off, and setting it down on the floor. “Shit, I thought he might be feeling better these days.”

Gene shrugged.

“He’s sensitive.”

“Ace is, too, the big difference is he has a sense of humor about it,” Peter grumbled, heading outside with the trash bag in tow, still calling out to Gene as he toted it out. “I don’t like feeling antsy just because someone else is antsy. I’ll tell them both that as soon as they get in.”

“Don’t do that. There’s probably a reason.”

“Reason, my ass. My blood pressure’s high enough without Paulie dialing it up with all his fucking feelings.” Peter returned, only to find Gene had, surprisingly, replaced the trash bag while he was out. “What’d you want for dinner?”

“Do we still have any of that steak left?”

“Yeah. Probably enough for a stir-fry.” Peter opened up one of the cabinets by the stove, taking out a cutting board and a frying pan. Wok , he could almost hear Paul correcting. If it got the job done, the proper terminology didn’t matter. Mentally, he started to tally the vegetables they had on hand to toss in. Onions, peppers… maybe some mushrooms. He wasn’t after authenticity so much as getting rid of as much produce as possible. Boil up some rice, and it wouldn’t be a bad meal.

“Brownies would be good, too.”

“I didn’t buy any mix.”

“I did.” Gene dug it out of the pantry, along with a bottle of oil. Peter rolled his eyes.

“You know none of the workouts we do in costume do a damn thing for any of us out of costume, right?”

“I know. I just don’t care.” Gene was already taking the egg carton out of the refrigerator, absolutely shameless. Peter shook his head slowly, watching Gene set the ingredients out on the counter. “Figure we’ve earned it.”

“You’re gonna get diabetes, man.”

“I’ll live to be a hundred. I’ve got great… genes.” Gene said it with his usual dry, obnoxious self-assurance, familiar enough that Peter had long stopped minding it. He expected Gene to get out a bowl next, but instead, he went and plugged in the record player on the other side of the kitchen. Peter could hear him cross over into the living room, and knew he was probably pilfering through their records. “This’ll help your blood pressure. What album do you want?”

“Anything that isn’t us.”

Gene nodded, walking back into the kitchen with a ratty copy of the Beatles’ Yesterday and Today . Peter winced.

“Okay, anything that isn’t us or the fucking Beatles.”

“Best two names in rock and roll.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Gene set the album down on the kitchen table, still looking at Peter, which was a bit of a surprise. Peter had expected him to dig out another album and put it on the player, regardless of his opinion on the matter. But no, he was waiting on Peter to pick.

“One of the Krupa records is fine.”

“All right.”

Gene crossed back over to the living room, got another album out, and put it on the turntable. Peter recognized it after the first few bars as Burnin’ Beat. He sighed and retrieved the leftover steak and vegetables from the fridge, started to chop the steak into strips while Gene began mixing up the brownie batter. Peter’s arthritis wasn’t treating him half so badly this evening.

It was always a different kind of silence with Gene than it was with Ace or Paul. Strangely easier to handle. Gene wasn’t off in an avoidant, self-inflicted orbit like Ace, or stuck chronically ruminating like Paul. Gene was always thinking ahead. Always moving forward. Sometimes it aggravated the shit out of Peter, and sometimes it was just what he needed to be around.

“The talismans expose the true selves of the holders,” Gene said finally, as he poured a frankly disastrous amount of mini M&Ms and broken-up Hershey bars into the batter. “Did you ever give that any thought?”

“No. Not until the last couple months.” Peter shrugged. “I didn’t think about it back then. We’d been doing the makeup before we got the talismans.”

Nothing Gene didn’t already know. They’d mapped out rough designs themselves in a desperate bid for a gimmick. Something to get them noticed. The regular genderbending schtick they’d tried before, with the four of them in heavy blush and eyeliner and lipstick, hadn’t suited anyone but Ace. They hadn’t looked like they were tearing down the establishment, blurring the lines between male and female, any of that—they’d just looked sad. Putting on the white greasepaint had been the turning point they needed. The talismans just sealed the deal.

“I’ve thought about it a long time.” Gene’s voice, always quiet and deceptively even, got a little lower, as if there was any likelihood Ace and Paul could hear him from out in the backyard. “It’s a great origin story. Struggling band gets magic powers, becomes successful superhero musicians. But…”

“But what?”

“When your true self wears more makeup and higher heels than Frank-n-Furter, that’s concerning.”

“Like Stark’s Iron Man crap is any better.” Peter crooked a smile. “He doesn’t even have a codpiece.”

Gene snorted. He only looked marginally more at ease.

“That’s not exactly it.” He paused. “We were still wearing the outfits and makeup five years ago. Paul and Eric and Tommy and I.”

“Yeah, I know.” God, did he know. Peter didn’t even remember—or didn’t want to remember—when he’d signed over his makeup rights. He hadn’t been thinking about crimefighting then. None of them had. He just remembered disgust roiling in his stomach as he’d watched the band go on without him for the second and then the third time in a fucking row.

“It was getting to me. Getting to all of us—Paul won’t admit it, but…” Gene trailed uncharacteristically. “It was starting to feel like a parody.”

“ Starting to?” Peter snorted. Gene, surprisingly, didn’t look too ruffled.

“Yeah. At first, I thought I was fine with that. We’d been running off nostalgia since the nineties. If people were still paying to see us, who the fuck cared if I wasn’t stomping around anymore? If Paul wasn’t jumping all over the stage? Who—”

“Gene, the only reason either of you stopped that was because wasn’t turned into couldn’t .” Peter tossed the steak into the frying pan, started to chop the mushrooms, just dropping them into the pan, not bothering with the cutting board. “Didn’t matter how many tickets you sold. You couldn’t buy your way back to ’76.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Gene’s eyes, always so appallingly focused, weren’t on Peter for once. “Fuck, if dignity was in KISS’ vocabulary, we would have folded our first concert in drag. I didn’t care about getting old and looking like crap onstage. I didn’t want to buy my way back to ’76.”

“Then what did you want?”

“Shit, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“I wanted to hang it up.” Gene was pouring the batter into the pan now, smoothing it over more than he needed to with the back of a spoon, his mouth pursed tightly. He hadn’t even taken a taste of it yet. Peter knew exactly how poor a sign that was.

“You’ve wanted to hang it up before. You even said you would. Remember the Farewell Tour?”

“ Really hang it up. No more KISS, no more concerts—I was tired of it. Maybe Mick Jagger can keep on croaking ‘Satisfaction,’ but—”

“But Paul can’t get through ‘Detroit Rock City.’”

“Don’t tell him that. It’d kill him.”

“He already knows it.” Peter paused. Started chopping up the peppers and onions and dropping them into the wok, which was hissing with every new addition. A thought had come to him, one he’d mulled over for ages, but hadn’t dared mention until now. “Gene?”

“Yeah?” Gene had finally put the brownie pan into the oven.

“Was that the real reason for all the Hall of Fame crap? Was that why we didn’t play?”

“Peter,” Gene started.

“It was, wasn’t it? Why the hell didn’t you say so? I thought it was just the usual bullshit. Don’t let me and Ace play with you and Paul or everyone’ll be begging for another Reunion Tour. If I’d known—”

“That—”

“You should’ve said ! Did we really hate each other that bad? Was Paul that fucking scared of what we’d say? Were you?”

“Peter, at this point—”

“If you’d said, I might’ve understood. But Christ, Gene, just refusing without a reason was fucking awful. I didn’t wanna see any of the rest of you outside of a funeral home ever again.”

“I’m pretty sure we were all thinking that.” Gene sounded as if he were trying to force out a snort. “Even Paul and I didn’t coordinate suits.”

“The hell did you two have to be sore about? Did you insult one of his paintings?”

Gene just shrugged.

“We’re basically brothers, we have our disagreements.”

“Cut the crap, Gene, Paul ain’t ever been your brother. He’s your princess.”

“Fine, whatever.” The Krupa record slowed to a stop. Peter peered over as Gene turned it over and set the needle back down. “What happened at the Hall of Fame was a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it was.”

“But I didn’t get to dwell on it. We were in the middle of touring when…” Gene swallowed thickly. Peter knew he wasn’t about to detail him and Paul’s falling out. When without a specification always meant five years ago. Another four-letter-word for half of humanity disappearing in front of them. “But I figured it out before then. I’m serious, I really did. I was out there doing the fucking ‘God of Thunder’ routine and all of a sudden…” Gene shook his head, looking almost bewildered. “I realized I could not give less of a shit.”

“You? Are you serious?” Peter did snort. “C’mon, you’ve gone onstage sick as a dog before, don’t tell me you—”

“I’m serious. It was terrifying. You don’t—” Another shake of his head. “The audience wasn’t feeding me anymore. I wasn’t feeding them. I realized that the show didn’t really become a show until we stopped believing in it. I’d stopped believing in it.”

“So what changed your mind?” Peter turned down the heat on the stovetop, absently pushing a spatula through the stir-fry. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Gene had gotten out the soy sauce for him. “What made you believe in it enough to get the talismans back out?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Gene hesitated. Rare to see him hesitate. He looked as if he were about to deliver another practiced interview sermon, and Peter prepared himself for it, but it didn’t happen.

“I wanted to see for myself. Prove there might still be some magic there.” His lip was twitching. Peter shifted closer as Gene continued. “After everything, I needed it. But I didn’t want to get them out alone, I don’t know why. I suppose I was just afraid of nothing happening.”

“You really thought nothing would happen?”

Gene raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing had happened since ’80.”

“Nothing at all?”

“They’d just glow a little sometimes. I didn’t expect that much, but I was hoping for it. So I asked Paul to come up to the attic with me. I said I was wanting to look through some old pictures, maybe get something together for a KISS coffee table book—”

“And he believed you?”

“Of course not, but he came up there. Once I pulled out the box, he didn’t hesitate. He told me to go ahead and open it up.” Gene’s mouth twitched. “They were glowing, all right. They hadn’t been that bright in years. I’m not sure which one of us reached in and grabbed his talisman first.”

“Then you decided after that to join FER?”

Gene didn’t look too abashed.

“Yeah, I found an article on it a few days later. I showed it to Paul, then we told Ace, put in our applications and started in, then you found out, and the rest is—”

“If you say KISStory, you’re not getting dinner.’

“That’s fine. I’ll just eat the brownies.”

Ace and Paul returned a few minutes later, after the stir-fry was done but before the brownies were ready. They both looked weirdly drained, almost down, Paul stiffly pulling out his chair and sitting at the table without a word.

“How’s the spaceship?” Gene asked.

“Outlook not so good, Curly,” Ace mumbled, walking over on automatic to the sink, retrieving the bowl Gene had used to mix the brownie batter in. He started scraping a spoon up the sides, seemingly unaware that Gene had, for once, actually half-filled the bowl with water and dish soap, even if he hadn’t washed it. Paul threw him an acrid look. “But we’ll see, y’know?”

Peter didn’t bother to plate the stir fry, just put the wok itself on top of an oven mitt on the table. He did the same with the rice bowl a moment later. No need to clean more dishes than he had to.

“We’ll see,” Gene agreed, glancing Peter’s way. “Look, if you want us all to help, just let us know.”

“Nah, Geno, it’s—” Ace had put that first absentminded spoonful of water, batter, and suds in his mouth, and immediately spat it out. “ Shit! ”

Gene barely suppressed a laugh.

“Sorry—”

“Jesus,” Ace mumbled. “You usually just leave it in the sink and don’t fill it up…” he trailed, dropping the spoon back into the bowl and heading over to sit at the kitchen table across from Paul.

“If you didn’t get anywhere with the ship, what were you doing in there?”

Paul looked like he was about to say something, but then he just reached over and spooned out some of the stir-fry from the wok, staring at the vegetables like they had personally offended him. Peter had to swallow back a spiteful comment—God, Paul probably thought he’d overcooked the onions or some stupid shit like that—but then Ace piped up again.

“Well, we talked about flying. ’S kind of the one thing we still haven’t tried yet.”

Gene nodded, checked the brownies, and then got his plate, scooping up rice and the stir-fry in generous portions. Peter followed suit, a little warily, taking his usual spot next to Ace.

“Flying would give us one over half the Avengers.” Peter glanced over at Gene, trying to gauge his reaction first. For all his fear of heights, Gene barely flinched. Consummate professional. Or maybe he was just thinking about the brownies.

“Yeah. We’ve been putting it off too long.” Gene stuck a forkful of rice in his mouth. “Let’s review the tapes after dinner and start practicing tomorrow.”

“Review the tapes? C’mon, Gene, we’ve been doing that for ages! You just don’t wanna—"

“I do want to. First thing tomorrow.” Gene took a swig of water. Peter’s gaze went from Gene to Paul and then over to Ace, and he shook his head.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it. I’ve even got the equipment ready.”

---

“Gene, when you said equipment, I thought you meant a bungee cord.”

Gene just grinned widely. Gene’s idea of equipment had been a whole lot more useless.

Gene’s idea of equipment had been lugging the trampoline out of the garage.

And as good as it was to get an excuse to peel off their six-inch heels, and as entertaining as it was to jump on the trampoline, Peter had to admit it wasn’t getting either of them airborne. But it was giving them an excellent vantage point to watch the other two.

“We could be trying it up there.” Peter gestured, maybe unnecessarily, to Paul and Ace, who were perched, and arguing, on top of the third story roof. “You hear them, right?”

“How could I not fucking hear them,” Gene mumbled.

“Pauuuulieee. C’mon. You trust me?”

“We’re almost fifty feet off the ground!”

“It’s like with a baby! You put ’em in the pool and they’ll have to swim!”

“Ace, how the fuck did you ever have a kid—”

“Same way you did. Well, sorta.” Ace started laughing, shaking his head. “Relax, man. Just relax. You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Look, if we’re about to crash I’ll teleport us both back down, okay?” Peter couldn’t see it from where he was, but deep down he was sure Ace was winking.

“I don’t see how he talked Paul into this,” Gene said.

“They’ve been hanging out more lately.” Peter wasn’t sure why. They hadn’t made another room switch or anything. Then again, Paul and Ace hadn’t ever had any major row between them, either. He managed a backflip, to his own surprise. “And they knew you were going to wuss out.”

“You’re not up there, either.”

“I will be once they get it,” Peter retorted. Right now, the scene on the roof was too entertaining to miss. Paul was wobbling slightly on the roof, grabbing onto Ace’s arm in an attempt to steady himself. Unfortunately, and predictably, Ace was wobbling, too.

“Ace, c’mon, this was a bad idea, let’s—c’mon, man, just teleport us back do—”

“Uh-uh, Paulie. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You do know I’ve had my hip replaced twice, don’t you?”

“I thought it was three times.” Ace was laughing. Worse, he was swaying. Paul hanging onto him was only making them both more off-balance, teetering towards the edge of the rooftop. But Ace was talking just as easily as if they were safely on the ground. “Two makes more sense. I always wondered how the hell you could break a titanium one—"

“I didn— fuck !” Paul screamed, clutching Ace with both arms as they fell off the roof together. Peter and Gene scrambled off the trampoline, running out to catch them—stupidly, neither of them had thought they’d need to—only to watch them swoop down, and then hover, six or seven feet from the ground.

By that time, Peter was pretty sure that Paul’s face at least had probably gone almost as pale as the greasepaint. He watched as Paul slowly loosened his grip on Ace and then let go entirely, eyes wide, smile spreading even wider as he realized he was still in the air. They both were.

“Ace, we—I—”

“See? I told you!” Ace was letting himself sink down further, barely hovering more than a few inches from the ground before landing in front of Peter and Gene. “I told you, just like a baby.”

“Gene! Gene, look, I’m doing it!”

Gene still had his arms out, hovering half-remembered, as if part of him still thought Paul was about to fall. He didn’t get a single word out before Paul dove down straight toward him, gathering Gene up in his arms and lifting him into the air with him, gradually higher and higher, laughing softly, excitedly. Peter half-expected Gene to start screaming, or at least be clutching Paul for dear life, but he wasn’t. The higher up Paul took him, the more relaxed Gene seemed to get. The looser their grip on each other became. Gene’s arms went from around Paul’s waist to up around his shoulders—then, finally, just as it was getting harder for Peter to get a detailed look, Gene caught Paul’s hands in his own.

Both of them flying now.

Peter watched them, shaking his head a little, for a few seconds more. They’d land eventually. It took him a bit—it took Ace tugging at his sleeve—before he looked down again. There was a weird winsomeness to Ace’s expression, almost a longing, that made something in Peter itch and ache all at once. But then it faded nearly as soon as it appeared, and Ace’s old, sleepy-eyed grin was back on his face.

“Your turn, Cat. Get your heels on.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I got a whole other rooftop for us to jump off of.”

Ace had teleported him as soon as he'd yanked on his boots. Peter knew where they were almost before he’d opened his eyes. Almost like a bottom of the barrel sense. Or maybe it was just the connection bullshit, letting him dig into Ace’s mind without even wanting to. But Peter didn’t think that was all of it. He could recognize this place anywhere. Anytime. The oldest of their stomping grounds as a band. Jimi Hendrix’s old studio in Greenwich Village. The Electric Lady .

They’d never done a photoshoot on the roof or anything. There wasn’t even much physical evidence left that they’d been there at all, besides the records themselves. Just a couple photos from their own albums, mostly, that had gotten scattered like confetti across the internet. Photos from those early, early recording sessions, when they were four nobodies that occasionally drove cabs and taught school and fought petty crime. When they weren’t much better than four kids.

The memories themselves were so intoxicating they were painful. It wasn’t just where they’d first recorded. It was where Peter had first met up with Gene and Paul, before he’d even auditioned for KISS. That made the Electric Lady almost sacrosanct even when he felt most embittered about the band, about the guys. And he wasn’t alone in his sentimentality. Gene and Paul had continued to record there occasionally in the early eighties, too, unable to avoid their own nostalgia.

Peter sat down on the roof, letting his legs dangle off the edge. Ace did, too, swinging them back and forth over the side like a little kid. They sat there in silence at first, watching the people, the traffic. The old, harried energy of Greenwich Village was gone. The weirdness, the newness. The hope.

“It’s not like it was,” Peter said finally.

“You think it was gonna be?”

“No, but I wanted it to be.”

Ace crooked a small smile.

“Y’know, back… aw, hell, it was probably five, six years after the Reunion tour… I was talking to Bobby.”

“You made up with him after that shitty book he wrote?”

“Kind of. It went sour again, dunno.” Ace paused. “Anyway, I was talking to him, and he said to me, he said, ‘Paul, you won’t believe it, I climbed a telephone pole the other day.’”

“The fuck did he do that for?”

“That’s exactly what I asked him. Word for fucking word.” A short, eerie laugh. “He said, ‘to prove I still could.’ He had to’ve been at least fifty then… fifty and climbing telephone poles. I thought it was stupid. But here I am, sixty-eight and—”

“Sixty-eight and flying is pretty good, Ace, I gotta say.”

Ace laughed a little longer.

“Yeah, well. S’like with anything else, all I need is a little motivation.” He was starting to lean his shoulder against Peter’s, just a bit, casual and easy. Pointing at the people going by, the cars going by. “It could be the same. You just gotta squint pretty hard. Get rid of the gentrification and shit… stick the kids in bell bottoms…”

“Can’t do it.”

“Sure, you can.”

“It’s gone, Ace. Can’t bring it back.”

“You can try.”

“Nah. Don’t it make you wanna go home, now,” Peter half-sang under his breath, “don’t it make you wanna go home—”

“All God’s children get weary when they roam,” Ace kept on with the old Joe South chorus, tuneless as always, “God, how I wanna go home… didja have that record, Pete? I had the 45 way back …”

“Lydia’d only give me a three-buck allowance, Ace, what do you think?” Peter laughed quietly.

“Three bucks? You told me it was a dollar-fifty, man!” Ace shook his head. “Shit, and poor Paulie always bringing you by sandwiches back then ’cause he thought you really were a starving fucking musician—”

“Hey, I didn’t ask for those—"

“I know. He was real sweet. Still is, you just gotta give him a minute to relax.”

“Or five years.” It came out more aggressively than Peter meant it to, and he glanced away, staring at the streets beneath them. Half-full like all the rest of the world. Even the cars looked dismal. None of that toked-up brightness he remembered, none of that hope. The part-time cabbies replaced by Uber drivers, the flowerchildren turned geriatric and bitter with the passage of time. He shook his head.

“Don’t take that long. Just takes being gentle. Gene’s always been real gentle with Paul.” Ace said it without any real rancor. Just matter-of-fact.

“Gentle, my ass. You mean he lets Paul do whatever the fuck he wants. Fucking bends over for him anytime, every time—”

Ace snickered.

“Didn’t used to—”

“Jesus, Ace, don’t remind me.” Peter winced as if the memory of it was really so awful. Or awful at all. He’d never actually witnessed that much out of Paul and Gene back in the seventies. They’d been about as exclusive as rabbits in heat, anyway. What they’d had, what they still had, Peter didn’t envy. “Doesn’t it piss you off?”

“Nah.” Ace shrugged. “Wouldn’t know what to do if somebody treated me like that. I used to think Gene was trying to make up for something, y’know?”

“He is.”

Ace shrugged again. Peter let the silence hang in the air for a moment or two before changing the subject.

“Hey, Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s say this all works out and we bring everybody back. What’re we really gonna do after? Where are we gonna go?”

“Jen—”

“No, really.” Peter paused. His throat felt sticky. “Where are we going to live?”

“Pete, we both got a couple million in the bank, we ain’t gonna be homeless—”

“I know we ain’t gonna be homeless, but we ain’t all gonna be living under the same roof anymore, either.”

Ace’s brow started to furrow up.

“I dunno.”

“What if Paul and Gene want to move back to Beverly Hills with their families? We couldn’t afford it out there.” The disparity between their incomes hadn’t been a big deal in five years, with all their relatively communal living. Especially at first, Gene had taken it upon himself to cover most of the expenditures. Then, once Paul had his bearings back enough to at least glance at legal documents long enough to scribble his signature on them, the two of them had mostly split everything in half. Everything but groceries and gas, really. To Peter, it hadn’t felt like they were living off of someone else’s charity, not at all. But in the real world, in a world back to the way it was… “What we’ve got here is gonna go away.”

“Nah, it won’t.” Ace sounded more self-assured than Peter could readily believe. “You think all it’ll take is us not living together to split us up? Shit, Peter, before the last couple years, we only lived together on the road, and—”

“That’s different, though!”

“’S not.” Stretching out, Ace looked over at Peter, brown eyes focused laser-sharp on his face. “We don’t all got a bond because we’re all in the same house. We don’t got a bond because of the talismans, either. We got a bond because—”

“I know.”

Ace’s lips pursed.

“I—”

Peter reached a hand out, catching Ace’s before he could finish. Ace’s expression tensed, then started to soften, slowly, almost imperceptibly. He nodded, and before long, they both stood up, there on the roof of the Electric Lady , there in six-inch heels and leather, hands still clasped.

“You ready, Cat?” Ace started to smile. “I got you no matter what.”

“’M not afraid of heights,” Peter muttered. “You wanna do a countdown?”

“Nah, you make the time—”

“One, two—three—”

Peter felt the brief, awful lurch of falling for hardly a second at best. Then he was hovering, buoyed up by—he didn’t even know. All he knew was the sharpness of the breeze searing through his skin, blowing back his hair. All he felt was that wonderful weightlessness, that ease, trickling down his spine, heady as a glass of champagne. Unreal.

Ace’s hand tightened around his.

“You gonna fly, Peter, or are we just gonna hang around here?”

Peter only yanked him up with him. Ace’s cackles seemed to soar to the heavens, up and up as they flew higher. Story after story. The people below, and then the buildings, got dimmer and dimmer, blurring out beneath them into pavement gray, each skyscraper like a glittering stalagmite pushing up to the surface as the afternoon sun shot through.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #peter criss #ace frehley #paul stanley #gene simmons

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acollectionofmyshit · 5 years

Text

Babybird Part Two (Batmom Reader)

Momma is home and she is angry. Reader’s superhero name in Whitehawk. Enjoy. I love feedback.

There was a drastic change in the winds from the desert to Gotham city- the most notable being that Gotham’s wind was bitter and tasted of salt, and the winds of the desert were hot and dusty. You found that you didn’t particularly care for either as you hid your face in the high collar of the thick winter coat you had slipped on. Unfortunately, there were many places you would rather be than the city or the desert for that matter, but Gotham was where duty called- where your emotions told you to go, and with the loss of your son so fresh, you couldn’t bear to ignore how you felt.

Despite it being well past midnight, there were still handfuls of people pushing their way between others, weaving in between cars and buildings, and hailing taxis. Though the sheer amount of people walking far too slow was insufferable, you were grateful that the crowds of people gave you something to blend into. Something to hide in. As you shuffled amongst the groups of Gothamites, you were simply a citizen, not someone who was supposed to protect the masses.

You slipped into the bar you had been searching for, immediately bright neon green and blue lights leaked into your vision, giving you pause. When the interior of the bar became visible to you, the search for the man that brought you there in the first place began. Pushing past the drunks, half-naked women and men, and waiters, there was suddenly a pull on your hips, to which you quickly glanced down, ready to slap a hand away, but it was merely a red velvet rope. You had reached the back of the bar. A shout came from the left of you, capturing your attention rather rudely- but what else could you expect from a place like the one you found yourself in.

The man who had yelled stood well over six foot, and his suit hugged tightly to his broad shoulders, the sleek pistol in his pocket glistened in the dim lights of the room. Surely, most would be intimidated by a man such as that, but you found his presences merely an annoyance. A dog sent to retrieve you? You scoffed but had no choice but to trail after the man, heels stomping on the ground loudly.

The guard came to a stop in front of dark green curtains that concealed the meeting room, refusing to enter, much to your satisfaction. Shoving aside the material, your nose scrunched up at the smell of cigars. A burning sensation that left your eyes watering slightly, and throat covered in a dissatisfying taste. The man, short and pale, sat slouched in his extravagant chair, embroidered with lavish looking jewels, and lace. It was a shame that such a lovely piece of furniture was in the hands of such a vile man.

“Such a rarity,” the Penguin squeaked, “that a Bird comes willingly into my cage.” Indeed it was, you supposed, but you were desperate. “It is bold, my girl,” he said in a groan. You weren’t fond of being mocked, but there was no time, and this was no place, to mouth off with the indignant man. You took a seat in a much more dull chair beside him, elbows placed on the table with your chin in your palm.

“I will transfer the money, and you give me the information, that was the deal, correct?” you said, wanting to get out of the wretched bar as soon as you could, even if that meant skipping over the details. Cobblepot hummed, inhaling through the cigar he held between his red-stained fingers.

Before you had thought of entering the bar in the first place, you had sent a letter, proposing the money for the information you desired. Weeks later, you received a letter in return- he had accepted if you agreed to meet with him. And there you sat, a frown gracing your lips.

“To the point? Well, do you not know any better?” he said, leaning back. You did, but you had to move fast before the information went stale.

“Actually I do, so if I were you, I’d be careful,” you said hotly. You were in a hurry, not stupid. Smarter than the man you sat next to, but not to underestimate him either- he was anything but an idiot. The man laughed bitterly.

“The money?” he inquired, an eyebrow raised. You rolled your eyes, rummaging through the coat pocket for your phone, where you then confirmed the transfer. You showed the old man the information quickly, before shoving the phone back into its previous place. Penguin nodded quietly.

You waited for him to speak, a hand clenching the wooden side of the table. More smoke poured from his mouth, the smell harsh.

“The Blackbrick factory filled to the brim with his...goons. Maybe the blonde was there with him, I don’t frankly care. He looked mad as ever, stupid as well. No idea what the fool was up to, but it seems to me that you don’t care about that. What do you care so much about?” Penguin said, a dark eyebrow raised. He was crossing a line, and beyond that line were things you didn’t wish to discuss- especially with Oswald. When no further words were exchanged, he continued. “Who knows when he will move again if he even will. But the man is erratic, and the Big Bat seems- lazy. As of late. Good for me, not for you. And whatever you are planning on doing tonight, I sincerely hope it ends with the Joker disappearing for good.” And with that, you began the trek to Blackbrick factory.

It was hard to see from your vantage point in the rafters of the factory, but it would have to make due. There was a surprising lack of hiding places to take cover in the building and an absurd amount of thugs that wore masks similar to the clown himself. Cocky, you thought, he had done no such thing before you had left the city. Apparently Batman’s lack of attention as of late upset Joker.

The man, face painted white, marched across his makeshift stage, above the mass of thugs. He was wailing about something hysterically, none of which you could hear, and you didn’t particularly want to. His voice brought a growl out from the back of your throat. Harley stood behind him, her finger twirling in a blonde curl, a laugh of her own echoing off the stone walls. You stared intently at the two, like an animal hunting its prey. But your attention was quickly brought upward, to the opposite end of the room from where you were, on a separate vantage point.

Yellow, green, and red. Those were the colors that you saw that were so incredibly familiar, and painful. For what felt like an unreasonable amount of time, you couldn’t breathe. The air refusing to come out of your lungs, distracting you from the burning at your eyes. A pounding feeling at your chest and weak muscles came over you and weren’t sure if it was from the lack of oxygen or the feeling of utter despair. It couldn’t be. He was gone.

The colors moved in flashes as the small figure swung about the room. Closer and closer to you until he rammed directly into you, distracted by the thugs that were becoming rowdy, and excited by the words of the Joker. Before you could think about what you were doing, you grabbed the person roughly and proceeded to grapple back out of the factory- forgetting about what you had gone there to do. The child, you guessed from the sound of his voice, struggled against you, and eventually wiggled out of your hold, but you were already on the roof, away from the thugs.

You stared at him, eyes scanning over his suit- his Robin suit. He was small, but not as small as Dick and your son had been. It wasn’t hard to be larger than Jason, anyway, the boy had been malnourished his whole life. He was older, maybe thirteen. Fourteen. The usual Robin age. As you stared at him, and he stared back wordlessly, your blood began to boil all over again. Not at the boy, but at the man you knew was responsible for him. Another one? Another child brought into the fight? Had he learned absolutely nothing? You wanted to scream but that would have brought unwanted attention. You had been so involved in your own thoughts you barely heard the words Robin spoke to you.

“A-are you, Whitehawk?” he said, voice unsteady. You relaxed the stare when you realized he was scared. You nodded. You wore your old suit that had been used back in the days of fighting alongside Batman. It had long since been retired, as you gave up crimefighting a year before you met Jason. The occasion called for a proper suit, however. But now you figured you weren’t going to get to use it. The boy's eyes visibly widened under his mask.

“Wait, you’re back? When did you get home?” he spoke to you as if he knew you. Naive. Bold. Young. You decided to humor the boy.

“A few hours ago, but I am not staying,” you said, and he frowned. He sat on the corner of the roof, peering through a broken window as to not lose track of the Joker.

“That sucks. We could use help here, with Batgirl and all,” he said, trailing off. You cocked your head to the side.

“What about Batgirl?” You inquired.

“Can’t be Batgirl in a wheelchair. She is Oracle though, and that’s cool.” Robin said. For the second time that night, the air got caught in your throat.

“What?” You choked out, hands balled into fists. Things only get worse in Gotham, you thought grimly. Robin glanced up at you, now his confusion mirroring yours.

“You don’t know? Nobody told you?” he questioned, sounding perplexed.

“Know what, Robin?” you said, voice cracking. He paused, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Joker shot her,” he spoke quietly, and you felt tears slip down your cheeks, under your mask. “He paralyzed her.” For a moment you felt guilty, but for what? Leaving Gotham without taking the kids with you? They would never willingly leave, they have a fascination with the city that you don’t share. A connection. You only harbor hatred for the grim place. The anger which you had felt all night somehow managed to get hotter. You knew coming back was a mistake, but it was too late to leave. Another child as Robin, Barbara paralyzed, and the Joker still breathing. You were stuck in Gotham now.

You had previously had second thoughts about offing the Joker, but you felt clear certainty now. You would choke the life out of him with your bare hands if you had to, and if anyone tried to stop you, they would regret it.

“Go home, Robin. I’ll take care of the factory.” You demanded, picking yourself up off of the cold roofing. Robin stood up as well.

“I don’t know, Boss said I need to be here,” he said, his voice unsure. You moved to where he stood, shoving him back slightly, away from the edge.

“Go, now. If it was so important he would be here.” You growled, readying your grapple again, finger on the trigger. But before you could pull it back, your shoulder was roughly yanked back, pulling you away from the edge roughly. You angerly steadied yourself, hurriedly pulling a throwing knife out of your utility belt. The black mass that stood in front of you, leering over, frowned at you. Robin stood behind him, cowering down slightly.

“I am here, (Y/N),” Batman spoke harshly. He was using his intimidation voice, which annoyed you to no end. You tightened your grip on the knife.

“Not the fight I was expecting,” you spoke slyly, “but I’ll take it.”

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pinkletterday · 6 years

Text

A Stitch In Time Ch1

Pairing: Oliver Queen/ Barry Allen

Rating: Mature

Tags: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, so much angst, some bad jokes, Oliver Queen' trauma conga line, Oliver and Iris friendship, alt Arrow Season 3, untagged plot twist.

Summary: Oliver hadn't expected his world to come crashing down when he had sent his boyfriend off to see the Particle Accelerator launch. All he can do now is hold on to faith as Barry sleeps on - until he witnesses a miracle.

He should have known that even miracles come at a price.

Chapter 1

Read on AO3

Oliver knew it was a bad idea to start necking in public view at the metro station but he couldn't help himself. They were lucky it was late and the other stragglers waiting for the eleven pm train were few. Besides, this was the last taste and feel of his boyfriend he was going to get till New Year's and he already looked unfairly adorable in his peacoat with his windswept hair.

"You are so bad at getting rid of me," Barry laughed as Oliver kissed his way down his jaw.

"Yes," he murmured, licking the shell of Barry's ear, pleased at the shiver it elicited, "that's clearly what Im trying to do."

"Cant stand the sight of me already, huh?"

Oliver cupped his face and kissed him deeply. They were both panting when he drew away, thumb tenderly brushing the kiss-swollen lips. "You have no idea."

Their breath misted between them as leaned their foreheads together. "Mmm. This is a terrible plan," Oliver grumbled. "I hate sleeping without you."

"Hey, It's just for a few days," Barry pecked his lips soothingly. "Should be enough time to break the news to Joe about who I'm dating -"

" - I'm sure he'll be thrilled -"

" - and smooth things over so that when you fly in to meet him at New Year's, he'll be willing to give you a chance," Barry grinned at him. "I mean, he'll grunt and glare and do his whole cop Dad routine but he won't -"

" - go for his gun?" Oliver deadpanned.

"Don't be so dramatic," said Barry, pulling him firmly in by his coat lapels. "Joe's not unreasonable, just protective."

Oliver quirked a brow. "You forget. I have some experience with dating the kids of cop Dads."

"True," Barry nodded solemnly, "but your experience is coloured by having dated both kids at once."

"Touché," Oliver conceded, "I'm sure that will be a point in my favour when it comes up."

Barry titled his head, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Are you actually afraid, Mr. Scourge of Starling City?"

"Is that my new nickname? Shame, The Arrow was kinda cool."

"No, but seriously," said Barry, entwining their fingers in reassurance. "You have nothing to be afraid of. My Dad likes you and so does Iris. You'll win over Joe too, in time."

Warmth suffused him, as it always did, at the unwavering faith in his lover's eyes, banishing the winter chill. He raised their interlocked hands and pressed a kiss on Barry's knuckles, reflecting that softness back at him. "I hope so. I want to be someone you can take home to your cop Dad."

"You should have thought of that before starting a career in vigilanteism," said Barry dryly.

"Definitely a misstep, I see that now," Oliver nodded.

They grinned at each other, insulated from the night's chill in their own small pocket of warm happiness, surrounded by the sludge and sleet of the city. A tendril of fear curled in Oliver's chest, some part of him still paranoid and disbelieving that he got to have this at all.

He cradled the side of Barry's face, protectiveness rising. "Be careful," he told him seriously.

"Of what? Central is not the crazy town full of masked criminals and crimefighters," Barry rolled his eyes and raised a brow pointedly at him. "Besides, it's a little rich coming from the man who nearly coded in the Arrow Cave two nights ago. You're the one who needs to take better care of yourself."

"If I do, will you stop calling the foundry that?," said Oliver, resigned.

"Nope," Barry kissed the palm that cupped his cheek, eyes dancing.

Something of the lingering worry must have shown in his eyes however. His partner's face softened. "Don't worry, Oliver. I'm just going to watch Harrison Wells give a speech, witness the revolution of science as we know it and then go home with Iris and eat Joe's Christmas turkey. What kind of trouble could I possibly get into?"

The distant rumble beneath their feet announced the arrival of the train. "Barry Allen, if there's one thing I've learned about you over the past year," he said, a wry smile tugging at his mouth, "it's that if there's trouble to be had, you'll find it."

...

He was on the island again, stones scraping and bloodying his bare feet as he scrabbled up the rocky slope from the beach. Barry grinned at him in excitement from above. "Oliver, hurry up! We have to catch the man in the lightning!"

Storm clouds menaced from overhead and dread sank deep into his bones. He tried to climb faster with little progress. "Barry, it's not safe!" he yelled, but the wind that buffeted his face carried his words away. "Wait for me!"

Barry merely waved and disappeared over the hill. Oliver belly-crawled to the top to see him running through the trees, too far for him to ever catch up, but he had to try.

"Barry, please!," he called as he ran, jumping over tree roots, struggling to keep him in his sights as the driving sheets of rain obscured his vision. Thunder split the air, drowning his cries and Barry continued to out-pace him, his carefree laughter ringing eerily throughout the forest.

Something caught his foot and he tripped, falling face-down in the mud. He twisted around, trying to free himself, and came face to face with Shado.

She had emerged half-way from the earth, covered in mud and silt, her once-beautiful face sunken and waxy in death. "You left me to rot," she spat at him, "now you're going to stay with me."

He twisted and kicked out in horror but her grip was a vice around his ankle. Lightning speared down from the sky, striking the tree above him with a deafening crack. He rolled out of the way in time to avoid the enormous branch that crashed to the ground, crushing Shado back into the earth. "No!" he cried. He had never meant her to die again.

Lightning flashed once more and suddenly Slade stood over him, a huge sword pointed at his chest. An arrow was potruding out of one eye, blood streaming down his face. "You killed her, kid," he snarled. "You killed her again.

His elbow sank into the silt as he scrambled backwards - and then the rest of him was also sinking, trapped. "Oliver!" Barry's voice echoed above him as the bog dragged him down, the rain pelting into his mouth, choking him, "Oliver!"

"Oliver. Wake up."

He shot upright with a gasp, hand ready to land a nerve-strike to the other person's neck a split second before he recognized Iris. Trying to calm his breathing, he put his hand down slowly, heart juddering against his ribs.

The hospital room was dark except for the light above the bed, illuminating Barry's unconscious form, the quiet only broken by the steady beep of the heart monitor and the susurration of the ventilator. Iris was eyeing him in concern, dark curtain of hair brushing his arm as she leaned over him.

"Hey," Oliver rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Eight. Dad'll be back soon. I came straight from work. Did you eat anything?" she asked briskly, bustling around the room.

Oliver shrugged, wincing at the now-permanent kink in his neck. "Grabbed something from the hospital cafeteria. Surprisingly good pudding cups."

She gave him an unimpressed look and handed him a Jitters pastry bag. He stuffed a croissant into his mouth gratefully.

"Have the doctors been? Anything new?" She leaned over Barry worriedly, pushing his hair back from his face as though searching for signs of change.

"Not since you called this afternoon, no."

She sighed, then forced a bright smile. "So," she said, dragging a chair beside him. "Did you two have fun today?"

"Oh, yeah. We had a busy morning," said Oliver, forcing an answering brightness in turn, "I helped the nurse give him a bath and a shave. Don't get me wrong, I love the man, but scruff is not a good look on him," he shook his head ruefully.

Iris giggled. "Yeeah. Barry just can't grow facial hair. It's the bane of his life," her grin turned wicked. "Did he tell you about the time he came home from college with a moustache?"

"No, really?" Oliver snorted in surprise.

"It was awful. He looked like a used car salesman from the seventies," she said in glee. "Dad and I couldn't keep a straight face. He was so mad!"

He put his pastry down to look seriously at her. "Please tell me you have pictures."

'Pfft, please. I ran for the camera the moment he walked in the door." Iris broke into fresh giggles at Oliver's admiring expression.

"You are an evil person."

She gasped. "You hear that Barry?," she said in mock offence, "He's calling me evil. You gonna take that lying down?"

They both froze, staring wide-eyed at each other. Then burst into almost hysterical laughter.

"Oh my God," Oliver buried his face in his hands, "that was awful."

Iris swatted his shoulder, still shaking with mirth. "Excuse you, it was an amazing pun. Don't you think so, Barry?"

"You see?," Oliver leaned toward Barry conspirationally, "Evil."

They subsided, smiling. Iris took Barry's hand. "You think he can hear us?," she asked wistfully, playing with his limp fingers, "The forums say they can hear and understand sometimes but can't respond -"

"It's a Scale 3 coma, Iris. Brain activity in that state usually indicates complete unconsciousness." He had, in the last three weeks, researched the subject with a diligence he had failed to apply to any of his abortive careers at Ivy League universities. He knew Iris had too.

"Doesn't mean he's not dreaming," she said stubbornly, "I know the doctors say it's unlikely because he doesn't have a sleep-wakefulness cycle but they also don't have a clue why he's flatlining and seizing at the same time..."

There was another pause, both of them holding their breath. They had fallen into a pattern of not talking about the seizures more than necessary, first beause they were terrifying but also out of an unspoken shared superstition that the mere mention of them would precipitate an onset.

But the moments went by and Barry continued to be still, the heart monitor beeping steadily.

Oliver finally broke the silence. "Well, if he can hear us, he's probably horrified at how much blackmail material we're going to be exchanging while he's getting his beauty sleep," he said, teasing a wan smile out of Iris. "And pretty bored, cause I've been reading QC's financial reports and quarterly projections to him."

"Wow. Sounds riveting."

"He thought it was a real snooze, actually," said Oliver solemnly.

Iris broke into a peal of laughter. Oliver grinned back, pleased with himself, before his eyes fell on the doorway where -

- Joe West was standing frozen.

"Detective West," he stood up from his seat, heart sinking. Well damn. After three weeks of painstakingly gaining the man's grudging approval too.

Iris turned around quickly as well. "Dad, we were just -"

But a smile was creasing his normally forbidding countenance, turning into a grin that transformed his face into a sunshine warmth that reminded Oliver of Barry's own. "A real snooze," the detective repeated, giggling.

The laughter that rippled among the room momentarily alleviated the pall that hung over it. For a few minutes they sat around Barry and chatted easily, occasionally talking to him too. It felt as though they were sitting in the Wests' living room having the normal family conversation he and Barry had envisioned during the holidays. Before the Accelerator explosion.

Unfortunately, it was short lived.

The machines suddenly went haywire the exact same moment as the hospital lights started to flicker and die.

"Oh God, not again!"

Barry began to convulse and jerk on the bed. Oliver raced to hold him down but he kept thrashing like some ghastly marionnette pulled by invisible, torturous strings. Dimly he could hear Joe calling for help and Iris crying Barry's name over the terror drumming in his ears. The medical team streamed into the room, pushing him away and he let himself be shunted outside, reduced to watching helplessly.

"Barry!"

Iris was being restrained by a nurse, still shouting. Oliver watched numbly as Joe pulled her into his arms, face as haggard with shock as he felt. She buried her face in her father's chest and fell apart, the way he didn't know how to do anymore.

...

Henry Allen's face was always hopeful whenever he saw him. Oliver tried not to resent him for it, because having to extinguish it every time was awful.

"Is Barry -?" It was the first question that passed his lips the moment he picked up the phone, almost before he sat down and he slumped and aged a little more every time Oliver shook his head wearily.

But like his son, Henry was resilient of spirit, composing himself in short order. "It's been a while, Oliver," the man's smile and tone betrayed no accusation but Oliver still felt a stab of guilt.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, Dr. Allen," he rubbed the weariness from his eyelids. "Barely had any time between Barry and my mother and wrangling the board at Starling."

"That wasn't a complaint. Just concern. And when are you going to start calling me Henry?" the older man asked in mock-stern humour.

Oliver huffed a laugh and relaxed. "Sorry, Henry."

"You shouldn't worry about me," Henry's blue eyes were painfully understanding, "Iris has been stopping by regularly, keeping me in the loop."

"I'm glad. She's been amazing," said Oliver warmly. Because she really was. But he had come to talk of a less pleasant topic. "Speaking of in the loop, Harrison Wells has spoken to Joe."

Henry's jaw tensed. "What does that man want?"

No one who loved Barry had much sympathy for the architect of the Particle Accelerator explosion, paralyzed and humiliated as he was. Even Henry Allen, as kind a man as had ever lived, couldn't forgive what he had done to his only child. Oliver hadn't thought he was the kind of man who would want to deck a man in a wheelchair but his knuckles itched every time he saw him on TV. Only the thought that this was probably how many Starling residents felt about his mother sobered him.

Still, objectively speaking, Wells's plan seemed pragmatic. Oliver didnt need a medical degree to know that the doctors were at a complete loss and with every seizure they came that much closer to losing Barry.

Henry mulled this over at the end of his explanation. "What do you think?," he asked Oliver.

"It does make sense," he said begrudgingly. "Barry's not getting better. We can't not try everything we can. And it would make me a hypocrite to begrudge someone trying to find redemption for a terrible mistake."

"But what do you think?"

The fact that Barry's father had grown to value his judgment so much never failed to catch Oliver off-guard and humble him. He looked the older man directly in the eye through the dirty glass that separated them.

"I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

Henry searched his face for a long moment. Finally he jerked his head in a nod of understanding. "But you'll be watching him?"

Oliver's own jaw tightened. "You can count on it."

***

"You have to come home."

He ignored Felicity, continuing to stare at Barry's lax wrist in his hands, feeling the pulse beat humming-bird fast and thready, always seeming thin enough to dissolve.

She sighed. "I know you don't want to -,"

"I can't," he interjected firmly

" - but it's been five weeks. The Mirakuru is still out there and we still have no clue who the man in the skull mask is even though Digg and I have been shaking down as many known drug dealers as we can in the Glades. Isabel Rochev has been hounding us with calls...," Felicity sighed again, and this time he could hear the exhaustion in her own voice. A gentle hand laid on his shoulder. "The city is heading toward some kind of implosion, like with Merlyn last year. We can't let that happen again."

It was too much. Then let it implode, he thought savagely. Why do I have to be the one to save the goddamn city. What makes me so special? Haven't I paid enough for my family's sins?

His grip on Barry's hand tightened convulsively. The truth was that he was terrified to let go for fear that the tremulous thread anchoring Barry to life would snap. He should have known it would end this way. Should have known better than to hope, should have pushed Barry away when he had the chance before he let him down too...

"Why would you want to be with me?," he asked, searching Barry's eyes that still looked at him with such steady faith. "I failed the city. I failed everyone." Especially you.

"You didn't fail everyone. We helped people. You gave people a chance to save themselves. Gave them hope," Barry cupped his cheek tenderly. "Gave me hope."

"It wasn't enough," but Oliver couldn't help turning his face into the comfort of that hand. "I wasn't enough. I'm no hero, Barry."

"Maybe not. But what you are is a good man willing to risk everything to keep people safe," said Barry. "Maybe that's what the city needs, more than a hero. And for that," his hand curled around Oliver's, "you will always be a hero to me."

"Oliver," Digg's urgent voice made him look up sharply. "There's been a bombing downtown. Three people dead. We have to go back now."

Oliver nodded and stood up, making himself release Barry's hand.

I'm going to try and be the man you deserve.

He felt the shift from Oliver Queen to the Arrow as he squared his shoulders, emotion replaced by cold calculation. "I need to call Iris. Felicity, find out all you can about the bomber. Digg, get the jet ready. We'll plan en route."

***

"How's Barry?"

Felicity had the answer automatically ready for Oliver's habitual question almost before he had finished clattering down the stairs to the Arrow Cave, Sara at his heels.

"Still stable. At least according to the video feed," she waved at the monitor that displayed the STAR Labs cortex, where her friend was hooked up to a depressing number of machines. "I feel kinda bad about hacking into that. Cisco and Caitlin really do seem to be doing their best to take care of him."

"I'm not willing to take any chances," said Oliver, hanging up his bow and divesting himself of his quiver almost carelessly, his eyes trained on the screen.

A derisive scoff sounded behind him. "Well that's a big fat lie."

Felicity tensed as Oliver rounded on Sara. The small blonde was unfazed by his looming. She continued to put away her gear without looking at him, ire emanating from her own movements.

He turned around in time to unfortunately catch Felicity sharing a nervous glance with Diggle, who immediately adopted his stolid dealing-with-Oliver's-dramatics stance.

Oliver took a deep breath and cocked his head with an even expression. "Something you want to tell me?" he said, with that "definitely-not-bristling-I-am-a-calm-rational-human-being" demeanor he used when defending some exceptionally stupid decision.

Diggle, as usual, opened with the reasonable tack that invariably put Oliver on the defensive. "Oliver, we know how hard this has been on you. We care about Barry too. But it's been three months -"

"I'm not giving up on him!"

"We're not asking you to!" Sara exclaimed. "But you're being sloppy! You're distracted, you're barely rested, you're taking stupid risks and getting hurt more than usual, which is really saying something," she accentuated her point by slapping her glove against his chest. Felicity flinched. Oh boy.

"I'm doing the best I can," Oliver gritted mutinously.

"Don't you get it, Ollie? You don't have to give up on Barry but you're not helping anyone like this!" Sara got right in his face and Felicity inched her chair further back into the safety of her computer bank. "Slade's got us like sitting ducks, Roy's out of control and whatever issue you're having with Moira right now, our families are in danger! Starling needs you!"

Colour had risen in Oliver's cheeks, his eyes glinting dangerously like he was about fire right back at Sara. But then the fight seemed to deflate right out of him. He slumped, the sheer exhaustion he was fighting a losing battle with weighing down his broad shoulders. It made Felicity's heart hurt. "I'm already doing all I can think of," he sighed, running a hand over his face, "what more do you want me to do?"

Sara stepped back. Her expression had softened but her voice was still stern and unyielding. "If there's anything I've learned while I've been gone, it's that to protect people you have to focus on what's in front of you. You can't have your head in Central City if you're going to fix the problems here," Felicity winced a little at her bluntness. "Otherwise you'll lose both."

***

Despite years of yearning for its comfort, the Queen mansion had never really felt like home after he had returned. Now it was merely a hollow shell preparing to pass into the hands of strangers, his failures dogging him with each echoing footstep.

"Thea is out there hurt or worse because of one person - and it's not Slade Wilson," Roy's eyes burned in his gaunt face. "I believed in you."

"How could you not tell me Malcolm Merlyn was my father?" Thea's eyes were full of accusation and betrayal as she curled into herself. "I believed in you."

"I'd say they'd lost faith in your leadership, but that would imply there was any," said Isabel snidely, vicious victory sparking in her eyes. "Maybe you should have focused a little less on your...evening activities."

"Your father had a weakness for beautiful, strong women."

Even his own room felt like it belonged to someone else, except for the framed picture of himself and Barry sitting on the mantlepiece.

They were both wearing ugly Christmas sweaters that Barry had insisted were traditional, snuggled on the couch in the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. Barry was wrapped in his arms with a look of supreme contentment on his face while Oliver pressed a tender kiss to his tousled head tucked under his chin. He had spent that night at the mansion for the first time, smugly relishing making love in the bed of Oliver's adolescence. Waking up to Barry's drowsy half-lidded gaze had filled him with a contentment he hadn't known was possible.

"I'm so happy I'm frightened," Oliver confessed, his face buried in Barry's neck.

"Why are you frightened?" Barry reached back to card his fingers through Oliver's hair.

He tightened his arms around him. "Of what would happen if I lost you."

Barry turned around to face him, smile sleep-soft and sweet. "You could never lose me."

But you lied, thought Oliver, bile rising in his throat as he stared at the picture in his hands. You left me too.

The rage he hadn't realized had been simmering just beneath the surface suddenly blazed white-hot. He hurled the picture at the wall and swept an arm across the entire mantlepiece, clocks, curios and pictures joining the shattered frame on the floor. The memories of failure and betrayal chased him one after the other as he destroyed every memento in the room in a red haze, kicking, ripping, smashing.

The room was littered in glass shards and debris when he was finally spent, sliding along the wall to drop limply onto the floor. At his feet, Barry's and his happy smiles gazed up at him from the broken frame.

***

Oliver had had this nightmare many times before, replaying that night again and again until he was crying for it to end. But those had taken place in the darkness and freezing wind of the island, the pale torchlight illuminating Sara's and Shado's terrified faces before Ivo shot Shado in the head. Sometimes both her and Sara. Over and over.

Now the harsh beams of the truck's headlights and Oliver's own concussion made everything swim in amber, and the voices begging for their lives belonged to his mother and sister.

"Choose!" No. This was just another nightmare. It had to be. Please God. Please.

But the ropes cutting into his wrists felt very real and part of him knew there would be no merciful awakening from this, any more than there had been the last time.

"Let me make the right choice now! Kill me! It's me you want!" he pleaded desperately, ignoring Thea's and his Mom's renewed cries. I can't take this anymore. Please stop hurting them. Let me die and be with Barry. Let it all end.

"I will kill you," sneered Slade, drawing his gun from his belt and cocking it. "Only more slowly than you would like. I confess, I enjoyed how much pain you've been in watching your lover die by inches," he gloated over Oliver's face and the thought of the deranged man standing over Barry's unconscious form sent ice through him, "But it wasn't enough. Despite everything, you still keep clinging to a strand of hope, however thin. Hope that I can never have." Slade straightened, turning back to his mother and sister. "No, Oliver. I need you to taste true despair. I need you to suffer by my own hand, not just fate's."

"And so...," he laid the barrel of the gun over little Thea's head in a mockery of benediction, ignoring her face soaked in tears. "Choose."

"Please," Oliver choked. "Don't."

"Choose!" Over his mother's head this time.

The fury erupting from his chest was a living thing, searing across his veins, raging to rip Slade's throat out, to feel the satisfying crunch of his neck breaking, to stab an arrow clean through his other eye socket with his bare hands. Yet, the ropes still held.

"CHOOSE!"

But Moira was struggling to her feet, head held proudly aloft despite the arms wrenched behind her back.

"Mom?" No. No no no no no. "What're you doing?"

"There is only one way this night can end," said Moira, voice steady through a throat raw with tears. She turned to Slade, composed and dignified even with the sweat and grime streaking her hair and face, "we both know that, don't we, Mr. Wilson?"

Oliver heard himself and Thea pleading as though from far away. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. He suddenly remembered his Dad in the raft, pointing the gun at his own temple.

"Close your eyes, baby!" Moira implored, but Oliver was transfixed.

Slade seemed taken aback. "You possess great courage," he said deferentially, lowering his gun and turning away. For one wild moment, it seemed as though she might be spared - but then he saw Slade's hand grasp the hilt of his sword.

Thunder rumbled, reverberating the ground beneath his feet. Oliver remembered distantly that there had been a storm on the island that night as well.

Thea screamed as Slade whirled around, the blade flashing silver.

And the world turned gold.

The flare of incredible light seared his eyes, static raising every hair on his body. A moment later, a sonic boom knocked him sideways as something immense cleaved the world in two.

Oliver was only stunned for a bare moment before his reflexes took over, rolling him to his feet almost in the same motion. He shook his head, clearing his vision to see Slade fallen against a tree some ten feet away, trying to struggle to his feet. His mother and sister were nowhere to be seen except for the ropes on the ground.

Panic thudded wildly in his chest. "What did you do?," he yelled at Slade, "What did you do to them?"

But the other man's seemed just confused as he staggered around almost foolishly.

"Thea! Mom!" Oliver yelled. He suddenly realized his hands were untied.

Slade seemed to finally regain his bearings and rounded on him, his face a rictus of fury. "SEARCH THE PERIMETER!" he roared into the darkness. "BRING THEM TO ME!"

Something gleamed on the ground a few feet away. A bare flicker of Slade's eye confirmed that he had seen it too. Their eyes locked on each other for a milisecond before they both lunged sideways for the gun.

Oliver's knee landed in Slade's gut the same time as Slade's armoured knuckles caught him in the jaw. Stars burst across his vision but he hooked his ankle around the other man's leg without a moment's pause. They rolled around in the dirt, scrabbling for the weapon until Slade managed to pin Oliver to the ground, closing his preternaturally strong hand around his throat.

He knew what it was when he felt it this time, the earth rumbling beneath him a second before gold light filled his vision, incandescent enough to blind him through his eyelids, to burn him - but it only enveloped him in a gentle warmth before the world tilted.

The ground under his feet turned to pressurized air, locking him in place as the rest of the world rushed past in a blur, a tidal wave giving the illusion of being dragged into the sea. But he was not grasping for breath and his eyes did not sting; he was engulfed in a warm, secure bubble as the golden rods of light streamed on either side of him, of them, a masked person with lightning eyes -

- and suddenly it all stopped, slamming the breath from his lungs, the ground hard beneath his feet. The thunder clap rang in his ears before he had finished falling to his knees.

It had all happened between one blink and the next. He grasped the earth, disoriented. Only it wasn't earth at all but concrete.

"Whoa, easy there," said an oddly vibrating voice. A gloved hand laid on his back. Oliver flinched and rolled away from it, gaining his feet again.

A tall, almost lanky man in a form-fitting suit was silhouetted against the backdrop of...city lights? They were on a rooftop?

"Who are you?" Oliver demanded, falling into a defensive stance despite still fighting nausea. "Where are we?"

"We're on the roof of Verdant" said the man again in that mechanically resonant voice. There was something oddly familar about it. "Don't worry, your mother and sister are safe. I left them at the Glades precinct. Captain Lance will take care of them."

Oliver noted that the man had gotten Quentin's designation wrong but there were more pressing concerns. "How did we get here? Where's Slade?"

"Deathstroke is, uh, taking a small nappy nap," said the man, airily wiggling his fingers. "I knocked him out, picked you up and ran you here. Don't worry, it wasn't a bridal carry."

"You carried me?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I'm pretty strong. The speed also helps a lot," he shrugged in what seemed like self-deprecation.

"That's not possible."

Oliver swallowed, thoughts racing. He had to find a way to get off this roof and he needed answers. But how do you escape something this fast?

"Isn't it? I thought you said you were more ready to believe in the impossible than most people." I've spent my whole life chasing the impossible. His heart stopped.

"Who are you?"

The man stepped closer to him so Oliver could see his face more clearly in the blazing glow of the city that suffused the evening sky. He wanted to take a step back but his feet were again rooted to the ground as the man ducked his head and pulled back the mask. Barry smiled tentatively, hair tousled and cheeks wind-flushed. "Hey."

***

Either Oliver had forgotten how beautiful Barry was when he was awake or Slade had hit him really hard and he was now hallucinating.

"You. You're not-" his throat was closing. "You're not real."

Not-Barry looked at him gently. "I promise I'm real. See?" He took off a glove and reached out a hand between them. Oliver stared at it. The long slender fingers and slim wrist were so familiar, he reached out to touch it almost without thinking.

The other man's eyes were tender and his smile tired but sweet as ever, dimpling his cheeks. The hand, soft and warm, slotted neatly into his own, fingers intertwining in sense-memory.

"It's me, Oliver," he said, stepping closer. "It's really me."

Oliver touched the man's face as though in a dream. He traced the planes of those cut-glass cheekbones, the shadows cast by his sweeping lashes, the freckles around his eyes, the plush pink lips. They gently brushed his own open mouth and he was suddenly surrounded by the scent of rainstorms and honey beneath which he could sense the taste and feel that was uniquely Barry.

"Barry," he breathed. "Barry."

Oliver grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him forward for a furious kiss that made him grunt and stagger in surprise. He fisted his hands through those soft chestnut waves, holding Barry's head in place to sweep his tongue deeper into his mouth, starving for his taste, his touch, his moans driving him even more delirious.

It was an eternity of bliss and yet not nearly enough when his lover broke free. He caught Oliver's wrists, panting. "Oliver," Barry leaned their foreheads together, both their breathing ragged. Oliver's blood pounded in his ears. He only realized he'd been crying when Barry brushed the wetness away with his ungloved thumb. "Oh Ollie," he murmured sadly.

"Are you dead?," Oliver choked out. His vision blurred with tears but he let them brim over, afraid to blink.

"Are we both dead? Is this heaven?"

"What? Ollie, no," Barry huffed a laugh and turned his face into Oliver's hand to kiss it. "We are both very much alive."

"But I need you to listen to me," his grip on his wrists tightened urgently, those wonderfully awake and alert eyes pinning his own with startling intensity, "I don't have much time. First off, I'm not really back."

Oliver's heart sank and he pulled Barry impossibly closer, running frantic hands over his body searching for damage. "What do you mean?"

Catching his hands again, Barry turned Oliver's chin up to face him full-on. "To understand what I'm about to tell you," he spoke careful and clear, "you need to believe in the impossible. Can you do that?"

Oliver laughed incredulously. "I don't need to believe, I just saw it."

"No, there's more to it. Listen," he took a deep breath, "I'm from the future."

"From...the future," repeated Oliver blankly. This somehow seemed to make perfect sense, in that surreal way the twists and turns of a dream seemed perfectly reasonable.

"Yes. The me of right now is still in a coma at STAR Labs," said Barry. "I'm going to wake up in a few months and I'm going to have these powers."

"Powers? Like...turning into lightning?"

"No, but I am lightning fast and I can generate my own lightning bolts...eventually." Something tight flickered over his expression but he shook it away and refocused. "The point is, I will develop my powers over time until one day I accidentally time-travel."

"Absolutely nobody can find out what really happened here tonight, not even me. I need to find out about my powers by myself and you can't tell me or anyone until one day, I have to deliberately choose to time travel for the first time," Barry cupped Oliver's face in his hands, almost vibrating with urgency. "You have to promise me."

Oliver was still struggling to get a grip on reality. "But why?"

"Because that is how it happened before and now must be again," said Barry. His face was inscrutable. "Anything else will create a paradox. Promise me."

"I promise. I won't tell anyone." He still didn't have the slightest idea what Barry was saying but he would promise his soul to have his partner back like this, warm, responsive, alive.

He couldn't make himself let go of him though. He wasn't sure he knew how. "But - Barry, there's so much happening in the city right now - I need you. I don't know if I can do this without you."

"Oliver, you can do this," and there was that immovable trust in Barry's eyes that he had been starving for, making his heart soar and humbling him to his core at the same time, "It won't be easy but you're not alone. Trust in your family and your team. They have your back. You can save the city and you will beat Slade."

The band that had constricted his chest for months finally loosened, allowing free breath. "You really believe that?"

Barry smiled. "I don't have to believe it. I've already seen it."

It suddenly struck Oliver that this Barry was different in a way that had nothing to do with the mask or the powers. There was an invisible weight on the slope of those broad shoulders. Even his smile was not the full-blown beam of sunshine he was used to, some sad shadow pulling at the creases of his mouth and eyes, and the furrow of his brow. There was a battered and bowed gravity to him that Oliver recognized.

What happened to you? What made you so much like me?

Perhaps Barry had seen him reading too much in his demeanor. Stepped back uncomfortably, he pulled Oliver's hands away. "I have to go," he softened at the sound of distress that escaped Oliver, hands scrabbling to pull him back. "This is real, Ollie," he framed his face in his hands again, eyes as tender as they were intense, "I promise. I'm going to wake up."

Oliver swallowed past the knot in his throat and nodded. "Okay. I believe you."

"And I believe in you," Barry gently pried his hands loose and Oliver, with a Herculean effort, let him.

He stood at the edge of the building, silhouetted in shadow and scarlet against the liquid yellow-gold of the city. Electricity crackled at his feet, spidering up his body which Oliver could sense vibrating with power even at this distance. Almost a demi-god, an entity that belonged to a place and time Oliver could not hope to follow.

A sudden desperation gripped him. "Barry," he called, "I love you."

Barry gave him that soft, sad smile over his shoulder. "I know," he said, lightning sparking in his eyes.

Oliver was braced for the sonic boom this time. He watched in awe as the red-gold comet blazed across the city into the horizon before disappearing into a vortex of swirling blue light.

Now that... is really cool.

Bonus deleted scene

Chapter 2

#olivarry #oliver queen x barry allen #a stitch in time #canon divergence #arrow #the flash #established relationship

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prize-winning-conker · 7 years

Text

Speaking of that daft column, it’s now more an essay, but ehh. He’s given me free reign so may as well make it count and make sure I upset someone. Think it’s done so have it early...

I was eight years old and in hospital, the cliché picture with a band aid on forehead and arm in splint. Mom hadn’t sat the entire time she’d been at my bedside - all three hours to that point. Lovingly fretting, you ask? Nope. Glaring down at me. I knew she was, her arms were folded and her weight shifted from one foot to the other as her exasperation grew, but I hadn’t dared to look all the way up to check. Eventually she cracked.

“What have I told you?”

That day would be the first time my mom’s most important lesson made sense to me, though it would take a number of years for me to fully absorb it.

We were at recess. A group of classmates pulled me to one side. Their frisbee had got stuck in the tree, too high for anyone to throw a ball and knock. Could you fetch it for us? I wasn’t sure, it was pretty high and far out on the branch. But you know how to climb trees, they said, you climb the highest and fastest out of everyone. Won’t you help? It’s not fair if you don’t, you only need to shake the branch a little... They had a point. I was the best, and it wouldn’t be hard for me to do. They wouldn’t get it back that recess otherwise, so I agreed with a smile.

It was high up. Even with my speed, by the time I reached the branch in question the gaggle of classmates had swollen to half the playground cheering me on, finally attracting the attention of horrified teachers. One called out, I panicked at their tone and slipped, slamming my head on a branch and landing with one arm outstretched futilely to break my fall.

Apparently I went thud. I don’t remember that last part, though my classmates would argue over the exact noise for a week. I do remember being pinned to a board in the back of an ambulance, trying to get the paramedics to understand my mom was going to kill me if she found out. Too late, they said, she was on her way to the hospital. She’ll be there already, I said, to which they laughed. They stopped with a choke when they opened the back of the ambulance and there she was, glowering up at me with her jaw set. That was the last time I would look her in the eye for the next few hours.

We said nothing to each other, save her sharp ‘well?’ when I was expected to answer a question she couldn’t. I passed through the hands of baffled trauma teams then X-ray staff to the children’s ward doctors. They could find nothing wrong with me other than a mild concussion, an associated graze, and a sprained wrist from my failed attempt to completely break my fall. I was very lucky, they repeatedly told me, I should have been killed from that height. I was to stay in overnight for observation. I guess they thought they’d missed something. After checking me over for the umpteenth time the final doctor left, then our stubborn battle began in earnest.

I’m not sure why she caved first for once. Maybe because the other adults were doting on their poorly kids and glancing over like she had two heads, or because some of the other inmates were whispering about the chill in the air as her eyes bored into my skull. Most likely she knew Dad’s imminent arrival would undermine whatever lesson she had planned, his hugs and kisses ruining the gravitas, so she started as though I’d made a noise first.

“What have I told you?”

It wasn’t a riddle. We’d talk after every episode of my favourite superhero cartoons, each time my Uncle appeared on TV as The Great Saiyaman, when I’d slip and call the martial arts and ki-techniques she was teaching me ‘superpowers’. Her mantra formed the closing lines of the bedtime stories of my parents’ hard-won battles.

You always have a choice, she’d say. But she didn’t understand, I did choose! It made sense to help. I was the best at climbing and was the only one who-- She grabbed my chin in one hand, forcing me to look her in the eye, her usual move when she wanted her words to stick. I think that’s when she got reported for her unorthodox parenting style, but that’s another story.

“That isn’t giving yourself a choice. You don’t have to risk yourself to help anyone, do you understand me?”

I now appreciate why my mother was so vexed that day. It wasn’t at me, more it was with herself at not hammering home the message hard enough and soon enough.

There’s a painful double standard in the world. We tell our kids to have big dreams and to do what makes them happiest, but the moment a child shows aptitude for something society finds useful they’re cajoled and pushed. Dare to take a different path and the interrogation become endless. I don't understand, the people say, you’re so talented, why didn't you follow your ideal career? Didn’t you want to be rich, or successful, or famous, or powerful? You could have been someone. We had such high hopes. If I were you… Those words sting, no matter the context or love with which they’re said. I’ve heard them a lot the past few days from confused colleagues and I don’t expect that to stop as the news filters out.

Like all parents in some respects, my mom was fretting over whether she was doing the right thing. On the one hand her teaching would grant me immunity to most of life’s dangers. When my training was finished forget a fall, I could get hit by a truck and not budge an inch. On the other those same abilities would put me in the position to help when no one else could. If found out I would become a commodity to society, it would be deemed unreasonable and even irresponsible of me to decline to help and I'd be trapped. Even at that young age people were already tugging at my sleeves demanding small but potentially dangerous things. Like climbing trees. They’d sensed how easily my arm was twisted and over the years the pleading escalated. I’d see their distress and agree to help with that smile. Fetching balls from busy roads. Standing up to bullies. Chasing down a friend’s stolen phone - the mugger could have turned a gun on me at any point but I did as I was asked by my friend’s wordless yell. After all, who else right then and there could have help her?

Before I could blink I had a reputation. Classmates questioned why I wanted to go to college to write and not follow my dad into the police force, or even register to be a Crimefighter. Some were even angry. You’d be so good, so famous, I bet you’d be the best! You have so much potential - you shouldn’t waste it! I don’t understand - if I were you… I’d hidden as much of my training as I could and yet because I was so easily swayed to see the ‘common sense’ in helping they knew I was capable of something more than them. Escaping the path then dictated to me by society took a strength of will I would never have gained if it wasn’t for my family’s unwavering support. Without it I may have gone on to do my ‘duty’, that smile still plastered on my face, and hated every moment.

I may have sworn off a life of crime-fighting but I couldn’t turn my back completely. My closest friends, far more gifted in this arena than myself, went through the same struggle. We didn’t want the attention or the pressure of daily Hero work, we wanted a normal life to cling to. But we’re human to a fault - we couldn’t ignore all the world’s troubles. So instead we Shadowed, the best compromise we stumbled upon. We could move freely through the world as mere citizens, helping when we chose - not when summoned. Expectation still dogged us, though. When out the public saw my all-blacks not as a way to conceal my identity but as a uniform, a promise to help. They’d hide behind me, just like they would any named Hero or Crimefighter. I may have been free to come and go but in the moment my station was not.

Shadowing came with a price; without an identity we lack a voice in defence and we became an easy target. We receive praise but it’s sparing, quite rightly the bulk is reserved for the plain-clothed volunteers on the ground. But once, where we were a welcome boost to the effort, nowadays our presence at disasters is expected. We’d fallen into doing our ‘duty’, though not correctly as we had the audacity to hide our faces and not give the journalists a sporting chance to hunt us down, and it drew their ire. I’d have to bite my tongue reading colleagues disparage us across the pages and even I couldn’t write too empathetically, lest my identity and connections become obvious. At times the lack of public understanding drove me to tears. Yet as the years passed Mom continued to stare me down. You still have a choice. But I did choose, I wasn’t a Hero really, I just needed to stay a little longer next time. Be more thorough, be faster. Do that then it’d be okay, people would be satisfied. She’d shake her head.

Then the true insignificance of this noise I’d been bending over backwards to placate became stupidly obvious with the arrival of something far worse than some natural disaster. For the briefest of moments the nonsense fell away, and I finally understood her.

Imagine standing in front of a man thousands of times more powerful than you could ever be. He’s willing to let you and the people you care about live if you just stepped aside. “What’s worth saving,” he says, “who here is worth dying for?” Imagine wondering, after days of headlines trashing you for a mistake you were more than capable of beating yourself up over, whether there even was a point to trying anymore. Nothing would ever be enough. You could leave, you could be safe. You’re not obligated to save the ingrates on this rock time and time again. What difference could your puny ass make, anyway? Why risk your life for literally nothing? Those you care about would understand. You even plan, your foot twitches to move.

You should walk away.

But you don’t.

Because it’s your home he wants and you’ll be damned if you’re handing it over.

And that’s what my mom meant by making a free choice. Not to act because you’re asked or shamed or want to please everyone, but because this time you think it’s the right thing to do, even for selfish reasons. Especially for selfish reasons. Screw duty, unbeholden to anyone you choose to act - whether it conforms to noble expectation or not. Mom may be the type to walk away in moments like that and I know she’d rather I follow suit, but all my parents have ever truly wanted is the weight of responsibility off my shoulders. As long as I have no regrets or guilt they couldn’t be happier for me. With that one terrifying decision made in spite of the ocean of faces hiding behind me, from then on I really didn’t care what people thought of my Shadowing.

We were told we could leave that day, that we should. We’d have a better chance on the run. But until we have no other option we’re staying. Despite all its flaws this is our home and we made up our minds back then to not budge.

Next time we appear remember: we choose freely to walk through fire, toss aside that rubble, carry you above rising waters and yes, risk death literally defending the planet. All because we want to, not because it is expected of us. The words in the media and in idle chatter around us can still leave a bitter taste at times but I can safely say they won’t lead me to dwell. Say what you want to me - If I were you… but you’re not. Tough.

The name the media and public use for me is Auntie Shadow, but between us? My name is Marron, and this is how Shadowing came to pass.

#gs

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ohblackdiamond · 5 years

Text

the end of the world tour (kiss/endgame crossover, r) (part 2/5)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

In this chapter: KISS begins its training regimen. Unfortunately, there's no Rocky montage.

The old wooden box looked just the same as it always had. Just as ordinary as ever. Not the barest smear of dust. Gene cracked it open almost casually, setting it down on the living room table, the talismans of Khyscz glowing too brightly in the dim room. Better preserved than any of the four of them. Of course they were. Peter took a deep breath, just staring at the talismans, hand hovering over the box.

“They’re not gonna eat you,” Ace said dryly.

“I know that,” Peter snapped. “Just give me a second.”

Aside from the glow, the talismans never had looked too special, anyway. Crude little carvings of a cat head, a star, a dragon, and a lightning bolt. Like an elementary school kid’s art project. They didn’t look as though they’d give any more powers than the Superman curtain they’d obsessively hung by their dressing room for decades. But they had. But they did.

Peter could swear he felt electricity start to course through his fingers. Should’ve been exhilarating. Instead, it was frankly terrifying. He could feel three sets of eyes right on him, expectant. And why shouldn’t they be? He’d been the one to push it, insist that they put their powers to decent use. If he got cold feet now—if he couldn’t even take hold of his own talisman, well—

“Okay, we’ll do it on three,” Paul said from behind him. He was breathing hard right up against Peter’s ear. Nerves as shot as always. Peter had never been quite so grateful for someone else’s terminal case of anxiety. Paul stuck his hand out to the box, Gene and Ace following suit. “One, two, three—”

Peter’s fingers closed around the cat talisman and the world went white around him.

Briefly. Just briefly.

Then he opened his eyes.

He was back in his Destroyer outfit. Every last rhinestone on the jumpsuit intact. The layered, crystal-studded choker, the huge cross necklace, the six-inch platforms. The dry, cloying feel of greasepaint and talcum powder spread across his face, a face that barely had any crevices or wrinkles for the makeup to sink into.

He dropped the talisman back into the box, where it managed a few more pulsating twinkles before the light faded. Then he yanked off his gloves, surprised at his own shock at what he saw. Not the knobby, swollen fingers he was used to. No arthritis or carpal tunnel or tendonitis. Nothing. He felt like he could play a twenty-song setlist the next five nights in a row. He felt like he could do anything, any fucking thing he wanted, bounce back without even the remote fear of injury. Each movement felt crisp and painless. That underlying ache that’d plagued him so much longer than he’d ever confessed to any of the guys was gone.

Peter’s palms were starting to sweat. He shoved the gloves back on, insanely, trying to force an evenness to his breaths that he couldn’t manage.

“Holy shit,” he said, shaking his head. Nothing else really encompassed it. Shit, he could almost, almost understand why the other three had misused the talismans now. So much pent-up energy, he felt like he was high off his own breathing. The urge to laugh, to cry, something, was digging a furrow within him.

Behind him, he could hear Ace cracking up. Peter turned around, slowly, almost as if he was afraid of what was behind him. Which was ridiculous. He’d seen the guys before. He’d seen Gene and Paul the way they used to be just yesterday. He knew all three of their costumes and faces and makeup nearly as well as he knew his own. There was just this weird feeling somewhere in his gut that as soon as he took a glance, the deal was on. Like when they’d signed their first contract. Like when they’d first closed their hands around the talismans in ’73. No turning back.

He faced Paul and Gene first. Unsurprisingly, they both looked remarkably better when they weren’t in the middle of fucking random girls. He stared from Paul’s asymmetrically-painted face, the black star over his right eye, to the nearly-batwing swoops of black paint that spread from Gene’s forehead down almost to the tip of his nose. Then there was Ace, behind both of them, the silver starbursts making his face practically gleam.

He didn’t know how to describe it. Seeing the guys like that. It took him back—it took them all back, decades upon decades. The nostalgia trip of the Reunion Tour hadn’t been like this. Nothing could compare to this.

“You look great, Cat,” Ace said, offering his standard thumbs-up. But there was a warmth, a sincerity to his expression. Those brown eyes held some fondness, maybe. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look cross Ace’s face for longer than a few seconds. “You ready?”

Peter nodded. Ace kept his hand extended, fist out, hovering in the air. It took a moment or two for Peter to catch on and reach out his fist to meet Ace’s, then Gene and Paul immediately following suit. It took a few tries before all four of them managed to connect for the fistbump simultaneously, but they managed, amid a few headshakes and snorts. Then the room just went dead silent, the four of them just staring deflatedly at each other. The same stupid hesitation that had kept Peter from grabbing the talisman straight off was paralyzing them all again. No, it wasn’t just that. Sure, the talismans could dredge up the true selves of the holders, something Peter was slowly starting to realize was insulting to each of them, but they couldn’t make it ’73 again. They couldn’t put KISS in that old team mindset. That wasn’t part of their magic.

“Is anybody going to say anything? C’mon, somebody pump us up,” Peter said finally.

“I forgot all our catchphrases,” Paul confessed.

KISS’ last intense experiences with personal trainers had been over twenty years prior, getting in shape for the Reunion Tour. They’d been expensive, and the overall effect had left a lot to be desired—probably because the routines had been more about avoiding fat Elvis comparisons than strength training. But this time was different. A haphazard blend of Tae-Bo workout videos and P90X DVDs, protein shakes and energy bars, Nordic Tracks and barbells soon littered the entirety of the basement, crowding out the KISS memorabilia that had crept into the corners. Paul and Gene had cancelled out indefinitely on FER, despite being hounded on a near-daily basis by both the girls and the program.

The workouts were the easy part, really. The superpowers were hazardous.

As it turned out, after forty years of disuse, Gene’s firebreathing abilities weren’t much more than enough to light a menorah. Ace’s teleportation had fared a little better—but he wasn’t getting any farther than the city limits of New Haven without an extreme amount of effort. Paul’s eye beam still had great accuracy… and a range of about three feet.

“Can you still do that other eye thing?”

“What other eye thing?”

“Seeing the future.”

Paul just rolled both eyes.

“Ace, I hate to tell you, but most of those premonitions were vague to begin with.”

“I’m pretty sure you used them to bet on Secretariat in ’73. I only remember ’cause you made us all put in for it.”

“Yeah, but that was so we could afford to rent out that ballroom. And the odds were 3 to 2, so we had to put up a lot to get the benefits.” A pause. “See, Peter, we’ve definitely abused the talismans way before the FER thing…”

Peter grimaced but let it go. His powers weren’t in good shape, either. Catlike reflexes, sure, if the cat had been dosed up on morphine prior. The claws were… just okay. Ace had joked about getting a scratching post for him at some point, when a lot of practice was probably the only thing that could improve them. Any of them.

“It doesn’t make sense. We never had to work on them before. The powers were just there.” Peter was staring dismally at his target—a pink rubber head and torso, mounted on a heavy stand—and absently slashing its face up as he spoke. “One day we were at band practice and the next day we were—what was that Superman shit, Gene…”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

“No, we did better than that, we could fucking fly.” Peter glanced at the other three. “Has anyone even tried that one yet?”

“I’m too depressed with what we have tried,” Paul said dryly. “And I really don’t want to break a leg.”

Ace shrugged.

“I think we just gotta be patient with it, y’know? Maybe it’s a mental block. Maybe we’re putting limits on ourselves.”

“Since when have any of us ever done that? Look, man, we want this. All of us want this.”

“Could be the problem. We’re too anxious, I dunno.”

Not the most satisfying explanation. Gene started digging through his VHS collection for news clips of their crimefighting activities, and they added reviewing the tapes onto their training activities. They were even slowing the tapes down to get the hand movements and gestures exactly right—it was weird; all of it was weird. Copying poses they’d done forty years prior. Even, occasionally, copying catchphrases in an effort to get the proper intensity. It felt kind of stupid. Paul seemed like the only one who’d really get into the catchphrase bit—then again, he’d done the same stage raps for decades without losing an ounce of enthusiasm. Maybe to him it felt like he was pumping up an invisible crowd. Gene, unsurprisingly, seemed to enjoy imitating the poses.

But the only things that always felt entirely right to Peter were the outfits and makeup. Sure, it wasn’t bad, staring at a mostly-lineless face in the mirror before starting the day’s training, just like it wasn’t bad, diving into a punching bag without worrying about arthritis, but honestly, a couple stolen hours of youth were secondary to actually feeling like part of KISS again.

It just hadn’t felt the same over the last five years. Living together, being together—without performing together or crimefighting together. It had been like playing house in a morgue. Not always. Not every day. But the difference was palpable. The occasional jam sessions they’d do in the basement couldn’t compare to how it felt to really be working together again.

Peter was doing a few more chinups out back when he heard the familiar, giddy sounds of Ace’s laughter from further out in the backyard. Gene and Paul had already gone back inside, Gene exhausted after managing to spit about a two-foot column of fire, his best effort yet, and Paul taking the opportunity to volunteer to make dinner. Just as well.

“Pete, Pete!” Ace was bounding over, looking as apt to trip in his boots as ever. Peter immediately let go of the bar. “I got it, I got it.”

“You’ve got what?”

“I’ve got it unlocked.” And a big, goofy grin. “I had to let you know first. You’ll never believe this.”

“You’ve got your teleporting under control?”

Ace laughed.

“Even better. Trust me.”

“You got the shooting lightning with your hands thing back.”

“Better.”

“Jesus, Ace, just tell me, would you?”

“You know how we keep ending up in the Destroyer outfits, right?”

“Yeah?”

They weren’t bad outfits, exactly. They’d been famous enough to be reprised for the Reunion tour. Peter hadn’t ever minded his any, at least, even if the jumpsuit did feature a gigantic bedazzled arrow pointing straight to his crotch.

“I figured out how to change costumes.”

Peter couldn’t bite back a groan.

“That’s what you’ve got unlocked?”

“Hey, it’s great! You haven’t even seen yet! Look, look, which one do you want? C’mon, I’ll let you pick. Love Gun? Dynasty?”

“KISS’ first tour.”

“You’re no fun, man,” Ace retorted, but he nodded, idly cracking his knuckles. For a second, nothing happened. Then there was a flash of blue smoke, and Ace was standing there in the comparatively plainer black leotard, v-shaped chestpiece, corseted belt, and lightning-bolt boots from their first tour, looking intensely pleased with himself. “What do you think? Pretty good, right?”

Peter managed a few mildly begrudging claps, eyes locked on Ace’s waist. Fuck, he’d forgotten how skinny the guy used to be. The corset belt just accentuated it. If Ace noticed where he was looking, though, he didn’t acknowledge it, breathing out a low sigh.

“You’re not excited.”

“Look, Ace, changing outfits is not gonna help us fight—”

“I think it is gonna help us fight.” Ace’s face was scrunched up slightly. “See, I thought about it. Why Destroyer? We didn’t completely quit the crimefighting gig until, well.”

“Until I left.”

“Yeah. And that was in ’80. Destroyer was ’76.” Rocking back and forth on his heels like a Sunday School kid, clearly unused to this costume’s boots, Ace grabbed his arm. “Think about it. What happened in ’76?”

“You got married.”

“Well, yeah, but—nah, c’mon, Peter, I thought you’d get it right off. ’76 was when we came out with ‘Beth.’ When we started getting really huge.”

Peter nodded, still baffled.

“It was the last hurrah before things fell apart, y’know? It was the last time we were really all cool with each other, all four of us. That’s why Destroyer’s what we got stuck with. And I’ll bet that’s at least part of why all our powers aren’t doing so hot.” Ace squeezed Peter’s arm. “We’re in stasis.”

“You think that’s really it?”

“I think we gotta… okay, lemme put it this way. I think we all gotta trust each other more.”

“Ace, we trust each other plenty. You and me, we—”

“Yeah, see, that’s the problem. ’S not just you and me. It’s Gene and Paul, too.” Ace paused briefly, letting go of Peter’s arm. “We always kinda acted like we were on one side of the fence and they were on the other, and—”

“Aren’t we?”

“Uh-uh. Can’t work like that anymore. Four who are one, Pete.”

“What, do you want us all to have some stupid heart-to-heart bullshit sessions?”

Another puff of blue smoke. Another costume change. This one to the loose silver dress he’d worn during the Hotter than Hell photoshoot. Peter stared, shaking his head, but Ace shrugged amicably. “Nah. We’re just gonna swap room assignments. Lemme go tell Gene.”

Peter hadn’t shared a bed with Paul since 1974, and every moment spent lying two feet from him now only reminded him of why.

It wasn’t that Paul drooled or snored or anything like that. He even kept his hands and his hard-ons to himself. Peter couldn’t recall ever waking up to Paul sleepily attempting to spoon him. No, Paul just…

Given too much proximity, Paul just got on his nerves. And the feeling was mutual. And the feeling had been mutual, off and on, since about 1980.

It hadn’t always been that way. They used to go on vacations together back in the seventies. Hawaii, France, all sorts of shit like that. Used to spend hours talking on the phone when they weren’t on tour, like high school girls. Paul had almost been some kind of needy but semi-sweet little brother to him, until Peter’s cocaine habit had turned into an obsession, Peter’s song had turned into their biggest hit, and Paul’s fragile ego couldn’t take any of it. That was Peter’s opinion, at least.

KISS’ downward spiral turning into an outright crash landing after Peter’s firing probably had a lot to do with it, too, at least on Paul’s part. Gave him someone concrete to point to as the beginning of the end. Peter hadn’t exactly watched with relish as KISS sunk under the weight of its own leather heels without him, at least not for those first few years—he’d been too busy watching his own would-be solo career implode. At least KISS was still able to release albums, even if their sales were depressing as hell. Half of Peter’s records couldn’t even get a U.S. release.

He and Paul didn’t really talk to each other much the whole rest of that decade. Instead, they’d sniped at each other through the press over everything from drug use to (lack of) musical talent starting in the late eighties, made vague amends just in time for the Reunion Tour, and then… well, then, they’d unleashed their autobiographies on each other and the world like a plague of mosquitos. Committed to print every single instance either of them could think of that made the other one look like a hack, a degenerate (not overly difficult), or worse. Peter liked to think Paul had given him plenty of material with each pre-concert pants-stuffing and his tendency to doodle disembodied, veiny dicks while on tour. Unfortunately, Paul had shot right back with more tales of Peter threatening to quit the band and sabotaging concerts than Peter could count.

The too-accurate-to-be character assassinations didn’t make things tense in the house anymore, but to say they weren’t something they were both still sore about would’ve been a lie.

Of course, it didn’t help that Paul currently had a large, framed poster of himself mounted on his bedroom ceiling. It also didn’t help that the whole room smelled faintly of cologne. Or that there was a clear dent in the wall from those stupid FER extracurriculars of his.

Peter had turned in early, or tried to. Paul had actually seemed amicable, at first, moving a bunch of sketches out of the bedroom and dusting off the nightstand. Confirmation of what Peter already long since knew. Paul still didn’t actually sleep in his own room.

He wondered how Ace and Gene were doing. Ace had always really hated sharing hotel rooms with Gene because of how much of a slob he was, but most of Ace’s animosity towards the guy had been a front at best. Honestly, Ace had always kind of dug Gene, though why, Peter didn’t know. Probably because Gene wasn’t neurotic like Paul or hotheaded like Peter himself was. Probably because Gene was as close to well-adjusted as a rockstar could manage. Gene saving Ace from drowning twice on tour probably hadn’t hurt.

Now here Peter was, lying in bed with just the lamplight on, not sure whether to be looking at Paul-on-the-ceiling or the actual Paul next to him. Ceiling Paul was in full Starchild makeup, of course—with his cheek resting against a blood-streaked guitar, looking doe-eyed and winsome for the camera. Actual Paul was decidedly worse for wear and tear and smelled like toothpaste.

“Why is that even here?” Peter had to point. Unnecessarily.

“Pretty beautiful guy, right?” Paul grinned. “I used to have a mirror on the ceiling back in California.”

“Used to? What, did you start scaring yourself?”

Paul bristled.

“Erin said it was a little embarrassing.”

“A little?” Peter shook his head. “I think the poster’s worse. I got two pairs of eyes staring at me from different directions.”

“Just pretend it’s a threesome. I’ll even do the vocals.”

“Fuck, no. Take that thing down.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I put it there myself—”

“I don’t care. I’m not sleeping with both of you.”

Paul started laughing, and got up, digging around under the bed and yanking out a sketchbook. He tore part of a page out, then wandered off, returning a minute or two later with a roll of tape.

“Cheer up, I’m about to fix it.” Peter watched as Paul stood up on the bed and started taping the piece of paper to his own face on the wall. Peter exhaled, vaguely relieved, until Paul climbed back into bed properly and he realized—

“You left the eyes!”

“Well, yeah, I always thought they were the best part—”

“Paul, you fucking egomaniac! Cover up the whole thing!”

“If you don’t wanna see it, then turn off the lamp.”

Peter had been about to do it, but Paul’s stare on him was so amused that he kept the lamp on out of spite. Paul kind of shrugged and stretched, eyes moving back to the poster on the ceiling before long.

“We’re getting a lot done, I think. I’m proud of us.”

“You’re proud of Gene.”

“I’m proud of you, too, Peter.” He paused. “I am. I’m proud of all of us.”

“Forget it. Every time you force out a compliment, it still sounds as canned as Fancy Feast.”

“Pete, I’m trying here.” Paul shifted. God, he was directing every single comment up at the ceiling. Frustrating as all hell. It just made Peter stare at him all the harder as Paul continued. “I think Ace is right. I think we won’t be able to do any real superhero shit until we fix our relationships.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They’ve been better. You remember when we first talked about moving to Connecticut during that one board meeting?”

“Yeah, ’cause we’d save so much a year on taxes if we were living there instead of in New York.” Despite himself, Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“We were gonna go all in and buy one house together. But the board shot us down. They said that was too obvious an abuse of a loophole and we’d just pop in like it was a vacation home. Said it wouldn’t fly for state taxes. Thing is, we probably would’ve done it, back then. We would’ve actually lived together, at least sometimes.”

“We’re living together now, Paul, I dunno if you noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Paul was still looking away. At the bookcase now, instead of the ceiling. His voice was softer. “I’m real grateful.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah.” Paul shifted. “Look, I… I was a mess. After. Shit, I’m still not doing great. If Gene hadn’t come over that night five years ago, I…”

“You wouldn’t have.” Peter swallowed. “Hell, no. You’d never deprive the world of your own face like that. Much less yourself.”

Paul laughed softly.

“Whole lot of good a face does without a family. I was thinking about it. I was thinking, I finally had my life together and now I don’t. Now it’s gone. Now it’s all gone.” An exhale. “Thank God I couldn’t shut my mind off long enough to get out of bed. Much less do anything serious. I just—lay there. Then there’s Gene pulling up to my place and pretty soon I hear him running up the stairs, yelling because I haven’t answered the phone. Says he knows I haven’t disappeared. He throws the bedroom door open, right, and tells me to get my ass out of bed and—”

“And?”

“And get in the car, because we were going to your place.” Paul took another breath. “I ask him, how do you even know Peter’s alive, and he says Ace just updated his twitter and he’s over there with you now. Then he throws me his phone and tells me to text both of you right now and say we’re coming.”

“I barely remember when you showed up.” Paul flinched, and Peter added, quickly, “It’s like you said. I was pretty fucked-up, too.”

“You sure were. When I walked in, you were wrapped up in a blanket next to the fridge.”

“Paul, you wandered around in that stupid blue bathrobe for two weeks. Ace was trying to attach car fresheners to your neck.”

Without turning to look at him, Paul flipped him off. Peter returned the gesture.

“Shit, forget me trying to tell you something important, then.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being fucked-up after—”

“Okay, okay, fine. You got me. Anyway, that whole drive over… it was… God, it was horrible. Gene’s not that great at driving and… all those cars everywhere, just crashed alongside. I don’t know how we made it. At first, I kept trying to grab the wheel, can you believe that? I was so sick of seeing everything because every empty car made me think of—”

“I know. I know, Paul.” Peter swallowed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do have to tell you. I haven’t told you anything in nearly forty years.” Paul shook his head. His dark eyes were watering up. “Gene had to pull over at one point. He looked like he wanted to smack me. He told me my parents hadn’t fled Nazi Germany and his mother hadn’t survived the Holocaust just for me to try and kill us both. I told him he was a fucking asshole. But after that, I stopped trying to take the wheel.”

Peter didn’t know how to answer, or even if he should try. Part of him wanted Paul to just shut up, not bring any memories of five years ago back. Not to dare. Every time he thought about it for too long, every time he thought about Gigi, watching her fade out in front of him, calling Jennilee, calling Lydia, getting nothing—nothing—he wanted to vomit, even now. He wanted to smash up everything, everything, in a desperate, stupid bid to bring them back, or bring him to them.

He probably would’ve by now. Would’ve been another of those cracked-up hellraisers that’d committed suicide by cop or by mob by the millions, if it wasn’t for Ace coming up to his door, and Paul and Gene following suit only a day later. He could still conjure up Ace rapping at the door, yelling his name. Deep down, he’d known all along that Ace hadn’t disappeared, the same as Gene had known Paul hadn’t. A connection that went past living together on the road for over a decade. A connection that went past friendship and supernatural talismans and into something else. Peter’s throat felt heavy and hot, each swallow harder to manage.

“He saved you.”

Peter heard a sharp inhale of breath from Paul, and then, finally, quietly—

“Gene’s been saving me for fifty years. He still doesn’t realize it.”

“You saved him, too.” Peter shook his head. “You never really give yourself credit for anything that isn’t KISS.”

“I dunno about that.” Paul pointed dryly to the poster on the ceiling.

“Still KISS. Have you ever taken a picture of yourself out of the makeup that you actually liked?”

“Don’t change the subject, Pete—”

“I’m just curious—”

“Don’t be. Look, what I’m trying to say is, I owe Gene a lot. I… I owe you and Ace a lot, too.” He shifted. “I want you to know that.”

“Just the last couple years. I know we’re not in Gene’s category.”

“Now you’re the one not giving himself enough credit.” Paul closed his eyes. “You know, after you guys were gone, I got the same question every damn interview for years. ‘Do you miss Ace and Peter in the band? Do you miss KISS being on top? Do you miss crimefighting?’ And every time, I’d have to say no. And every time, I’d be lying through my teeth.”

“That was always a stupid question. We all missed KISS being on top.”

“That wasn’t all I missed.” Paul hesitated. “I had a better time when it was the four of us than I did with anybody else. Here or onstage.”

“I did, too."

Paul was back to looking at him again, tongue just slightly past his lips for a brief moment, a nervous gesture Peter hadn’t seen out of him in years.

“I’m sorry about calling you a miserable asshole in my book,” Paul said quietly.

“I’m sorry I called you a bisexual pants-stuffer in mine.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Neither were you.”

---

They talked a long time after that. Long enough that Peter forgot to turn off the lamp before falling asleep, and by the time they both woke up and slogged down the stairs, it was past ten and Ace had—actually made breakfast. Gene was at the table scarfing down a stack of omelets three deep. He’d added maple syrup like a heathen, turning the omelets into islands soaking in the sticky gunk.

“Curly,” Ace drawled out, waving with his spatula. “Didja have fun last night?”

Peter had come down in nothing but pajama bottoms. Paul had just tied his bathrobe around his waist. Neither of them had shaven. Both of them looked like they were ten seconds from passing out in their chairs. Peter managed a noncommittal noise that wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy Ace.

“C’mon, I gotta have details, man. Paulie, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Don’t call me Paulie before noon,” Paul mumbled, reaching for his glass of orange juice. “Just give me an omelet.”

“Was it that bad?” Gene, through a mouthful of food. “Ace and I had a good time.”

“I haven’t stayed up past four in probably twenty-five years, unless I was on tour,” Peter managed.

“That’s only because you were smart enough to stop having kids in the eighties,” Paul said with a grimace. “Ace, you’re about to burn—”

“I got it, I got it,” Ace said, flipping the two omelets over, smushing them both briefly with the spatula before dropping one each on Peter and Paul’s plates with a wink. “We’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”

Peter nodded, then dug into his omelet. Not too bad, surprisingly. Fluffy enough, and mixed in with enough bacon and cheese that the near-burnt exterior was forgivable.

“Costumes and powers and press releases. That’s where we’re headed,” Gene intoned dreamily, gulping down a glass of apple juice.

“We’re going to do a press release?” Peter asked. Immediately, he glanced accusingly at Paul, except Paul looked as bewildered as Peter felt.

“Gene, seriously? That’s a terrible idea. Let’s just approach Stark directly like we’ve been saying all along.”

“Since when does KISS do anything without fanfare?” Gene reached over the table, grabbing the maple syrup, thoroughly drowning what little was left of his omelets. “I’ve been in contact with a couple of journalists. We might get that second Rolling Stone cover.”

“I don’t care about the cover—”

“C’mon, Gene’s right.” Ace was flipping another few omelets as he spoke. One was dribbling and burning onto the stovetop. “We could use the attention here. Make us seem legit.”

“You want to do a tell-all? Demonstrations?” Paul shook his head. “Nobody would believe that stuff out of us anymore. They’d say it was just theatrics.”

“Exactly. They’ll think we’re being tasteless. Or trying to figure out if anyone wants to see us tour,” Peter said, eating another bite of his omelet. Beside him, Paul winced.

“We’re always tasteless,” Gene retorted. “It’s our trademark.”

“No, our trademark is being shills. Well, yours and Paul’s, anyway—”

“Pete—” Gene started again, then shook his head. “Listen. I’m not saying we have to do it now. And I’m not saying it has to be a big deal. But we need to let the public know we’re back, and we better do it soon.”

Soon turned out to be two weeks later. Not even the Rolling Stone cover they’d coveted years ago, either. Instead, all they’d ended up with was a short blurb of an online article. Up top was a vintage photo of them in full costume, posing around New York. Beneath the text was a picture taken just for the article—out of costume, standing with their arms around each other. The peace sign Ace was flashing with his free hand didn’t make the disparity any less depressing.

KISS Makes Up (Once More, With Feeling)

The acrimonious quartet of sometimes-superheroes, mostly-rockstars has been out of the public eye for the bulk of the decade. Best known for their outlandish costumes, Kabuki-style makeup and bombastic shows, KISS’ latest exposure leaves much to be desired. The glam-rocker baby boomers met with Associated Press—customary platform heels of yesteryear swapped for crocs and loafers—right in their backyard.

“Oh, we’re prepping for a final tour right now,” bassist and proverbial face of the band, Gene Simmons, 70, insists with a smile. “KISS is here. No stage needed.”

KISS’ most successful tenure, from ’73-’80, saw an unheralded intermingling of crimefighting and commercialism. “We’d put ourselves on anything,” frontman Paul Stanley, 67, admits. “Lunchboxes, thermoses… I can’t tell you I’m ashamed of it, because the demand was there. And in many cases, it continues to be.” While Stanley’s coy on the numbers, KISS remains profitable enough that the four original members enjoy a luxurious New Haven estate spanning eight acres. Much of their backyard space, however, is reserved for esoteric training. The lawn is covered in holes and debris, and the band refuses to offer a proper explanation.

“Let’s just say we’re getting our game faces on,” is almost all Ace Frehley, lead guitarist, 68, will admit to. “This isn’t just for the fans anymore. It’s for everybody.” Drummer Peter Criss, 73, barely elaborates, “We spent the last five years the same way everyone else did. Then we woke up.”

He isn’t clear on what waking up entails. KISS’ stint as superheroes has long been overshadowed by their rockstar antics and market oversaturation. Poor ticket sales and IRS run-ins forced a return to the makeup and spandex in the late ’90’s and the readmittance of Frehley and Criss to the group, only for the original KISS to fracture again a few years later amid infighting and contract negotiations. But if the destroyed state of their backyard is any indication, KISS is planning something—even if they’re only manufacturing their own smoke bombs.

“What the hell kind of article is this?”

“Luxurious New Haven estate, my ass, Gene. We’re here because of the taxes.”

“I know you didn’t want a big reveal, but shit, now we just look like a bunch of lunatics! Blowing up our own yard… throwing in our ages like we’ve gone senile…”

“They didn’t even mention my spaceship,” Ace muttered.

“They did, that’s the ‘debris.’” Paul closed his eyes. “We spent a whole hour with the guy and he yanks one quote from each of us. This isn’t going to make anyone take us seriously.”

“It’s not supposed to,” said Gene. “It’s just supposed to make them talk.”

“They’re not going to talk! This isn’t like the seventies, Gene! We’re not getting a follow-up interview to explain ourselves! Not unless this really blows up—”

“It doesn’t have to blow up. All we need is the right people reading it.”

Over the next few weeks, there was talk. There were snickers, at least. Peter got the groceries on his assigned day, as usual, with Ace in tow, cheerfully piling twelve-packs of soda into the cart amid the protein powders and energy bars. Ordinary enough, until the teenage girl at the check-out counter a few feet away looked at both of them smugly.

It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t used to being recognized. Despite how defeated the world had become, he’d still occasionally get asked for a selfie, even while doing the shopping. Especially when one of the others was with him. He’d oblige. They’d always oblige. Gene, Paul, and Ace hadn’t toured in five years, and for Peter, it had been even longer. Funny how being as thoroughly away from the spotlight as they’d been made them all way more receptive to what fan reaction they received.

But this wasn’t a typical fan reaction. Those, he could deal with. A guy coming up to him, telling him he’d been sober for five years now, or saying he’d gotten checked for breast cancer because of him, or a girl telling him she was named after “Beth”… all that was fine, even good. Stuff he was grateful to hear. But this girl was different. It was the sneer that threw him, the way she suddenly pointed a finger at them and waved her coworker from the other counter over. She hurried to her, they mumbled something Peter couldn’t quite get at, and then, walking up to them, said—

“We wanna see the holes in your yard.”

“The holes—”

“Yeah.”

Peter looked the girls up and down. He hadn’t been heckled since he’d done his club tours. He never had quite figured out how to take it on the chin.

“Sure. We’ll bring you up there, right, Petey?” There was Ace, abandoning the cart to get a little closer, smiling. Peter shot him an aggrieved look.

“You will? What, in your spaceship?” The first girl snorted.

“Nah, nah, it’s still out of commission. You wanna take my hand, though? Yeah, there you go, you hold hers—”

“Ace, the hell?”

“You too, Pete. Yeah, right, okay—”

Peter realized what Ace was about to do about a second before he saw an abbreviated flash of Ace’s old Destroyer costume and felt his guts try to lurch past his skin. Then all he saw was their backyard—Paul and Gene nowhere in sight, thank God. Peter let go of Ace’s hand as soon as the lingering, nauseous feeling from the teleport passed, indignation spreading like butter across his face.

“What the fuck? Ace, you can’t teleport a couple of kids just because they made fun of us!”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” one of the girls screamed, grabbing the other one, who looked as if she was seconds from puking. “Where are we? We’re not on break! We’ve gotta get back to the store!”

“Didn’t you wanna see the holes in the yard first?” Ace sounded as lazily amiable as ever, already pointing at the nearest lawn damage. “I think that one was Gene’s, I dunno how, but—”

“Where’d the other fat, old guy go?”

Ace started cackling and waved his fingers as the girls stared.

“Holy shit,” one of them whispered, stumbling backwards. “Holy shit!”

“Ace, put them back!” Peter yelled.

“Okay, okay…” Ace reached over, offering his hand back to the girls. “I’ll getcha back, just—"

Two cut-off yelps and the three of them vanished. A few minutes later, Ace popped back into the yard alone, bags in hand.

“I got the groceries, Petey.”

“What about the car, idiot?”

Ace winced.

“I can’t teleport a car, man. That’s a couple thousand pounds, y’know? It was kinda hard just lugging you and the girls, if I’m gonna be honest…”

“Then drive it.” Irritably, Peter dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Ace, who barely managed to catch them. So much for all the training. Ace sighed.

“Pete, sometimes you’re really no fun.” Fifteen minutes later, Peter watched from the window as Ace pulled back into the driveway. He was back in the house before long, out of costume, stepping right into the kitchen where Peter was waiting, plastic bags full of groceries still on the table.

“Why did you do that, Ace?”

“They were pissing you off.” Ace shrugged, then noticed the table. “Hey, you didn’t put up the groceries.”

“I brought them in. Figured you could handle them after that stunt.”

Ace looked as if he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head.

“All right, Cat, I’ll get ’em.” He stretched absently, yanking out a pack of Pepsi. “That shit takes a lot out of you, a couple times in a row like that… I needed the practice.”

“You could’ve practiced with us anytime! Hell, you have!” Granted, the last few times had gotten a bit more involved than Peter might have liked. About a week prior, Ace had teleported himself and Peter both to the dim destination of “as far as he could go.” That destination had turned out to be an apple orchard in Pennsylvania. Whatever else was going on, Ace’s powers were definitely getting stronger.

Peter’s were, too. He’d never had as much to show for them, nothing too flashy about most of what he’d been granted, but he had managed to slice the last several rubber dummies to shreds without much effort. Gene was about to cause infernos now. Paul’s eye beam had mostly gotten its old range back. Peter didn’t honestly know if all that was enough, if it could make them formidable enough for the likes of Stark and whatever was left of the Avengers to take notice, but he hoped it could be.

“I know. Guess it was kinda mean, but… I wanted to try it on someone who wasn’t expecting it, y’know? In case we had to fight somebody and I had to take them out of the area or whatever.”

“Is that why you made us all hold hands?” He’d never needed to before. Proximity was enough for Ace to catch someone else in a teleport.

“Nah. I just wanted them to feel like they had something to do with it.” Ace grinned. “And maybe I wanted to cop a feel off of you.”

“All you did was hold my hand, asshole.”

“Aw, Petey. I had to keep it classy.” And a wink. “… There’s another reason, too.”

“For the hand-holding?”

“Nah, for borrowing the girls.” Ace stuffed a box of protein powders into a cabinet with a wince. “Gene was right about the article bit. But it never was the press that got us started in the first place. ’S always been word of mouth. ’S always been us doing stupid shit like wander around Manhattan in full fucking costume before people even knew who we were. You really think those chicks are gonna stay quiet about what they just saw?”

“Ace, if we end up with a bunch of assholes stopping by the yard—”

“Hey, hey. We gotta play the game. We said KISS was back. Now we just have to prove it.”

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #peter criss #gene simmons #ace frehley #paul stanley

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