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In the five years since the supernatural community had finally revealed itself to humanity, athletes had been undergoing a series of ever more rigorous screenings, designed to catch those who had supernatural abilities that could be considered “cheating.” Marc was quietly thankful that he wasn’t more famous in the NHL – Crosby had been tested enough times that he and his brothers had discussed the idea that someone out there (Eric said Bettman, Jordy said Pierre McGuire) was trying to clone him, what with all of the blood they’d taken. It wasn’t like Marc’s ability helped him play hockey at all. Not that it mattered – if he was discovered, he’d be out on his ass within seconds.
He was on his way out of MSG after a humiliating loss to the Pens when he bumped into Kris Letang. Literally, in fact – Letang was staring blackly at the door to the testing clinic and didn’t notice when Marc turned the corner.
“Sorry,” Marc said, and Letang waved him off dismissively. “Are you waiting to be tested?”
“Me?” Letang asked, startled. “Oh, no. Sid is being tested again,” he said darkly. “Someone needs to walk him back to the bus after the testing, they take a lot of blood.”
Marc winced. On the one hand, Crosby had played a truly spectacular game (much as it galled him to admit it). Hat trick, two assists. He could see why someone would demand he be tested, after that – but Crosby had been tested so many times before, it was hard to believe that they could demand it of him again. He said as much to Letang, whose scowl deepened.
“You would think,” he agreed. “But no – it is not as though he is going to spontaneously develop supernatural powers!” he said in frustration. “But every time someone invents a new test, they use it on him. Plus all the old ones, in case they missed something the last 50 or so times.”
Marc made a face in agreement as the door to the testing clinic opened and Crosby stumbled out. “Tanger?” he slurred, and Letang cursed in French as he grabbed Crosby and steadied him.
“How much did they take this time, Sid?” he asked, and Crosby shrugged wearily.
“Not enough to kill me,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to practice tomorrow though.”
Letang looked like he was about to march in there and set fire to everyone in the clinic. Marc stepped in. “I’ll help you get him out to the bus.”
“Thank you, but I have him,” Letang said curtly, slinging Crosby’s arm over his shoulders and starting off. “Come on, Sid – let’s go.”
Marc wasn’t sure why he trailed after them – Letang clearly had experience wrangling a woozy Crosby, and didn’t really need his help – but he was grateful that he had when they reached the parking lot and saw that the bus had left.
“I don’t believe it,” Letang said flatly, and Marc agreed with him wholeheartedly. Team buses didn’t just up and leave without all of their players- not unless those players had specifically made other plans.
“I can give you a ride back to the hotel, if you want,” he offered, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. Letang looked for a moment as though he would refuse, but then Crosby slumped heavily against him and he let out a sigh.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said.
“Not at all,” Marc said. “D’you want to wait here while I go and get my car, or do you want to come with me?”
“I don’t think he’s up to much more walking,” Letang said, gesturing at Crosby. “We’ll wait here.”
“Be right back,” Marc promised, digging his keys out of his pocket as he jogged off. He’d been early enough to the rink that day that he’d been able to park pretty close, so he returned with the car shortly. He got out to help Letang wrangle Crosby – who seemed to be asleep on his feet – into the backseat. “So which hotel is it?”
“The Marriott, on 46th and Broadway,” Letang said, twisting around in his seat to check on Crosby, who was slumped against the door. Marc hesitated a moment- he really should get both of them back before curfew, but the bus had just left them there, so clearly something was up- and then asked,
“My place is a couple blocks closer. Would you like to stay with me? I can drive you back to the hotel tomorrow morning before you have to leave.”
Letang looked at him curiously. “Why?” he asked, and Marc shrugged uncomfortably.
He wasn’t quite sure, but he had offered, so he said, “He looks like he could use someone keeping an eye on him, is all.”
“That is true,” Letang agreed thoughtfully. “If it is not a trouble?” Marc shook his head.
“No trouble,” he said firmly, putting the car in drive and pulling out of the parking lot.
0o0o0o0o0
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Letang said formally when they arrived at Marc’s apartment, which startled him into a laugh.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Let’s get him inside, eh?”
“Yes,” Letang agreed, and between the two of them they managed to extract the sleeping Crosby from the car and maneuver him up the elevator and into Marc’s apartment. “He needs to eat and drink something,” Letang said, looking down at Crosby’s pale face, and Marc agreed.
“I’ll go grab him some water while I make something to eat, do you want anything?”
“I wouldn’t say no to some water either,” Letang said, bending over Crosby and shaking his shoulder. “Sid. Sid, you need to wake up.”
Crosby mumbled something that sounded like “Tanger?” as Marc headed into the kitchen and grabbed two water bottles out of his refrigerator. He surveyed its contents while he was in there and decided that his best bet was omelets.
“Spinach omelets coming up in about ten minutes,” he said, coming back out into the living room and tossing Letang the water. “Think he can stay awake that long?”
“I will make sure of it,” Letang said, over Crosby’s groaning complaint. “Thank you, again, for what you are doing.”
Marc waved off his thanks and headed back into the kitchen. “Do you want anything to eat?” he called into the living room. There was a moment of silence before Letang answered.
“If you’re going to be making omelets anyway I will take one, too.” Marc grinned to himself and got out his biggest pan, cracking eggs into it and chopping up the spinach.
“How’s he doing?” he asked in an undertone as he brought out the food a few minutes later. Letang looked up at him and made a face.
“I have never seen him so weak,” he said quietly, taking two of the plates and handing one to Crosby. Crosby made a face at the omelet but Letang gave him a stern look and he began to eat it sulkily. He perked up a little after the first taste and began eating with more enthusiasm. “I don’t know what they did to him.”
“Same thing they always do,” Crosby said through a mouthful of omelet. “Except more, this time. I don’t even know what they’re testing for,” he said plaintively. “They never tell me what they’re testing for.”
Marc looked over at him, startled. “They don’t tell you?” Crosby shook his head.
“I’ve asked,” he said, still shoveling omelet into his mouth. “Nobody ever says a word to me about it – they don’t even talk to me, really.” Marc and Letang exchanged a dark look and Crosby looked up at them curiously. “What?”
“You should always be able to get them to tell you what they want your blood for, Sid,” Letang said. “I’ll have a word with Coach.”
“Don’t!” Crosby said, frantically, and Letang gave him a quizzical look. “I mean, please don’t,” Crosby said, a little quieter. “They never find anything anyway,” he said. “And Bet. . . Someone might make it so that I can’t play if I protest.”
Letang’s face was thunderous, but he backed down in the face of Crosby’s pleading. Marc kept his own opinions to himself, but he made a mental note to call Eric and tell him that it was entirely possible Gary Bettman was trying to clone Crosby.
They finished their omelets in silence, and Marc collected the plates and forks and dumped them in the dishwasher. “I’ve only got the one guest bedroom,” he said apologetically, “but the couch folds out, and I’ll go get some sheets and blankets for you.” Crosby started to say something about taking the couch, but Letang cut him off firmly.
“I will take the couch, thank you, Staal,” he said, and Marc grinned a little at him.
“You can call me Marc, you know,” he said, bending to help Letang haul Crosby up and into his guest bedroom. Letang snorted.
“Call me Kris, then,” he said.
“Kris,” Marc said. “I have some clothes you two can sleep in, if you want.”
“None of your pants will fit him,” Kris said, wearily. “But I will take you up on that, although all of your clothing will be too big for me.”
Marc grinned down at him. “I’ll go and get some, then,” he said, as they dropped Crosby off onto the guest bed and Kris bent down to remove his shoes and belt.
“Thank you, again,” Kris said as Marc made to leave. Marc turned and looked him square in the eye.
“You’re welcome,” he said, firmly. “You can stop thanking me, now.”
“I do not know about that,” Kris said, smiling crookedly. “But I will at least stop thanking you tonight, because I know how Sid will be in the morning.”
“Speaking of morning, what time do you need to be back at your hotel?” Marc asked when he came back into the living room with the bedding. Kris took them from him and made a face.
“The bus leaves at 11,” he said. “We should probably try and be back by 10 so that we can pack up our rooms.”
“I’ll set an alarm for nine, then,” Marc said. Kris looked at him like he was about to say “Thank you” again, but laughed at Marc’s stern look instead.
“Very well. I will see you in the morning,” he said. “Good night, Marc.”
“Good night, Kris,” Marc said, going into his own bedroom. He set the alarm on his phone and was asleep within moments.
0o0o0o0o0
Marc’s alarm went off far too early the next morning. He had optional afternoon skate today, and had been thinking about going, but he didn’t need to be up for at least another hour for that. He laid back in his bed after turning his alarm off and tried to think back – and groaned as what had happened after the game came flooding back to him.
He dragged himself into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, staring hopefully at it until it finished brewing and then pouring himself a cup. The scent of coffee filling his apartment must have woken Kris up, because he came stumbling hopefully into the kitchen a moment later.
“Coffee?” Marc asked. Kris grunted something that sounded affirmative, so Marc poured him a cup as well. “Sleep well last night?”
Kris took a long sip of his coffee and sighed in gratitude before he opened his eyes properly. “Yes, thank you,” he said belatedly. He looked around the kitchen. “Where is Sid?”
“Haven’t seen him yet,” Marc said, drinking his own coffee and thinking idly about breakfast. “Is he going to be alright, do you think?”
Kris shrugged one shoulder. “He has been fine so far,” he said, although he sounded doubtful. “I do not like that they will not tell him what the blood is for.”
“That does sound a little fishy,” Marc agreed. “I’ll go and wake him up – do you want breakfast?”
Kris tilted his head to one side. “By breakfast, you mean. . . “
“Scrambled eggs, probably,” Marc said. “Or there’s bread to make toast in the pantry.”
“Toast sounds good,” Kris said, slumping down against Marc’s counter and drinking deeply from his mug. Marc smiled at the sight and went off to wake Crosby up.
“Crosby,” he said, standing in the doorway of his guest room. Crosby grunted and rolled over, so Marc raised his voice. “Crosby. Sid!”
“Hmm, what?” came Crosby’s voice, sleepy and a little cross.
“Time to get up,” Marc said. Crosby rolled over again and squinted at him.
“Jordy?” he said suspiciously, and Marc rolled his eyes.
“No, Marc,” he said. “C’mon, you need to get up so that we can get you back to your hotel before the bus leaves.”
“Marc,” Crosby said, not sounding awake yet. “Wait, what happened?”
“You got pulled in for testing after the game,” Marc said. “Kris and I brought you back here after to feed you.”
“Kris – wait, Tanger? Tanger’s here?”
“Yes,” Marc said patiently. “Come out to the kitchen, there’s coffee.” He turned and headed back to the kitchen to get started on breakfast before he could be questioned some more.
Kris wasn’t in the kitchen anymore, so Marc poked his head out into the living room to see if he was there and ask if there was anything he particularly wanted on his toast. The sight made his breath catch.
Kris was standing bare-chested in the middle of his living room, clearly in the middle of changing back into his clothes. But while Kris’s bare chest was a sight to behold (and one that Marc was probably going to be revisiting at some length later), Marc’s attention was caught by the ghostly outline of a pair of wings stretching out behind Kris. Kris must have heard something, because he turned around and gave Marc an amused look.
“It is rude to stare,” he said, and Marc choked.
“Wings,” he said, brain to mouth filter not completely engaged. “What-“
Kris had him shoved up against the wall faster than he could blink. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Marc said, hurriedly. “I mean, I’m not going to say anything, I wouldn’t-“
“And how do I know that you are not lying?” Kris said, still menacing, and Marc choked out a laugh.
“I can’t,” he said. “Neither can anyone else who’s touching me, go on, try it.”
Kris opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He frowned at Marc. “You are telling the truth,” he said, slowly.
“Can’t help it, really,” Marc said. “My brothers hated it, growing up. Mom and Dad loved it, though, most of the time.”
“I can only imagine,” Kris said, finally letting him go. Marc sagged against the wall, hoping that Kris wouldn’t notice his reaction to being pinned against a wall by a hot, half-naked guy.
“You didn’t expect me to be able to see them,” he said, and Kris shrugged one shoulder uncomfortably.
“I keep them hidden, most of the time,” he said. “And even when I don’t, most people cannot see them anyway. I did not expect you to be able to. Your brother couldn’t.”
“Jordy’s clueless at the best of times, though,” Marc said, half-jokingly, and Kris gave him a fleeting smile.
“I’d noticed,” he said. Just then Crosby stumbled into the living room, looking half-asleep but better than he had the previous night.
“Coffee?” he asked, looking around at them, and Marc straightened himself up and pushed off the wall.
“I’ll get you some. Scrambled eggs or toast?”
“Toast please,” Crosby said, following Marc back into the kitchen and sitting down at one of the stools along the counter. Marc poured him a cup of coffee and pulled the bread out of the pantry, popping it into the toaster. Kris came into the kitchen while they were waiting and sat down next to Crosby.
“How much of last night do you remember?” he asked.
“Not that much,” Crosby sighed. “I remember the game, and being called in for testing. After that it’s kind of a blur,” he admitted. “I think I remember running into you in the hallway? And then we had omelets.”
Kris looked grim. “We really should tell coach,” he said. “I think it’s getting worse, Sid.”
“No,” Crosby snapped. “No, we can’t.”
Kris looked like he wanted to argue the point further, but the toast popped up and Marc slid it across the counter to the two of them. “Butter? Honey? Jam?”
“Oh, honey,” Crosby said, perking up, while Kris asked for the jam. They ate their breakfast in silence, and the Marc pushed himself away from the counter.
“I’m going to go and grab my keys, and then we can go,” he said, looking between the two of them. “Do either of you need anything else?”
“I have everything,” Kris said, and Crosby made a sound of agreement. Marc nodded and headed out into the hallway to grab his keys and his wallet. He came back into the kitchen to the sound of a hissed argument finishing up and cleared his throat.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes, thank you,” Crosby said, standing up and stretching. “Thank you for everything, really, you didn’t have to do that.”
“It wasn’t a problem,” Marc said mildly. “You don’t have to thank me, really.”
“I really do,” Crosby said, and Kris nodded from behind him. “I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, then,” Marc said. “Shall we?”
0o0o0o0o0
Marc started paying a little more attention after that. Crosby still looked a little pale the next time he saw him on the ice, in the Pens game against the Islanders, but he seemed to be playing fine. He seemed totally back to normal in their next game, against the Hurricanes, but after that didn’t play in the back-to-back in Florida. The official word was “upper-body injury,” but Marc was a little suspicious. Crosby had had another multi-point game in Carolina, after all, and was smiling and talking happily in the after game interviews. If he was injured, Marc certainly couldn’t see it – and he hadn’t heard anything about Crosby being walloped at practice, either. He was back for their next two home games, still looking a little pale, and then he was out again for the game against Detroit.
Marc spent a day or so debating with himself, but eventually called up Jordy and asked him for Kris’s number.
“Why do you want it?” Jordy asked suspiciously. Marc sighed into the phone.
“I have a question for him,” he said, patiently. “And no, I’m not telling you what it is.”
“Then you’re not getting his number,” Jordy said. Marc groaned.
“It’s important,” he tried, and Jordy was quiet for a moment.
“I’ll text it to you,” he said, finally. Marc closed his eyes and breathed out in relief. Jordy wouldn’t have believed his explanation, not without details he wasn’t allowed to give.
0o0o0o0o0
Kris, this is Marc Staal. How’s Crosby?
He still won’t let me talk to anybody.
Marc frowned down at his phone. They still won’t tell him what it’s for?
His phone rang. “He will not talk to me about it, anymore,” Kris said sounding frustrated. “He has been trying to avoid me. It’s becoming more frequent.”
“Have you tried talking to the other guys on the team?” Marc asked. Kris huffed out a laugh.
“It would not do any good,” he said. “None of them can see that anything is wrong.”
“Wait, what?” Marc was confused. “They can’t see that anything’s wrong? Are they blind?”
“Blinded, I think,” Kris said.
“Blinded by what?” Marc asked, frustrated. “And if they’re blinded, why aren’t you blinded? What’s going on?”
“Blinded by whatever is doing this to Sid. I am not blinded because I am his guardian, and I do not know what is going on. It is starting,” Kris said, “to piss me off.”
“You’re his guardian? What does that mean?”
“It is not something that is discussed over the phone,” Kris said, after a short pause. Marc got the impression that he hadn’t meant to tell him that much. “When are you in Pittsburgh next?”
“Next week,” Marc said. “We play you on the 14th.”
“I will meet you after the game, if Sid doesn’t play,” Kris said.
“And if he does?”
Kris sounded grim. “I will meet you after I have finished dealing with him.”
0o0o0o0o0
Crosby continued his weird trend of two games on, two games off the ice, so he was not in the lineup for the Rangers at the Penguins. After the game – a resounding win for the Rangers; the Penguins were beginning to show the strain of not having a consistent lineup – Marc met up with Kris outside of the visitor’s locker room.
“Hey,” he said. Kris nodded in greeting and started walking off, briskly. Marc followed along automatically. “Where are we going?”
“My car,” Kris said dryly. “And after that, to my house to have a drink and a discussion. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, sounds good,” Marc said, and they spent the rest of the trip to Kris’s house in silence, broken only by the radio in the car. When they got there, Kris walked straight into the kitchen and pulled out the whisky. He poured two glasses and handed one to Marc, who took it with a raised eyebrow.
“This is not a beer conversation,” Kris said, raising his glass to Marc, who clinked their glasses together with a muttered “Salut.” “So,” he said, after they had both taken a sip of their whisky. “You have questions for me.”
“What the hell is going on?” Marc asked, because Kris was right - he did have questions and that was the biggest and most pressing. Kris didn’t seem surprised, he just took another sip of his whisky before setting his glass down on the table and giving Marc a steady look.
“Someone or something is draining Sid,” he said, quietly. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know what’s doing it. I’m pretty sure Sid knows, but he won’t tell me, which worries me.” Marc blinked and sat back.
“When you say draining, do you mean blood? Or something else?”
“Right now it’s just blood,” Kris said, sighing. “They’re not getting anything else, that was the first thing I checked. But if he keeps letting them do this it’s going to kill him.”
Something cold and nasty took up residence in the pit of Marc’s stomach. Kris’s face was bleak and Marc resisted the urge to lean over and hug him. He wasn’t sure why he cared so much, except that Kris was willing to confide in him and that he seemed to need someone to confide in. He swallowed hard and offered Kris a small smile.
“But other than that,” Marc said. “How’ve you been?”
Kris looked over at him as though he’d just sprouted another head, but something in Marc’s face must have shown that he was serious and not just trying to change the subject, because he relaxed, slumping forward and resting his forehead on the table.
“It’s hard,” he said, quietly. “We’ve been playing like shit recently-“ Marc muffled a snort, because he’d noticed, and Kris turned his head just enough that he could glare up at Marc. “Not to mention Sid won’t tell me anything, and I hate that. I can’t do anything about it if he won’t tell me what’s wrong. Other than that, things haven’t been so bad.”
“Other than that,” Marc said dryly, and Kris’s mouth twitched like he was thinking about smiling. “What could you do anyway, if he did tell you what was going wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Kris said, banging his head on the table. “I could fix it, though. That’s what guardians are for, we’re supposed to fix things like this, and he won’t let me fix this, and it’s going to kill him.” Kris looked up and his face was miserable. “They won’t ever give me another assignment if I mess this one up too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Guardians,” Kris sighed. “We’re given assignments, and we’re supposed to protect them.” Marc’s mouth twitched and Kris gave him a half-hearted glare. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Marc said, taking another sip of his whisky to keep from smiling. Kris gave him a suspicious look but leaned back in his chair.
“Your face said it all, Staal,” Kris said. “Anyway, we’re supposed to protect them, and I-“ his words choked off. Marc looked over at him in alarm. He had lowered his head to his chest and was taking deep, hitching breaths. A terrible suspicion crept over Marc.
“Bourdon,” he said quietly, and Kris let out something that might have been a sob. “He was your first assignment. But you weren’t even there when he died – how could you have prevented that?”
“By being there!” Kris shouted, looking up and meeting Marc’s eyes angrily. “I should have been there, I should have been able to stop it-“ he dropped his eyes to the floor again. “You cannot be an effective guardian if you are not close at hand,” he said, sounding like he was reciting something he’d been taught. “I should have found a way. And now Sid is locking me out.” He hunched over the table miserably and poured himself another glass of whisky.
Marc wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he held out his own glass and Kris poured some more in. They sat there and traded sips of whiskey for a while before Marc spoke up again, this time out of curiosity.
“So does everyone get a guardian?”
Kris gave him a dry look. “No. I’m not telling you if you or your brothers have one, either.” Marc laughed, busted, and looked away for a moment to try and think of another question. When he looked back, all of his questions were knocked clean out of his head.
“Kris,” he tried to say, but his throat had dried up. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Kris, your wings – “
“Hmm?” Kris looked up from his contemplation of his whisky glass and glanced behind him. “Oh. It is – tiresome, to hide them all the time. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” Marc said, his attention still caught by Kris’s wings. They were beautiful – the same dark brown as his hair, huge and shadowy and not-quite-there. They were strong and graceful – nothing like the dainty, useless wings seen in paintings of angels. Marc realized that his hand was outstretched, as though to try and see if he could touch them, and snatched it back. Kris looked over at him in bemusement before flicking one open a little.
“Go ahead,” he invited. Marc blushed at being caught out but couldn’t resist the temptation to run his fingers through the feathers. They were warm under his hands but not entirely substantial, and Marc gave Kris a questioning look.
“Can you fly?”
“Not yet,” Kris said, closing his eyes as Marc continued to stroke his hands through the feathers. “You can feel it, how it’s not quite real?” Marc nodded before he realized Kris’s eyes were still closed and felt silly.
“Yes,” he said, and Kris’s mouth ticked up in a half-smile.
“You have to complete an assignment before they come in all the way. Earn your wings. Until then, they just sort of – sit there.”
“Do they get in the way?” Marc asked, pulling his hand back reluctantly.
Kris snorted a little. “Only when they’re manifest,” he said, stretching them out a little before folding them back behind himself again. “Which they aren’t. See,” he said, and sat back in his chair. Marc made an aborted movement in protest before noticing that the wings just sort of slid through the chair as though they weren’t even there. Which, he supposed, they weren’t.
“So how do you complete an assignment?”
“You keep the person you’re supposed to be guarding alive,” Kris said matter-of-factly.
“Like, forever?”
“Not even I am that good,” Kris said, very dry, and Marc glared at him. “No, not forever. It varies – sometimes you only have to watch them for a few years, through a tumultuous part of their lives, sometimes for their whole lives. And sometimes,” he sighed, letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling, “it’s an open-ended assignment. You’re never quite sure when it’s going to end.”
“Oh,” Marc said, abruptly feeling sorry for Kris. “So-“
“No, I don’t know how long I’m going to be with Sid,” Kris said. “But unless I can figure out what’s going on with him . . .“ he looked miserable. “You lose your wings,” he said quietly. “You get two chances, and then you lose your wings. And I have no idea what’s going on.”
There was nothing Marc could really say to that, so he simply at and kept Kris company while they finished the last of the whisky. When it was gone, Marc rose from the table a little unsteadily. “It’s getting late.” Kris blinked up at him owlishly.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to my hotel?” Marc said, although it sounded more like a question. “I was going to call a cab.”
“No need,” Kris said, waving a hand at him. “I have plenty of room, you can stay here. I owe you, anyway.”
“No you don’t,” Marc said, but it was late and he was tired and the thought of not having to get a cab back to the hotel was appealing. Kris could sense weakness, apparently, because he gave Marc a smile.
“Go on, stay. I will drive you back tomorrow morning before the bus leaves.”
“Twist my arm,” Marc said, but he was smiling. “Where should I sleep?”
“Guest bedroom’s this way,” Kris said, getting up and leading Marc down the hallway. “Do you need to borrow something to sleep in?”
“Nothing of yours would fit,” Marc said, and Kris scowled up at him.
“You are not that tall,” he informed Marc. “But just for that, I take back my offer.”
“Good night,” Marc said, smiling at Kris a little sleepily.
“Good night,” Kris said, smiling back at him before ducking into his own bedroom down the hall.
0o0o0o0o0
They texted each other frequently after that. Marc thought that it was probably a relief for Kris, having someone to finally talk things out with, someone to listen who knew at least as much as he did about what’s going on. Kris had been handling the entire situation alone, after all – he told Marc that he wanted to confide in another guardian, to ask for help, but the first one he approached simply told him that it was his job, and not someone else’s.
(Marc privately thought that was bullshit, that Kris was being unfairly judged for his inability to save Luc from the other side of the continent, and that the other guardian needed to pull the stick out of his/her ass – but Kris had taken the warning to heart, and wouldn’t talk to anyone else.)
Marc was almost certain Kris thought that he was imposing, that he was taking up too much of Marc’s time, but that wasn’t true at all. Marc liked Kris – he had a dry sense of humor that he didn’t let out nearly often enough, and he was good company. They could, Marc was discovering, talk for hours and never run out of things to say. Him being ridiculously good-looking and a great hockey player was just the icing on the cake.
Every time Marc got a text from Kris saying anything like thank you, he had to stop himself from texting back that he wished there was something more that he could do. Kris had told him, time and again, that being able to talk through the issue with someone else was the most helpful thing he could do, but Marc couldn’t help but feel that he should be able to contribute, to figure out the situation. In the meantime, however, he contented himself with sending encouraging texts when they seemed to be called for and other texts mocking the shit his dumbass teammates and brothers got up to when Kris needed to be distracted and cheered up.
He was in the process of figuring out how to describe the stupid thing DZ had done at practice when Cally dropped down in the seat next to him and cleared his throat. Marc looked up at him and raised his eyebrows.
“New girlfriend?” Cally inquired, gesturing at Marc’s phone, and Marc barked out a laugh.
“No, just Tanger,” he said, and Cally tilted his head.
“Kris. . . Letang?” he asked, and Marc nodded. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“We played together at World Juniors,” Marc pointed out, and Cally shrugged at him.
“World Juniors was years ago,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d kept in touch.”
Marc opened his mouth to argue but had to concede the point – up until a few months ago he hadn’t kept in contact with him. He shrugged back at Cally and looked down at his phone to finish sending his text, hoping that Cally would go away.
He was still sitting there when Marc looked back up. “We started talking again a while ago,” he says, grudgingly truthful and hating it now more than ever. “He’s worried about Crosby.”
“That have something to do with the fact that Crosby’s spending less and less time on the ice this season?” Cally asked, and Marc gaped at him. Cally gave him a crooked grin. “You’re not the only one who’s noticed.”
“But media,” Marc sputtered. “Not even the media has picked up on that, what, you-“
“I see everything,” Cally said, stretching out his legs and getting up to go back to his own seat on the bus. “Crosby’s starting to look pretty bad,” he said. “If you and Letang are planning on doing something, it needs to be soon.”
Marc stared as Cally made his way back up the bus aisle to his own seat. That had sounded an awful lot like a partial confession. . . And more worryingly, Cally was right. Crosby was starting to look like a ghost. Marc stared out the window of the bus, lost in thought, and nodded off without realizing it. He jerked awake when he heard the rest of his teammates moving around, grabbing their things to get off the bus, heart pounding.
Hey I have an idea, he sent Kris before he got off the bus. He got a text back as he was getting into his car to drive home.
Yeah? Let’s hear it then.
0o0o0o0o0
The next time the Rangers played the Penguins, Marc and Kris took Crosby out. “How did you get him to say yes?” Marc asked Kris out of the corner of his mouth. Kris gave him a sideways glance and leaned over.
“I didn’t tell him where we were going until we were already here,” he murmured into Marc’s ear, and Marc tried to control the shiver that rolled through him at that. He looked over reluctantly when someone cleared their throat. Crosby had chosen that moment to return with their drinks.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked crabbily. Kris looked up at him but didn’t move from where he was basically draped over Marc.
“No,” he said. “Sit down, Sid, we’re not going to bite.”
Crosby made a face but sat down and handed them their drinks. Kris moved around to sit next to Crosby in the booth, trapping him between the two of them, and Crosby looked at them warily. Kris didn’t say anything, though, just took a long sip of his drink and started chirping Marc about the game, and eventually Crosby relaxed and joined in. Marc gave as good as he got and the three of them spent a long while cheerfully trash-talking each other and drinking.
Crosby’s always been a bit of a lightweight, Kris had told Marc when they were planning this, but the draining had made it even worse. It wasn’t long before his cheeks were flushed and he was giggling at everything. Kris and Marc exchanged glances over his head the third time Crosby reached for his glass and missed it, laughing, and Marc nodded imperceptibly.
“So, Crosby,” Marc says, rolling his beer bottle between his hands and shifting over to make sure he was pressed up against Crosby. “You think you’ll be ready to play next game?”
“Probably not,” Crosby said, sounding regretful and picking at the surface of their table. “I don’t think I’m supposed to.”
“Why not?” Kris asked, leaning back in his seat and doing his best to look disinterested. Marc rolled his eyes at him – Crosby wasn’t paying attention to either of them.
“That’s the way the deal works,” he said, sighing and pouting at the table. Kris jolted in his seat and Marc fought the urge to lean over Crosby and put a soothing hand on him.
“Deal? Who did you make a deal with, Sid?”
“No one!” Crosby’s head jerked up and he looked offended. “I wouldn’t. It’s not my deal.”
“But you’re fulfilling its terms,” Kris said, confused. “If it’s not your deal, why would you fulfill the terms?”
“So no one else has to,” Crosby said, blinking up at Kris like it made perfect sense. Marc could see Kris visibly restrain himself from banging his head on the table.
“Whose deal is it, Sid?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you that,” Crosby said, frowning, and Kris looked like he was about to strangle him.
“You’re fulfilling the terms of a deal so that no one else has to, and it is killing you,” he hissed. “Who told you not to tell?”
“Bettman,” Crosby said, looking at Kris in confusion. Marc didn’t move, was barely breathing – he didn’t want to distract either of them.
“Why doesn’t Bettman want you telling people about your deal?”
“I think it was his idea,” Crosby said, looking away from Kris and blinking sleepily.
“The deal?” Kris looked confused. Under other circumstances, Marc might have found that expression hilarious.
“Hmm,” Crosby hummed in agreement, leaning forward and resting his head on his folded arms at the table. Kris said something that sounded foul in French and reached down to wave his hand in front of Crosby’s slack face.
“He’s asleep,” Kris said, disgusted. “Unbelievable.”
Marc let out a deep, heartfelt sigh and flagged down a passing waitress to ask for the check.
0o0o0o0o0
“He’s not nearly as heavy as he should be,” Marc said, helping Kris heave Crosby out of the cab. Kris scowled at the reminder.
“He has not been eating properly,” he said tightly, digging through Crosby’s pockets for his keys. “I do not think he has been sleeping well either, which has not been helping him at all.” He found Crosby’s keys and Marc propped up Crosby’s dead weight while Kris opened the door.
Between the two of them they managed to get Crosby installed in his bedroom without running him into too many walls. Every time they bumped him into something Kris made a terribly guilty face that Marc found utterly hysterical, so the trip to the bedroom was punctuated by Marc’s sniggers and Kris swearing at him quietly in French.
“What are you going to do now?” Marc asked Kris as they lingered in the hallway outside of Crosby’s bedroom awkwardly. Kris shrugged.
“I will stay here, I think,” he said. “In case he needs me. What about you?”
“I should get back to the hotel,” Marc said regretfully. Kris caught him yawning and frowned at him.
“You will fall asleep in the cab,” he said disapprovingly. “You could stay here.”
“With you?” Marc said, aiming for a joke and missing it by a mile. Kris looked confused.
“Or not,” he said. “Sid has several bedrooms.”
“Oh,” Marc said. He wasn’t sure exactly what face he was making, but he was sure it was something he’d rather wasn’t there, and Kris was looking at him. “Okay.”
He made a move to head down the hallway at the same time Kris moved in the opposite direction and they were really close, Marc thought dizzily, looking down into Kris’s upturned face. Something in his brain abruptly shorted out, and he was leaning down to kiss Kris before he thought about it.
Kris made a shocked noise in the back of his throat, his eyes wide, but he wasn’t pushing Marc away, he was kissing Marc back – until he wasn’t, he was at the other end of the hallway, wings suddenly visible and outspread behind him.
“Fuck, Kris, I’m sorry,” Marc said, wondering how he’d messed that up. Kris had been kissing him back, hadn’t he? Or had he completely misread the situation?
“No, Marc,” Kris said, folding his wings and walking back down the hallway. “That was my fault, and I am sorry.”
“Your fault?” Marc asked, incredulous. “I kissed you.”
“I let you,” Kris said, looking down before looking back up at Marc through his eyelashes, apologetic. “I let you, and I shouldn’t have, but fuck if I didn’t want to.”
“You – you want me?” Marc felt a little off balance, and wasn’t sure if it was the situation or the alcohol. Kris ducked his head.
“I should not,” he said, staring down at the ground. “Guardians are supposed to avoid emotional entanglements.”
“With – everyone?” Marc asked tentatively, disbelieving, and Kris nodded. “But that’s such bullshit,” he said, angry now. “Why?”
Kris looked miserable. “It interferes with our work,” he said. “And we live so much longer than humans – it’s just not a good idea,” he finished weakly, and Marc was abruptly furious.
“So you won’t even take the chance,” he said, and the look on Kris’s face said it all. “Well, that’s just spectacular,” he said, letting out a bitter laugh. “Good night.”
“Wait, Marc,” Kris said, following after him as he stalked down the hallway, yanking his phone out of his pocked. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going, Letang?” Marc snapped. “Back to my hotel.”
Kris’s head snapped back and the front door slammed shut between them.
Marc fumed on Crosby’s front porch for 20 minutes, waiting for his cab. He was sure that Kris was watching him from inside the house, but he didn’t come out to try and say anything. He was savagely glad that that was the case, and remained that way for the entire cab ride back to the hotel until he collapsed into bed and fell asleep.
0o0o0o0o0
Marc was very pointedly not responding to Kris’s texts, which had started out determinedly normal after that night in Pittsburgh and had segued into apologetic and then angry when he continued to receive no response. The rest of the team had definitely noticed that something was up – Marc’s face was uncharacteristically set and he was ignoring his phone, which had been buzzing every 20 minutes – but they had wisely not mentioned anything. Most of them had come up to him at one point or another over the course of the morning to bump into his shoulder supportively, though, so that he knew they had his back.
Cally came over to hover over his shoulder when they were at the airport. Marc tried to ignore him, too, but Cally was a very persistent hoverer, and Marc finally caved. “What,” he said, monotone.
“You were out late last night,” Cally said, and Marc tipped his head back to give him an unimpressed look.
“Went out with some friends after the game,” he said. “Didn’t realize what time it was, sorry, it won’t happen again.” He buried his face in his magazine again, trying to signal that the conversation was over.
“Friends in Pittsburgh?” Cally asked, sounding idly curious, and Marc gritted his teeth. “That’s funny. I didn’t realize you had friends in Pittsburgh. Unless you meant the Penguins?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tried, and Cally lifted an eyebrow.
“I couldn’t tell,” he said, deadpan. “If you decide you do want to talk about it, though. . . “ he let the sentence trail off.
“I won’t,” Marc said firmly, and brought the magazine up to bury his face in it again.
0o0o0o0o0
It took a couple of days of Marc deleting texts from Kris without even reading them, but they eventually stopped coming. Marc was aware that he was being overdramatic, but he didn’t know if he could only be Kris’s sounding board for the supernatural. In his more rational moments, he was sure that they had been friends, but he was hurt and angry and not inclined to be rational.
He and Kris might not be speaking anymore, but Marc still found himself tracking the Penguins, and whether or not Crosby had been on the ice. He was starting to miss more games than he played, Marc noticed, the gap between his appearances getting longer and longer. When he was visible, he looked terrible – paler and paler with each successive appearance, dark shadows under his eyes, visibly losing weight now. Kris appeared in the background of some of the shots, looking grimmer and grimmer as time passed. Apparently he wasn’t having any luck fixing the problem, even now that he had a better idea what it was.
Marc wasn’t sure whether it was morbid curiosity or a previously well-hidden tendency towards masochism that had him keeping an eye on Bettman, too. Outwardly, nothing had changed since Crosby’s reveal that the commissioner was something other than human, but Marc was convinced that he could see actual evil on Bettman’s face. Of course, so was most of the league and also most of the fans, so Marc had to admit that he was probably imagining things.
He was getting ready for bed one night, almost a month after that night in Pittsburgh when he got a text message. He glanced at his phone and saw that it was from Kris. It simply read sorry.
0o0o0o0o0
“Turn on the TV.”
“Eric? It’s 1 A.M., why are you calling me?”
“Marc, I’m serious. Turn on your TV.”
“What the fuck,” Marc said, but he dragged himself out of his bedroom and into the living room to turn on the TV. “What channel?” He hadn’t been asleep anyway – Kris’s message had kept him awake, thinking over what it meant and whether or not he should respond.
“TSN,” Eric said, sounding tense and freaked out. Marc obediently flipped over to TSN and sat down on his couch in shock.
“Eric,” he said, dazed, staring at his TV.
“I know,” Eric agreed, equally dazed. The scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen read: “NHL Commissioner dies in tragic car accident; Crosby and Letang hospitalized.”
“What the fuck,” Marc repeated. “No, seriously, what the hell?”
“I don’t know,” Eric said. “Marc, I have no idea.”
“I’ll call you back,” Marc said, hanging up the phone and calling Kris. He went straight to voicemail. “What the fuck? What did you do? How are you still alive? Call me.” He hung up, dazed, and continued staring at the TV, where the announcers were showing pictures of the crash and talking nervously about what effect it might have on the league. Marc turned the TV off when they started to repeat themselves and sat back on his couch, staring into space. “What the fuck,” he said plaintively, but there was no one in his apartment to answer him.
0o0o0o0o0
Marc watched the media frenzy that followed Bettman’s death and Kris and Crosby’s hospitalization with a weird sense of detachment. During the autopsy one of the coroners had discovered signs that Bettman had been a demon-shell for a while before he died, which just whipped the reporters into a greater froth. No one mentioned anything about Kris Letang being Sidney Crosby’s guardian, or Crosby’s deal, so Marc figured they must have hidden that successfully. It was the only thing on the news for a couple of days (one of the commentators said, sarcastically, that Bettman’s death did more to increase the visibility of the NHL than his entire tenure as commissioner, and speculated that he’d gotten the wrong end of a demon’s deal) and then it died down. There was a brief blurb when Crosby was released from the hospital, but it was like everyone had completely forgotten about Kris. Marc went and scanned a couple of news reports, there were no mentions of him at all besides that he’d “been there at the time,” and that he could not be reached for comment.
Kris never returned his phone call. Marc checked his phone obsessively for a day or so but after that he decided that Kris must have gotten his message by now and decided to ignore it or forgotten about it. So when the doorman called up to his apartment to say that he had a visitor, Marc certainly wasn’t expecting to open the door to find Kris standing in his hallway, looking sheepish.
“Kris?” Marc said blankly. “What are you doing here?”
“I just,” Kris said, looking uncomfortable. “Can I come in?”
Marc waved him into his apartment, too stunned to do anything else. Kris smiled at him tentatively as he came in and Marc smiled back automatically as they came into his living room and sat down. “So,” he said, once they had both settled down.
“Sorry I didn’t call you back,” Kris blurted. He made a hilarious face afterwards, like he hadn’t meant to lead with that, and Marc cracked half a smile looking at him. “Sorry,” Kris said. “I mean, I am sorry that I didn’t call you back, but I’m sorry about a lot of other things too, and I didn’t really mean to lead with that.”
“What did you mean to lead with?” Marc asked, curious.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” Kris said, meeting his eyes clearly. “I’m sorry that I gave up so easily. And I’m sorry for being a coward.”
“And I’m sorry,” Marc said, earnestly. “I’m sorry that I ignored you for so long.”
Kris gave him a wan smile. “You were justified, I think.”
“No,” Marc said. “That was a dick move, and I’m sorry.”
They sat there in awkward silence for a while before Marc cleared his throat loudly. “So what happened?”
Kris shut his eyes, tightly. “I figured out what the deal was. And I fixed it.” His voice was bleak and he clearly didn’t want to talk about it, so Marc changed the subject even though he was dying of curiosity.
“Did your wings. . . ?” he asked, and Kris opened his eyes and gave him a real smile.
“Yes,” he said, proudly. “They did. Look-“ he stood up and all of the sudden they were there, just like Marc remembered except that now they were clearly there in a way they hadn’t been before. “Go ahead,” Kris said, smirking, and Marc realized that his hand was halfway outstretched, again, just like the last time he’d seen Kris’s wings.
He didn’t need to be told twice – he reached out and buried his fingers in the feathers. Kris drew a startled breath, and Marc looked up at him quickly. “This okay?” he asked. Kris’s expression was a little dazed.
“That feels. . . “ He swallowed, hard, and Marc had a hunch and brought up his other hand and buried that in Kris’s wing as well. Kris shuddered and shut his eyes. “Don’t stop,” he said, and he sounded wrecked. Marc almost drew his hands back.
“I thought,” he said, confused. “But aren’t guardians-“
“Fuck the rules,” Kris said, eyes still closed. “They’re really more like guidelines anyway.”
“Did you just quote Pirates of the Caribbean at me,” Marc asked, disbelieving, but a crazy grin was overtaking his face. “Really?” he asked, quieter, and Kris looked up at him.
“Really,” he said, and Marc used the hold he had on Kris’s wing to draw him in closer and lean down for a kiss. Kris came willingly, pushing up into the kiss and moaning. That lasted several long minutes before Marc broke away.
“No, seriously, how did you do it?”
“You want to know this now?” Kris demanded, trying to chase his mouth. “It cannot wait?”
“If I don’t know I’ll just be distracted wondering,” Marc pointed out, ignoring the look that Kris gave him, which suggested that Kris was offended that he thought he could be distracted. Kris sighed heavily and sat down, folding his wings behind him. They slid right through the couch again, and Marc stared, trying to work out what was going on before snapping his eyes up to Kris’s face when he cleared his throat pointedly.
“I thought you wanted to hear my story,” Kris said snarkily, but one corner of his mouth was tipped up in a smile. Marc nodded vigorously and folded his hands in his lap. Kris rolled his eyes and began.
“It took me a while to work out the terms of the deal,” Kris said, a faraway look in his eyes. “Sid was avoiding me like the plague and still wouldn’t tell me anything. I was tired of it, and I was afraid for him, especially when they started taking blood more and more frequently, without even games as an excuse. So I stole his phone and called his sister.”
“You what?”
“Stole his phone and called his sister. They’re very close, and if there anyone was going to know what was going on with him it would be her.”
“So did she know?”
“No, but she did fly down and help me interrogate him. He folded pretty much immediately after that - wish I’d thought of it sooner.”
“So what was his deal?” Marc asked, and Kris closed his eyes wearily.
“It was all a bit complicated, especially since Sid didn’t understand what was going on, but I managed to work it out eventually. His father made a deal, once upon a time - his soul for a legacy. The problem with that is that is that you’re making deals with demons - they aren’t going to just grant your wish in return for what you promised them. So his father thought that the terms of the deal were voided by the fact that he never got to play in the NHL, but really the demon took his deal and fulfilled it by making sure that Sid got all the talent and the opportunities to really leave a mark on the NHL. That’s what a legacy is, if you’re being really specific - your children and grandchildren. But Sid’s dad didn’t know that when he was making the deal, and didn’t realize until it was too late.”
“But what did that have to do with Crosby?”
Kris made an irritated motion. “Sid is an idiot. The demon came calling to collect his father’s soul, Sid happened to overhear the conversation and tried to make a trade - himself for his father. The demon took the trade, and started having Sid drained. The thing was,” he said, looking exhausted, “is that you can’t make changes to an existing deal. And demons are not allowed to take something for nothing. It’s against their rules.”
“Demons have rules?”
“Demons do have rules - or rather, deals have rules, and demons can’t break them. They try - oh, do they ever try. They’re demons, after all. But if you catch a demon breaking the rules, any deals that demon has made can be revoked.” Kris smiled, grimly. “Not that they’ll let you do it without a fight, but.” He shrugged. “That is what guardians are for. So I summoned the demon and revoked his deals. It was not pretty.”
“But then the car crash?”
“It’s. . . harder for demons to access all of their powers when they’re in motion,” Kris said. “Harder for any supernatural creature, actually, no one’s really sure why. But obviously this was a powerful demon, so I thought it best to shackle him as I could. The car crashed because I finally managed to revoke his deals, and the backlash spun the car out of control.”
“How did you and Crosby survive?” Marc asked, because he had seen the pictures - the car had spun out right in front of an 18-wheeler and been utterly destroyed. It was hard to imagine how either of them could have survived that collision.
“That was me,” Kris said. “I used the backlash to throw Sid and I out of the car just before we got hit. We weren’t actually in the car when it crashed.”
Marc whistled. “Impressive,” he said, smirking, and Kris gave him a hot look.
“That’s not the only thing about me that’s impressive,” he said, and Marc’s throat went dry even as he scoffed.
“Big talker. Prove it.”
“Happy to,” Kris purred, coming over to straddle Marc’s lap. Marc’s hands settled themselves on Kris’s hips instinctively and he pulled him even closer.
“So now that you’ve finished your Crosby assignment-”
“It’s not over yet,” Kris interrupted him. “I don’t think it’ll be over until he retires, actually. And then I can pick my own next assignment.” He grinned down at Marc. “You’re stuck with me, Staal.”
“Oh the horror,” Marc said, and Kris cut him off with a kiss.