Title: Seeing is Believing
Author: The Fallen Sky
Rating: T
Pairing: Kick-Ass(Dave)/Hit Girl(Mindy)
Summary: He had suspicions, so he did what any good cop/father would do; he looked into it. What he found was...unexpected. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he'd never have believed it.
Warnings: None
A/N: This is an AU one-shot that's set during KA2 and is told from Marucs' POV.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Enjoy!
He sits in his car, concealed in a cloak of darkness, patiently waiting in silence.
He's no stranger to stakeouts. The long waits, the boredom, it's all part of the job, and this stakeout is the most important one of his life.
Checking his watch again, he notes that it's been more than an hour. Either she's being extremely cautious, or she's not gonna make her move tonight.
Just then, he notices movement at the front of the house, the front door to be exact.
He shifts position to get a better look and notices a lone figure moving toward the sidewalk.
Walking right out the front door. Either she doesn't know I'm here, or she just doesn't care, he thinks.
Judging from the casual way she's walking, as if she's just out for a late night stroll, he has to believe she doesn't know he's there, which is exactly the way he wants it.
He watches her walk away from the house, the light from the streetlamps illuminating her as she passes beneath them, allowing him to see her faded jeans, pink hoodie and blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She looks like she's on her way to a friend's house, and he's very curious to find out if that's indeed where she's going, considering he's not aware of her having any friends.
Waiting until she's far enough up the street, he starts the car and begins the challenging task of tailing her.
xXxXxXxXxXx
It doesn't take nearly as long as he thought to get to their destination, probably because she wasn't looking for a tail and didn't take any steps to avoid one, instead taking the most direct route to her target.
He finds an out of the way place to park, somewhere that gives him a clear view of the nondescript house without revealing that he's sitting in the car watching, and kills the engine.
He watches as she approaches the house, casual as can be. She forgoes the front door and begins climbing up the tree near the side of the house, the one that leads up to a second story window, the window she opens and climbs through into a darkened room.
Looks like she's done that before, more than once, he thinks. Wonder how many times.
He tries to keep calm, to stay detached from the situation, but it's difficult. He knew she'd been sneaking out at night, but he thought she was donning her costume and playing hero. It never occurred to him that she was sneaking into someone's house.
He shakes off his growing unease and agitation and focuses on the task at hand.
Once she's inside, he can't see her anymore, can't see anything in fact, and that has him more than a little frustrated.
What are you doing in there? He wonders. And who are you doing it with?
His mind immediately starts conjuring images of her and some boy doing things he never wants to think about her doing, with anyone, let alone a teenage boy, one that's probably too old for her, one that should be chasing girls his own age instead of his little girl.
After only a few minutes, he has to fight the urge to go to the front door of the house and start banging on it, demanding that she come out, or simply kicking the door down and going in, gun drawn, to drag her out and scare the shit out of the hoodlum she's with. Instead, he settles back into his seat, tries to relax and just waits, staring at the darkened window, hoping to see something, some sign of movement, some indication of what's happening inside or to see her climbing back out of the window and heading home.
His hopes are dashed, and he ends up sitting in the car, silence engulfing him, mocking him, as he waits.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Seconds, minutes and hours tick by, night slowly fades into day, the early morning sky lightening, the rising sun glowing a dull orange.
He hasn't slept a wink, hasn't taken his eyes off the window, and he's more certain than ever that he was right, certain that he knows what's been going on. The only question he has left is how long it's been happening.
Much to his chagrin and disgust and despite his efforts to keep his thoughts from going to disturbing places, different scenarios have been running through his mind, exciting and terrifying his imagination. Each successive scenario more graphic and upsetting than the last, which causes his heart to pound in his chest, his head to throb, his blood to boil, his stomach to churn, and he clenches his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms, as he tries to stifle his emotional reaction and rid his mind of the horrifying images.
Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and counts to ten, willing himself to calm down and to stop imagining the worst, even if he knows the worst case scenario is already a reality.
Opening his eyes, his efforts to calm down fruitless, he focuses his attention back on the window and is greeted with the first signs of life he's seen since she slipped inside hours ago, in the dead of night.
The sight that greets him has his heart in his throat.
Through the window, he can see her. It's only from the waist up, but it tells him all he needs to know and confirms his suspicions and worst fear.
She's wearing nothing but a pink bra.
Reflexively, he reaches for the binoculars he brought with him and uses them to get a closer look, completely oblivious to the fact that he looks like a pervert peeping at a teenage girl through her bedroom window.
Her skin seems to glisten in the early morning light, and her hair's wet.
Fresh from the shower. He thinks. Wonder if that was a solo shower, or if you had company.
He doesn't have to wonder long, because, a second later, a naked from the waist up teenage boy steps into view, his skin also glistening, and his unruly hair as wet as hers.
His grip on the binoculars tightens as recognition dawns.
I've seen you before. You're the punk that she said talked her into skipping school, the boy she seemed desperate to want to like her.
Images of Mindy doing things with that boy, sexual things, fill his mind, and he practically growls with anger and hatred.
Bet you like her plenty now, you son of a bitch.
It's all he can do to keep from charging up to the house, breaking down the door, rushing up the stairs and beating that bastard to death, and it doesn't help when he watches that punk lean down and kiss her like she's his girlfriend.
Yeah, she's your girlfriend alright, as long as she keeps putting out. He thinks bitterly.
His emotions continue to rage as he watches the punk kiss her. He can feel his blood pressure rise, along with his anger, with each passing second, and it takes all of his willpower to keep from getting out of the car and doing something very illegal.
His control is further tested when the boy rests his hands on her hips and pulls her closer, their bodies now pressed tightly together as they continue to kiss.
He grinds his teeth and squeezes the binoculars as if they're the punk's neck as he watches her remove her hands from the boy's face and slide them down his body until they disappear from view. Seconds later, her hands reappear, now gripping the boy's, and she slides both sets of hands up her body until she reaches her bra covered breasts. Almost on contact, the boy's hands begin to move, squeezing and massaging her breasts through the material of her bra. Moments later, her hands again move down the boy's body, disappearing from view but remaining near his groin. Not long after that, the boy shudders, squeezes her breasts harder and deepens the kiss. Shortly after that, they stumble out of view of the window, still entangled and engaged in their hormone-fueled grope-fest.
He can feel his eye twitch and blood boil with barely restrained rage. His mind keeps replaying the events he just witnessed, which only makes him more angry. His death-grip on the binoculars hasn't loosened a bit, and his hands are starting to hurt from the exertion, but he continues to squeeze, all the while imagining he's squeezing the boy's neck. Oddly enough, picturing the boy's eyes bulging and his face contorted in fear, pain and panic as the life is choked out of him actually helps calm him a bit and keeps him from jumping out of the car, drawing his gun, kicking down the front door to the house, running up the stairs and shooting that son of a bitch, first in the balls and then in the head.
Lowering the binoculars, he takes a series of deep breaths, trying to calm himself, because he knows nothing good will come from him carrying out his fantasy, even if it would give him great satisfaction in the short term.
His efforts to calm himself are only partially effective, because he can't get the images of her being kissed and groped by that boy out of his head. He doubts he'll ever be able to get those images out of his head.
As the minutes pass, he manages to calm down a little, even as he continues to stare at the window, even as he knows what's happening in the room out of his view.
I'm so glad I didn't bring the parabolic mic, he thinks idly and feels his stomach lurch at the thought of hearing them having sex.
xXxXxXxXxXx
He's not sure how much time passes as he stares blankly at the window, his mind wandering, his thoughts a jumble of horrific images of Mindy having sex with that boy as well as all manner of violent scenarios in which he turns that boy into a girl. He's eventually pulled from his dark musings by movement in the window.
Looking through the binoculars, he's relieved to see both Mindy and the boy fully dressed. They appear to be talking. After a few moments, a shared laugh and smile, the boy leans down and gives her a surprisingly gentle and chaste kiss, which she returns. He notices that their hands are engaged in far more innocent activity this time around, hers lightly caressing the boy's face while the boy's arms are wrapped around her, his hands gently rubbing her back.
The kiss lingers longer than he'd like. To be fair, though, he doesn't like that the boy is kissing her at all. Still, he'll take her being kissed over what they were doing earlier any day.
Eventually, the kiss ends, and they break apart but remain close, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes. They remain that way, like they're in their own fairytale world, for a few moments longer before they finally separate, her dropping her hands from his face, him removing his arms from around her.
She turns toward the window and begins to climb out. Halfway out, she suddenly turns and steals one last, quick kiss before dropping to the ground and landing gracefully, like a cat. She turns and looks up at the boy, who's looking down at her with an expression of awe, wonder and affection, gives him a smile and a wink, before turning and heading home, a brilliant smile on her face and a bounce in her step.
He lowers the binoculars and watches her walk away, his mind buzzing with mixed thoughts and emotions. He's still upset that she's sneaking out and having sex with some teenage boy, but seeing her smile like that, like he's never seen her smile before, not even when she's wearing her Hit Girl gear and going out to fight crime, makes him question whether this whole boyfriend thing might not be as bad as he thinks.
All he's ever wanted for her is to have a normal life, a life away from the costumes, violence and killing. As far as he knows, that's exactly what's happening. She promised she'd give up being Hit Girl, and she's done nothing to make him think she's broken that promise.
Still, her having a sexual relationship with a boy isn't exactly what he had in mind when he thought of her having a normal life. He pictured her with friends, her own age, participating in school activities, going to the movies or shopping, something safe, something simple, something that requires that she be clothed at all times.
And yet, he knows that she's never been one to play it safe, so he shouldn't be surprised that she's involved in a relationship with a boy. Although, he never would've suspected that she'd be having sex at her age. She never seemed all that interested in boys, except for the various ways she could inflict damage on them.
He knew he'd have to face this situation eventually, but he was hoping it'd be after she'd gone off to college, or after he was dead. His head is telling him to have a talk with her and the boy, to make them stop seeing each other, because she's too young. But, after seeing the smile on her face and happiness practically oozing from her body as she walked away, his heart is telling him to let her have this, to let her have something normal, to let her love and be loved, because she deserves it.
Then again, if he lets her have this, there's a very real chance she could get pregnant, and he doubts she's ready to handle that type of responsibility. He knows he's not ready for that possibility, and he'd hate to see her throw away her future simply because she's in love...
His train of thought comes to an abrupt halt as he realizes that she's in love, or, at least he's pretty sure she is. From what he's seen, she certainly shows all the signs. Looking back over the past couple of weeks, he's surprised he didn't notice it earlier. She's been in a near-constant good mood, smiling a lot, being extra polite and not swearing nearly as much.
"Son of a bitch." He whispers to himself, completely dumbstruck. "She's in love."
He can't help the small smile that graces his lips at the thought of the tough as nails, foul-mouthed, terminator-esque little girl he's grown to love as the daughter he never had turning into a normal, average, everyday teenage girl in love.
Suddenly, images of her drawing doodles of hearts in her notebook while she sits in class fill his mind, and he smiles wider, shaking his head at the complete and utter absurdity of it all.
After a few moments, he notices that his anger has completely drained away, as have the thoughts of violence toward the boy. He wishes he could say the images of them having sex had vanished, too, but apparently he's not that lucky. Still, the images no longer fill him with rage. He's still disturbed and sickened by them, but he finds he's more easily able to block them out.
His smile and improved mood falter as the rational, fatherly part of his brain makes its presence known and reminds him that Mindy is a 15 year old girl who is having sex with a boy who he's pretty sure is 18 and legally an adult, which makes their relationship illegal, and that has the cop in him telling him the right thing to do is to arrest the boy, thereby killing two birds with one stone. It's then that his heart speaks up and tells him that arresting the boy would only cause Mindy heartache and most likely result in her doing something rash, impulsive, and foolish, something that could turn out much worse in the long run than just turning a blind eye to her relationship with the boy.
To his surprise, he finds he's leaning toward listening to his heart.
Uncertain of what to do, he reaches for his wallet and pulls out an old photo of Mindy. Looking at the slightly faded and crinkled photo of a smiling four year old Mindy makes his heart melt and the smile return to his face, as memories of her as a little girl flood his mind.
From the moment he was charged with taking care of her, protecting her, he's loved her. Even when her father was released from prison and took custody of her, he loved her and wanted what was best for her. After her father's death, he resumed the mantle of surrogate father, and his love for her has grown. All he wants for her is to be safe, healthy and happy, to have a good life, to have her dreams come true.
"Am I really considering this?" He whispers to himself and the photograph.
As he stares lovingly at the smiling little girl in the photograph, he remembers the smiling 15 year old from a few minutes earlier, and his mind is made up.
"Damn." He whispers, a measure of disappointment and grudging acceptance in his voice.
Turning his attention from the photo and back to the boy's window, which is now empty, he sighs in resignation.
Looks like today is your lucky day, punk. He thinks. Treat her right, and we won't have a problem. Treat her wrong, and your ass is mine.
He puts the photo back into his wallet and starts the car. Sparing one last look at the punk's window, he shakes his head in disbelief, mutters to himself, "I'm getting soft.", puts the car in gear and heads home.